Does anything exist? That is one of philosophy’s most enduring questions. Consider a table: to determine whether it exists, we must first define what a table actually is. One might begin by describing it as an object comprised of a flat surface supported by legs — but this definition immediately invites further scrutiny. If a pen is placed on the table, what distinguishes the pen from the table itself? What makes them separate objects rather than one unified thing? At what point, if any, does the pen become part of the table?

While this question might appear silly, it is actually a launch point for the philosophical study of ontology — the branch of philosophy concerned with the nature of existence itself, with what it means for something to be. Some argue that in reality, nothing exists as a distinct thing. What we call a “table” is just stuff tableing. We humans created words to make life simpler — instead of saying “stuff arranged so that other stuff can be placed atop it,” we just say table. Others argue that things genuinely do exist in reality — and yes, they work tirelessly to explain exactly how the pen relates to the table.

Is there value in these discussions? If one approaches such questions armed only with their own senses and predispositions, then beyond the pleasure of the exercise itself, no real progress is made. One can live a deeply meaningful life without ever resolving whether a table truly “exists.” When it comes to learning Torah — specifically Gemara — however, asking these very questions is the key to understanding why we learn in the first place.

A brief parenthetical: this is not to dismiss philosophy wholesale. The Rambam and other Rishonim were serious philosophers. But their philosophy was anchored in Torah. They had a divine basis guiding their thinking, and as a result, the conclusions they drew genuinely deepened our understanding of the universe.

Hashem gave us the Torah to inform our daily lives — what I may do, what I must do, what I may not do. Delving into Halacha gives clarity and nuance to these questions, to be sure. But the ultimate purpose of Torah runs deeper: to connect us with our Maker. The Torah transmits to us the most precise description of Hashem available to human beings. By learning Torah we come to know Him. Moreover, learning Daas Elokim imbues us with G-dliness itself, drawing us ever closer.

What does this have to do with Gemara? The Gemara takes seemingly simple laws and breaks them into their most precise and nuanced components. “Thou shalt not kill” — but may one kill in self-defense? The Gemara student is charged with asking further, deeper, always questioning apparent assumptions. In Brisker parlance, the question is not why — but what. When the Torah prohibits Shatnez, we ask: what exactly is the prohibition? Is it the act of wearing it, or the act of deriving benefit while wearing it? When the Torah requires a Get to accomplish a divorce, we ask: what constitutes a Get? The deeper one asks, the more precise their understanding of Hashem’s wisdom becomes — and the more precise that understanding, the closer they draw to Him. Not close in proximity (we hope, until 120), but close in alignment. By plumbing the depths of a sugya through relentless questioning, one becomes more G-dly.

This is why Beis Medrash ontology is the most esteemed of all pursuits. The question “what is a table?” — asked with the right intent, in the right place — becomes a direct pathway to Dveikus BaHashem.

May we all be inspired to dive deeper into the Yam HaShas.

A Freilichen Purim!

Zev Levin

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