The word wise originates from the German word wit, meaning keen and incisive intelligence. In Judaism, wisdom is not defined by intellectual acuity or even the ability to comprehend and store a wealth of information; instead, wisdom is characterized by an aptitude for curiosity and a genuine desire to encounter and explore new ideas and perspectives. Rather than having a tight grasp on a specific concept or subject, wisdom is more like an open palm, welcoming new insights beyond what one has previously attained.
In the words of best-selling author Professor Adam Grant, in his book Think Again, “If knowledge is power, knowing what we don’t know is wisdom.”
The Mishnah1 teaches: “Who is wise? He who learns from every person.”
Typically, we think of an intelligent person as someone from whom people seek to learn rather than someone who seeks to learn from others.
By defining the wise man as one who is perpetually open to learning more rather than an already established expert, the Mishnah democratizes what is seen to be the precious property of the few, placing the keys of wisdom in the hands of the masses, since anyone can learn something from another.
From this perspective, a clear link between wisdom and humility emerges.
For example, no less of a character than Moses himself is described in the Torah2 as “the humblest of men.”
Indeed, it was Moses’ willingness to learn from everyone and everything that caused him to pause on his path through the desert to wonder at what appeared as a mere scrub fire. And it was his burning curiosity that qualified him to be chosen as Judaism’s greatest teacher, lovingly referred to by all Jews as Rabbeinu, “our teacher,” to this day.
The centrality of curiosity to the definition of wisdom is alluded to in the Hebrew word for wisdom—chochmah.
The Zohar3 points out that chochmah is a composite of two words: koach and mah, which means the power (koach) to ask “what?” (mah)—the ability to be humble and inquisitive.
In fact, Jewish thought does not just tolerate questions, it celebrates them.
The Pesach Seder, for example, is a veritable feast of questions. The purpose of the Seder itself is introduced in the Torah4 as a parent’s answer to their child’s question: And it will come to pass when your children say to you, “What is this service to you?”
Interestingly, the Torah says: When your child will ask, not if, since that’s what Jewish education is all about—developing the art of asking meaningful questions.
Isidore Rabi, winner of the Nobel Prize in physics, was once asked why he became a scientist. He replied, “My mother made me a scientist without even knowing it. Every other child would come home from school and be asked, ‘What did you learn today?’ But my mother used to say, ‘Izzy, did you ask a good question today?’ That made all the difference.”
Asking questions is fundamental to Jewish culture and consciousness.
In the same way that Eskimos have multiple words to describe the subtle differences between types and textures of snow, the Talmud employs a wide range of words to describe different types and qualities of questions.
In the words of R. Adin Steinsaltz:5 “It is no coincidence that the Talmud contains so many words denoting questions, ranging from queries aimed at satisfying curiosity to questions that attempt to undermine the validity of the debated issue.
“The Talmud also differentiates between a fundamental query and a less basic inquiry, a question of principle and a marginal query.”
In Judaism, therefore, wisdom is not measured by how much you already know, but by how much you are willing to learn.6
Such an approach, according to Professor Grant, favors curiosity over closure, doubt over certainty, and humility over pride.
“When psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi studied eminent scientists like Linus Pauling and Jonas Salk, he concluded that what differentiated them from their peers was their cognitive flexibility, their willingness to move from one extreme to the other as the occasion requires...
“We can even see [this pattern] in the Oval Office.
“Experts assessed American presidents on a long list of personality traits and compared them to rankings by independent historians and political scientists. Only one trait consistently predicted presidential greatness after controlling for factors like years in office, wars, and scandals... What set great presidents apart was their intellectual curiosity and openness...They were interested in hearing new views and revising their old ones. They saw many of their policies as experiments to run, not points to score.”7
Interestingly, the Talmud8 teaches that although the House of Shammai, a renowned school of Rabbinic thought, were known to have sharper minds and engage in more penetrating analysis, the law almost exclusively follows the House of Hillel. The Talmud explains that this is “because they [the House of Hillel] were kind and modest, they studied both their own rulings and those of the House of Shammai, and they were even so humble as to mention the teachings of the House of Shammai before their own.”
In other words, the House of Hillel’s insight was considered more refined because they took the time to consider and incorporate their opposition’s analysis into their own point of view.
This expression of humble receptivity validated their rulings and decisions on Torah matters, because it revealed their commitment to listening to and learning from others besides themselves. This, according to Judaism, is the very definition of wisdom.
In contrast, the House of Shammai was known to be combative and defensive in their argumentation.
The Talmud9 tells of a tragic incident “likened to the day the Israelites made the Golden Calf,” in which members of the House of Shammai stood with spears at the entrance to the attic of Chananya ben Chizkiya ben Gurion, where all the great Sages of Israel were gathered.
According to the Jerusalem Talmud,10 they even threatened to kill these Sages, whom they held hostage to ensure the law would be decided in accordance with their view.
Obstinate claims to exclusive “ownership” of the truth, or the “right” answer, are precisely what close one off to learning more than what they already know. One who assumes this mindset may indeed be smart, but according to Jewish thought, they are not wise.
Essentially, Judaism views wisdom as a character trait rather than an intellectual ability or achievement.
In Ethics of Our Fathers,11 the Mishnah lists seven features of a wise person:
A wise person does not 1) speak before one who is greater in wisdom; 2) does not interrupt when others are speaking; 3) is not hasty to answer; 4) asks what is relevant and answers to the point; 5) speaks of the first [point] first, and of the last [point] last; 6) concerning that which he has not heard, he says: I have not heard; 7) and he acknowledges the truth.
None of the features mentioned here describe any specifically intellectual abilities. They are all characteristics of a humble and receptive disposition, the expression of which is a testament to the depths of one’s wisdom.
Paradoxically, throughout Jewish literature, a scholar is referred to as a talmid chacham—not a scholar, but a “student-sage.” Generally, the student and sage are thought to fill two different roles: the student seeks to acquire wisdom, whereas the sage has already accrued some measure of mastery, which he can then impart to others.
In defining the sage as a student, Judaism teaches us that to be considered a sage one must remain perpetually receptive and open to new knowledge. Simply put: When a person is full of themselves, they lack the requisite space to receive new wisdom.
In the words of the Talmud12 : “A full vessel cannot receive.”
The person who defines themselves by their prior knowledge confines themselves to it and is therefore not available for an influx of new insight.
An illustration of this idea is found in a poignant Talmudic vignette:13 R. Zeira, a well-known Sage, once took upon himself a strenuous fast for one hundred days in order to actively remove decades of Babylonian Talmudic study from his mind in preparation for studying the Jerusalem Talmud, which employs markedly different paradigms and processes for interpreting Jewish text and tradition. In order to learn a new method of study, he first had to liquidate his old library, so to speak.
Normally, we think of knowledge as something that accumulates—when you’ve mastered one idea or discipline, it serves as a suitable foundation upon which to learn another. This is often true. However, there are times when pre-existing concepts or methods brought to a new field of inquiry or discovery impede one’s ability to encounter a new subject, limiting them from experiencing the true depth and dimensionality of the new idea that is there, waiting to be discovered.
This is why R. Zeira felt the need to actively delete from his mind the Babylonian method of Talmud study, so that when he studied the Jerusalem Talmud, his approach to the new way of thinking would not be tainted by his prior training.
This episode of R. Zeira offers a profound lesson in how we approach study. Instead of seeing continued learning as a process of reinforcing one’s existing beliefs and opinions, the ideal approach to education is characterized by letting go of what one already “knows” in order to make way for new paradigms and perspectives to be considered without bias or preconception.
The idea that curiosity is the cornerstone of wisdom is what shapes Judaism’s novel approach to study. Society increasingly views learning in utilitarian terms, as a means of acquiring knowledge and mastery in a particular subject or skill. Judaism values learning, not as a means to an end, but for its own sake. As we learn in the Mishnah:14 “R. Meir would say: Whoever studies Torah for its own sake merits many things; moreover, [the creation of] the entire world is worthwhile for him alone.”
In fact, Jewish tradition views study itself, like prayer, as a form of daily spiritual practice and religious obligation. As it says in Scripture:15 The Torah shall not leave your mouth; you shall study it day and night. Accordingly, one’s learning is never finished; each moment and encounter presents its own potential revelation.
Typically, the conclusion of a written manuscript is marked with the words “the end,” striking a note of finality. In the Talmud, however, at the end of every chapter and every tractate you will find a declaration that begins with the words, hadran alach, “We will return to you.”
This statement of intent underlines the concept that when completing a tractate, we do not regard it as having been learned in its entirety, because Torah is infinite. As the Talmudic Sage Ben Bag Bag would say:16 “Turn it and turn it again, for everything is in it.” It is thus not so much a statement of farewell but au revoir!
This is emblematic of Judaism’s approach to learning in general, which is, ultimately, not to focus on how far you have already come, but to acknowledge and appreciate the never-ending journey of discovery that lies ahead.
There was a great sage who had a daughter of marriageable age and was looking for a suitable son-in-law. He went to the greatest yeshivah in the region and posed a question, wagering that any student who could answer the question would be given his daughter’s hand in marriage. No students were capable of coming up with the answer. As the sage was leaving town, suddenly the wagon driver heard a young man calling out after them while running towards the carriage. They stopped and asked the young man what he wanted. He said to the sage: “Well, what is the answer to the question you posed?” The sage said, “Ah, this is the student who will become my son-in-law,” and he proceeded to tell him the answer.
In Judaism, wisdom is not measured by how much you already know, but by how much you are willing to learn.
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