Marjorie Solomon

Essays

  • The Future of Being Human in an Age of AI and Robotics

    The recent unveiling of Tesla’s humanoid Optimus robot, with its promise to soon perform most human tasks—from domestic chores to childcare and companionship—prompts deep existential reflections on the future of work and what it will mean to be human in the coming decades.

    The Rise of Artificial Intelligence and Robotics

    As artificial intelligence and robotics advance, steadily encroaching on domains once solely reserved for human intelligence and labor, I find myself grappling with a disquieting question: What space will remain for humans in the future? What form will “being human” take when we no longer need to do very much at all?

    This predicament, while it feels unprecedented, echoes certain patterns in history. Aristocratic elites in slave and serf societies enjoyed lives of leisure while the subjugated masses toiled. Even in modern times, the wealthy have long outsourced much of life’s drudgery to the underpaid. But the question arises: what happens when robots and artificial intelligence systems become the new laboring class, potentially elevating everyone to a life of leisure once reserved for the few?

    Lessons from the Past

    In seeking to calm my existential unease, I turned to ChatGPT, an oracle of our time. It pointed me to the 20th-century philosopher Bertrand Russell, who, in his 1932 essay In Praise of Idleness, argued against the notion of work as virtuous and necessary for social stability, particularly for the working poor. “The morality of work,” he wrote, “is the morality of slaves, and the modern world has no need of slavery.”

    If this was true in Russell’s time, how much truer might it be after decades of exponential progress in artificial intelligence and robotics? It is difficult to fathom how radically different the world may be for the next generation. Robots could cultivate our food, maintain our homes, operate our vehicles, and perform tasks that have occupied human energy for millennia. What will we do with our time, and how will we find meaning when the age-old imperatives of labor no longer dictate our lives?

    Inequality in a World of Automation

    History offers insights. The treatment of slaves in ancient Rome provides a rough model for how we might regard our non-human servants. Some robots will likely be treated as close companions, integrated into our families. Others may be viewed as disposable tools, worked to destruction in harsh industrial conditions. And just as slaves fought for the amusement of Roman crowds, it is not far-fetched to imagine robots being weaponised or used in warfare, serving the bidding of whoever holds the reins of power. The thought of autonomous killing machines obeying the highest bidder is chilling. Robots, like slaves, would lack the agency to refuse orders or extract themselves from servitude. Unlike slaves, they would never have an opportunity for freedom.

    On a societal level, these disruptions to paid and unpaid work will demand that we reimagine our entire socioeconomic order. We must find ways to avoid a despondent underclass while the robot-owning elite accumulates wealth at unprecedented rates. Some argue that universal basic income (UBI) will become inevitable to ensure social stability. Countries like Finland, Canada, and the U.S. have already experimented with UBI schemes, and advocates like Andrew Yang have made it central to their political platforms. In Canada’s Mincome experiment, for instance, recipients did not stop working entirely but shifted toward more meaningful pursuits. UBI could thus help buffer against the economic upheaval caused by automation without depriving people of purpose.

    Finding Meaning in an Era of Leisure

    These are all important issues, but for me, the more pressing question lies at the individual level: How will we, as human beings, structure our time and craft a sense of purpose in an era of endless leisure? What pursuits will we choose when survival is no longer the driving force?

    These technological advances—the artificial intelligences, the robotic companions, the automated systems that promise to shoulder our burdens—present us with an incredible gift: the gift of time. For the first time in history, we could be free from the daily toil that has consumed humanity for millennia. We would be free to pursue our passions, deepen our relationships, and explore the vast realms of our creativity and curiosity.

    But what of the structure and discipline that work provides? The modern system of education and employment has long offered a framework for our existence, giving us goals, a sense of achievement, and a reason to rise each day. Without such a structure, how do we prevent ourselves from sliding into a haze of shapeless living, devoid of purpose or intention? Will we drift into passivity, or will we create new models of living that cultivate fulfillment and meaning?

    These questions are not new. Dystopian science fiction has long explored the dangers of a technologically advanced future devoid of purpose. Films like The Matrix and Blade Runner reflect a world where humans have become subservient to, or even dependent on, the very technologies they created. The common thread in these stories is the fear that, in our quest for ease and liberation from toil, we may lose something essential to our humanity—the raw experience of living, striving, and overcoming.

    Drawing Inspiration from the Ancient World

    Despite the contemporary nature of these dilemmas, there are answers in ancient sources. Many spiritual traditions emphasise daily rituals, disciplines, and duties as paths to fulfillment, independent of external circumstances. The Stoic philosophers of ancient Greece and Rome, whose ideas are seeing renewed popularity today, also provide a template for crafting a meaningful life through the cultivation of wisdom and virtue.

    In imagining the coming age of leisure, thinkers like Russell, John Stuart Mill, and Aristotle point to the opportunities for individuals to develop intellectually, creatively, and morally—to pursue knowledge for its own sake, to create art, and to engage more fully in family and civic life. The goal should not be idle amusement or shallow distractions, but rather a life rich in beauty, curiosity, and human connection.

    AI and Human Creativity

    However, the tsunami of AI developments suggests that it will not be long before even higher levels of human endeavor—creativity, research, problem-solving, and analysis—are performed better by non-breathing entities. AI is composing music, writing poetry, and painting. And it is doing it better than most of us already.

    But if we do not rely on being creatively competitive to survive, does it matter if a machine could do our watercolor painting, garden arrangement, or poem better? And what does “better” really mean? If we are no longer in a race with technology, but simply recipients of its services, then our perspective on creation, thought, innovation, and action can change altogether. Increased leisure time allows us to transition from outcome-based living to process exploration, much like elites have always been able. We will have the luxury of discovering the value of slow creation, a deliberate approach to learning, a brave form of experimentation, and a striving for perfection—the very things that a busy life may never have allowed.

    Human traits like empathy, humor, and individual expression seem likely to become more precious in a world filled with hyper-capable artificial intelligences and automation. And what of play, laughter, dancing, and joy? What if a machine-assisted leisurely life allowed us to be more fun, free, and experimental?

    What Happens with more Free Time

    Yet, as Russell warned, more free time is not automatically ennobling. He observed that the idle hereditary rich of his day frequently “never thought of anything more intelligent than fox-hunting and punishing poachers.” History shows us that a world of leisure need not be a world of enlightenment. The leisured classes of the past often spent their time in political rivalries and violent power struggles. If we are not thoughtful about how we use it, increased leisure time could easily lead to civil conflict, destructive hedonism, or increased alienation. Furthermore, our robot-enabled future may come with the hidden cost of increased surveillance and diminished freedoms, as Shoshana Zuboff warns in her work on surveillance capitalism.

    And while the prospect of liberation from mundane tasks (goodbye vacuuming) seems in principle to be an automatic win, many traditions reinforce the value of acts of service. Performing services for loved ones or society, from childrearing and housekeeping to public service and volunteering, is considered by some spiritual disciplines to be virtuous or even holy. But outside of this framework, the performance of burdensome and uninspiring tasks can provide people with a sense of purpose, a feeling of accomplishment, and a means of connecting with others. So, while humanoid robots may soon free us from mundane responsibilities, we may choose to perform these duties for any number of distinctly human reasons.

    Choice becomes a key element in this new world. Unless we move into a reality that includes sentient AI—in which case, all bets are off—choice will be one of the lines separating us from the machine. Choosing to do something—whether it be to learn, laugh, dance, connect, question, argue, practice, make mistakes, love, or vacuum—will be an expression of our humanity. And this freedom to choose will be the crucial distinction between us and our non-human companions. May these choices be good and meaningful.

    The Future of Humanity in a Technological Age

    Coming to terms with our changing reality will be no small task. We will need to be mindful in a world that encourages mindlessness and purposeful in a world that promotes passivity. These are concerns now and will be unavoidable challenges in the face of a deluge of disruption. In the end, the measure of our lives will not be in the conveniences we enjoy or the distractions we consume, but in the quality of our presence, the depth of our love, and the courage of our curiosity and convictions. These things make us human—and they are the very things we must fight to preserve as our world reshapes itself around us.

  • My Orthodox Jewish Life

    This essay, a reflection on the role and place of women in Orthodox Jewish life, practice, and ritual, was first published in Gesher.

    Recently, sitting through Shabbat synagogue prayers, I noticed – really noticed for the first time in a while – the patterned partition designed to separate men and women in public prayer. This partition, known in Hebrew as a mechitzah, was comparatively modest in scope. Carved wooden lines formed delicate patterns that stretched out between ample doses of nothingness through which the women held behind were able to see into the main sanctuary, or as is often called by women, the men’s section. Through this prism of decorative shapes, I watched the services and realised that the men sitting across from me had no experience of communal prayer through a lens of obstacles and decoration. Their vision was always unimpeded.

    Globally, there remain many synagogues where women are sectioned off in a way that substantially obscures their view of the main sanctuary. Quite often the structures of separation are dense enough that they also reduce the ability of female congregants to hear services. This level of religious stringency goes far beyond the requirement ofhalacha, of Jewish law, but is usually explained as being driven by standards of modesty – a preventative measure that stops men from looking at women during services. I wonder why the rabbis don’t simply ask the men to keep their eyes lowered, so the women can continue to watch the services unimpeded.

    I think about Asenath Barzani, who lived from 1590 to 1670 and was the first woman to hold a rabbinical title. The only child of an influential Kurdish Torah scholar, despite her sex, Asenath was raised in Torah learning, eventually taking over her father’s role as chief Torah teacher in Kurdistan. What was Asenath’s view of this issue, I wonder. Did she, the first woman to head a yeshiva, also follow communal prayers through a tapestry of obstacles much like the minimal one of my experience? Or was she required to remain behind thick curtains because of the possibility of immodest glances from men?

    In Judaism, prayer is both private and public. Ten Jewish males above the age of bar mitzva must be in attendance to create the quorum required to perform Jewish communal prayer services. This quorum is known as a minyan. Women cannot be counted in a minyan and they are not subject to the time-bound obligations for prayer that are imposed on men. Most commentaries explain that women’s greater domestic and familial responsibilities prevent them from being able to meet such obligations.

    Across the spectrum of Orthodox congregations, women’s attendance at synagogue services can vary. Modern Orthodox and Religious Zionist communities tend to encourage the presence of women, while the attitudes in Ultra-Orthodox communities can range from encouragement, to near-indifference or deterrence.

    I am a regular attendee of Shabbat or festival services. In addition to the social benefits of communal gathering, I join these synagogue services out of a desire to maintain connection with my community but also for my daughter to be familiar with, and to have an understanding of, synagogue practices. But there are also metaphysical elements; communal prayer has provided me with moments of elevated spiritual experience. In particular, reciting the silent Amidah – the core prayer of Jewish spiritual practice – alongside tens or hundreds of my community can be incredibly meaningful and there have been many times that I have left services feeling spiritually enriched and blessed.

    However, synagogue services are not just about communal gathering or united prayer, they are also choreographed events that require participation from congregants. In Orthodox Judaism, this participation, whether it be leading prayers or reading the Torah, is the domain of men. Women experience services from the other side of a mechitzah, or the distance of a gallery. While there are many women who are contented with this practice, gaining ample spiritual fulfilment from traditional arrangements, there are those for whom a passive relationship with the services can create a feeling of disconnect. It is not uncommon for women, who are otherwise happy with their Jewish lives, to stay home rather than attend synagogue services because neither their presence nor their absence has an impact on proceedings.

    The question of why men and women have different options and responsibilities in Jewish life and practice is popularly explained as, ‘men and women are equal but different’. Irrespective of whether one accepts that there is enough similarity between all men – spiritually and emotionally as well as physically – to consider them uniformly alike and equally different from women, there are still many who believe that the lot of Orthodox men is a far more ‘equal’ than women.

    In the past century, there has been a tremendous increase in the acceptance – and even encouragement – of Torah education for Orthodox girls. The establishment of the Bais Yaakov schooling system for strictly Orthodox Jewish girls in the United States in the early 20th century was largely motivated by a rabbinical acknowledgement that secularly-educated women were leaving observant Jewish life. The rabbis recognised that the best way to ensure educated women maintained their connection to a religiously committed existence was through greater exposure to Torah and rabbinical texts. While there are still people in the broader Orthodox community who believe that women are not capable of learning Torah or should not be allowed unfettered access to Jewish texts, there is now general acceptance that girls can and should be educated in this way. This decision gave observant Jewish girls and women an opportunity to learn the texts that shape their daily rituals and beliefs; their engagement was strengthened through doing and knowing.

    Throughout the ages there have been women involved in Torah learning and teaching, but, for the most part, these women have been exceptions rather than the rule. One towering example lived almost two millennia ago. A sage of the Talmud, Bruriah was the daughter of a revered rabbinical martyr, Rabbi Hananiah Ben Teradion and wife of the Tanna (1), Rabbi Meir. Bruriah however was also acknowledged, in her own right, as a great scholar of Jewish law and lore.

    There are a range of stories associated with Bruriah, many of which emerged from commentaries written long after her lifetime. My favourite legend involves her admonishment of Rabbi Jose the Galilean for speaking too freely when asking her for directions. Instead of asking, as he did: “By which direction do we go to Lod?” she suggested it would have been more judicious to say: “Which way to Lod?”. Her remarks are explained as a reference to a passage in the canonical ethical text, Pirkei Avot (Ethics of the Fathers) which says:

    Yose ben Yochanan, man of Jerusalem, says, “May your home be open wide, may the poor be members of your household and do not increase conversation with the woman.” They so stated with his wife; all the more so with the wife of his friend. From this, the sages said, “Any time that a man increases conversation with the woman, he causes evil to himself and neglects the words of Torah; and, in his end, he inherits Geihinam2.” (Pirkei Avot 1:5)

    Many scholars have sought to reinterpret this passage, trying to make it more palatable, but for me it is clear: Yose ben Yochanan thinks Jewish men, perhaps for reasons of modesty or morality, should not have extended conversations with women and the sages, supporting this sentiment, warn of purgatorial consequences to such actions – the inheritance of Geihinam (2). While modern-day women like myself may express indignation at the idea that women should be excluded from conversation with men, we can take comfort from the historical distance that exists between us and the sages. However, for Bruriah, these rabbis were her contemporaries. Is it any wonder that a scholar of her stature might experience frustration, to say the least, at such a passage, written and codified by her peers? I can only admire the dignity of her response under these circumstances. Her irritation resonates to us through the ages, while her caustic witticism reminds us that for our objections to be remembered, it is wise to be clever about how they are framed.

    My Orthodox Jewish life changed at Purim last year when I attended a women’s-only reading of Megillat Esther, the Book of Esther. I remember stepping inside the synagogue, leaving behind a vibrant blue sky and following the other women into the quietness of the main sanctuary. It felt awkward at first, as if we were trespassing; then came the guilty pleasure of sliding into one of the front benches – not behind a mechitzah, but beside the bima (3) from which the reading was conducted. The experience was profoundly moving, I was sitting inside the sanctuary, following theMegillah, read by voices which sounded like my own. In that instant, my synagogue practice altered forever.

    Within a few months I became involved with monthly women’s Shabbat Mincha services, an Orthodox service for women run in accordance with halachic principles. I am far from alone in finding these women’s services meaningful. To partake in a service where the prayers are led by women, the Torah is read by women and women are called up to the Torah, can be tremendously poignant when you have only ever known a more spectator-like synagogue experience. For me, and for others, that sense of belonging, of inclusion, of relevance – and of learning – has been profoundly impactful.

    Women’s involvement in Orthodox communal practice and prayer continues to encounter suspicion. For many people it threatens change to a tradition they have always known; there is discomfort in having the familiar altered, and there is fear that change will lead to the dismantling of a tradition. With discomfort and fear comes reaction. There are people who ask what it is that drives a woman to seek greater engagement in her Jewish life beyond that which had been allocated to her? What is her kavanah, her intention? Is it because she is a feminist, they ask? Is it because she wants to be like a man? Why does she not try to meet all her existing obligations, before seeking to take on those that have traditionally been the province of men?

    Human behaviour is rich and complex, motivated by multiple drives and external factors. None of us has pure kavanot in anything we do. But while it is common for women to have their motivation questioned, it is rare that the same scrutiny is applied to men. How often, for example, is a man asked his kavanot in his daily ritual and practice? Is he asked whether he is praying with enough focus and purity of thought? Has he demonstrated that his synagogue participation is guided by proper motives? How many existing obligations he has fulfilled before seeking to take on more?

    If something enlivens a person’s connection to God and to their Jewish life, and in the case of Orthodox practice, it does not conflict with halacha, then why would it not be encouraged? If there are Orthodox women who feel greater connection to their spiritual tradition as a result of increased participation, surely that is a good thing?

    In Orthodox Judaism, women are a front-line issue. In the tussle for centre-ground between the parts of the Orthodox world engaged with modern life and those who cling to the past, the area of Jewish life that is often surrendered as a compromise by more modern communal leaders is the lot of women. What is lost by rabbis who wish to demonstrate their religious rigour and piety to their stricter colleagues by taking a more strident position in relation to the roles, responsibilities and opportunities afforded to women? It is easier to flex one’s religious muscles when one’s own prospects are not at stake.

    I think of Rayna Batya Berlin who lived in Lithuania in the 19th century. Descending from a long line of renowned rabbis, she married Rabbi Naphtali Zevi Judah Berlin, the Neziv, who rose to prominence as the head of the pioneering Lithuanian yeshiva founded by Rayna Batya’s grandfather. Like other women in her family, she was said to have been, by the standards of her time, unusually learned in Jewish texts. However, she was also known as a woman who despaired of the limits imposed on her gender by halacha and contemporary custom; in particular, the prohibition at the time against studying Torah. After years of chafing against the status quo, her loyalty to her spiritual tradition overrode her anguished quest for equal status with men, including the right to learn Torah. Her nephew, Rabbi Barukh Ha-Levi Epstein, recounted Rania’s eventual unhappy acceptance of her lot in his autobiographical work, Mekor Barukh:

    Afterwards, she turned to me and said, ‘Just as everything has an end and limit, so let there come an end and limit to this painful matter’. From that time on, never again spoke on this subject. (Bacon, Brenda)

    For me, the pathos in Rayna Batya’s struggle for spiritual recognition and emancipation is deeply moving, especially as, in that moment of history, her aspirations were so hopelessly beyond reach. I wonder how she would have greeted the news that some fifty years after her death the prohibition against women learning Torah would be lifted by rabbis in America? Would it have gladdened her heart? Would the bitterness have outweighed the sweetness?

    Rayna Batya was asking for more than the ability to study Torah; she wanted complete equality with men in Jewish life and Orthodox practice. The equality she demanded 150 years ago was too much for her time and too much for ours. But as we have seen, the borders of Orthodox Judaism can move, attitudes can shift.

    A century ago education for Jewish girls underwent radical change. Orthodox life survived – even prospered – as the mainstream position on this issue shuffled and resettled. Let us apply the same pragmatic wisdom from that time and acknowledge that some women today – although, of course, not all – crave greater participation in Jewish practice. They are not seeking to become men but are asking for greater inclusion in their spiritual inheritance – a metaphorical lightening of the mechitzah, so to speak. Halacha provides options for women to partake in religious practice if they wish, affording opportunity for fulfilment, growth and a great deal of learning. In an age when Jewish women are more educated, financially independent and existentially confident than ever before; where equality of opportunity for men and women in secular life is vastly different from that which is available in our religious tradition, it seems only prudent to act to reinforce women’s connection to their spiritual heritage. As we look towards the future, Orthodox Jews from across the spectrum share a desire for a strong and vibrant Jewish continuum.

    Already, there is some movement in this direction in other parts of the world. In Israel and America, in particular, there are Orthodox communities redefining female participation in Jewish life and practice. But they are the vanguard. It is my hope that as these pioneers forge ahead – sensitively and halachically, as they have been – that the rest of the Orthodox world will see that this small revolution does not dismantle our tradition, but instead serves to strengthen our future.

    It is my view, that one way to promote this future is by opening ourselves up to halachically permitted possibilities that allow greater engagement for our daughters as well as our sons.

    Footnotes

    1 Tanna/Tannaim: Rabbinic sages well versed in the Oral Law, recorded in the Mishnah. The period of the Tannaim, lasted approx. 210 years (10-220 C.E.) http://www.jewishencyclopedia.com/articles/14240-tannaim-and-amoraim

    2 Geihinam: Jewish purgatorial concept. The average person may descend for an interim period to a place of punishment and/or purification prior to ascending to heaven. https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/heaven-and-hell-in-jewish-tradition/

    3 Bima: The platform in a synagogue holding the reading table used when chanting or reading portions of the Torah and the Prophets. The focus of the service. https://www.dictionary.com/browse/bima

    References

    Pirkei Avot, Ethics of our Fathers, 1:5
    Translation provided by Sefaria (Viewed on August 5, 2018) https://www.sefaria.org/Pirkei_Avot.1.5?lang=bi

    Bacon, Brenda ‘Rayna Batya Berlin’,

    https://jwa.org/encyclopedia/article/Berlin-Rayna-Batya

    Jewish Women: A Comprehensive Historical Encyclopedia. 1page6image21053632

    March 2009. Jewish Women’s Archive. (Viewed on August 5, 2018)page6image21067456

    Find the essay in Gesher here (pg 37).

    Part of my non-fiction collection.