The past year has been a lesson in surrendering our human need for control. As human beings, we crave certainty. We build our lives around the illusion that our decisions lead to predictable outcomes. Modern life reinforces this notion: whether it’s using Waze to predict our exact arrival time or witnessing scientific feats like placing a man on the moon, we increasingly expect predictability. We’ve made remarkable strides in medicine, seemingly erasing the idea of "incurable." We are close to the stage where genome mapping might allow us to genetically engineer human beings to fit our desires. Whether these advances are ultimately beneficial is up for debate, but what’s clear is that humanity is deeply invested in the predictable.
But our world tells us the opposite story. From religious extremism to climate change, geopolitical upheavals, and environmental collapse—there is so much that remains beyond our control. On an individual level, illness or unexpected life events can shake our sense of autonomy. Often, it is precisely the area of life we cannot control that drives us to double down on control in other areas, masking our existential uncertainty.
This desire for control is not new. In Plato at the Googleplex, Rebecca Newberger Goldstein explores the Greek obsession with kleos—glory and renown—as a means to defy mortality, the ultimate force beyond human control. In Greek culture, what mattered was the legacy you left behind. We still live in the shadow of this thinking. The currency of fame today is not only legacy but also instantaneous approval—how many likes we get on social media, the reality show culture of quick fame. We bury existential angst under superficial layers of validation from others. It’s as if we believe that by gaining public approval or creating a one-dimensional legacy, we can defy our mortality.
Rav Soloveitchik touches on this tension between control and surrender in his essay "The Lonely Man of Faith," where he outlines two paradigms: Adam 1 and Adam 2, based on the two accounts of creation in the book of Bereshit. Adam 1 is the scientist, tasked with conquering the world, solving problems, and seeking certainty. He represents the human drive to control and innovate. When there is a gap in my knowledge and I solve that gap i have executed control over my environment and sentiments of uncertainty. Adam 2, on the other hand, is the philosopher. He does not ask questions to find answers but to engage with mystery. He represents the yearning to exist in the presence of something higher without needing to conquer or fully understand it. Rav Soloveitchik argues that we are all, in essence, both Adam 1 and Adam 2, oscillating between these two poles. A life that rejects either side of this dialectic, he suggests, is incomplete.
The narratives of the first two humans in Bereshit illustrate this balance. In the story of Adam and Chava in the Garden of Eden, they are given everything except the tree of knowledge, a boundary that remains a mystery, a reminder of what lies beyond human grasp. The serpent tempts Chava by telling her that eating the fruit will make her "like God"—knowing good and evil. In their attempt to overcome this boundary, they lose their innocence, and with it, their illusion of control. The rest of their existence is now defined by the toil of planting, waiting, and hoping, constantly navigating uncertainty.
The second narrative, of Kayin and Hevel, further explores these themes. Chava names her firstborn Kayin, declaring that she has "acquired" a man with God's help. The name Hevel, on the other hand, means nothingness, a passing breath. In these names, we see the tension between possession and the ephemeral nature of existence. When Kayin’s offering is rejected, his anger burns. He embodies the frustration that comes when our need for control and recognition is thwarted. God offers him a panacea to the uncertainty of his existence in that moment. In a strange, enigmantic verse God says:
לָמָּה חָרָה לָךְ, וְלָמָּה נָפְלוּ פָנֶיךָ. ז הֲלוֹא אִם-תֵּיטִיב, שְׂאֵת, וְאִם לֹא תֵיטִיב, לַפֶּתַח חַטָּאת רֹבֵץ; וְאֵלֶיךָ, תְּשׁוּקָתוֹ, וְאַתָּה, תִּמְשָׁל-בּוֹ
It is a hard verse to translate and the commentators struggle to understand its meaning. It usually translates something similar to this: And the LORD said unto Cain: 'Why art thou wroth? and why is thy countenance fallen? “If thou doest well, shall it not be lifted up? and if thou doest not well, sin coucheth at the door; and unto thee is its desire, but thou mayest rule over it.” However, if we translate it literally it would actually sound something more like this: “If you make good you will be lifted (or lift up) and if you do not make good you sin will always stand at your door and you will be drawn to it and you can reign over it (you have the control/choice). It is noteworthy what God DOES NOT say – he does not EXPLAIN why he did not lift Kayin’s sacrifice or WHY Kayin should not be angry. Instead, he seems to say to Kayin “you will not ever necessarily know WHY but I am giving you the key to unlocking the HOW”. The narrative addresses deeply human themes of control, uncertainty and adversity; How you cope with a reality that is not ideal and not chosen, with tragedy that you do not understand? The answer says God, is that you ‘make good’, or in Victor Frankel’s words, you make meaning. You choose to find something to live for, you reframe with a positive outlook, you seek the good in a situation and in others and you actively move away from sin, from victimhood towards a life of agency in which you are self appointed ruler of your own destiny. As humans there are many things we cannot choose, but we can always choose our attitude, the way we frame our reality. We can always choose victimhood or agency. As humans we tend towards solutions and answers as means of controlling our reality. But as we learn with life, there is so much out of our control. Our greatest challenge, then, is to recognize and accept the boundaries of what we can control. Once we embrace the hevel—the nothingness and impermanence within ourselves and our lives—we can better understand what truly lies within our power, enabling us to take meaningful action with greater more resolve and efficacy.
Today, living in Israel, we experience this tension on a daily basis. As a nation, we embody Adam 1: we are innovators, constantly developing new ideas, creating solutions. But we also live with the reality of Adam 2, a reality that is shaped by unpredictability. Life here reminds us, sometimes violently, of our lack of control. The events of 07/10 shattered whatever illusions we may have had about security, forcing us to confront the fragility of existence in the most devastating way. We wake up each day unsure of what might happen—whether we will be able to go about our ordinary routines or face unimaginable tragedy.
This unpredictability does not just belong to us as individuals; it is woven into the fabric of the Jewish people. The terror of 07/10, a day that broke our hearts and shocked the world, underscores this stark truth. We have no choice but to live with both Kayin and Hevel within us: the drive to build, to create, to plant the seeds of tomorrow, and the humbling acknowledgment of how little control we truly have.
As we continue to navigate life in this fragile, unpredictable world, we must learn to embrace both the known and the unknown. We are Adam 1 and Adam 2, striving to build while recognizing the limits of our power. In the face of the uncertainties we confront daily, may we find the courage to live fully, to create, and to build—not in spite of life’s unpredictability, but because of it.
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