Good morning.
I thought I might begin my remarks with an excerpt from a successful petition “to the honorable, the Board of Overseers, and the President and Fellows of Harvard University” to end compulsory attendance at morning prayers. It was 1886. As they mounted many arguments against the practice, our predecessors also expressed hope for what our minutes together this morning—my minutes speaking to you now—could accomplish.
“References to passing events” they wrote, “may serve to attract attention – if made eloquently they may move, if made blunderingly they may amuse or disgust – but the office of daily prayers is to bring the passing and casual under the shadow of the eternal; to make a man feel that amid the confusion of his hurried life, he can lay hold of an unvarying, underlying truth.”
To make people feel that they can lay hold of an unvarying, underlying truth amid the confusion of their hurried lives: That was a tall order in 1886—taller still in 2025, especially on the first morning of what will likely be a very challenging academic year marked by events outside our control.
What truth might we lay hold of now?
Not too long ago, I served as the provost and chief academic officer. I don’t think any other position at Harvard—including the presidency—gives one a better sense of the vast, wonderful, and pervasive sense of curiosity to be found here, curiosity that makes discovery of all kinds—and its application—possible. I spent nearly thirteen years marveling at the extraordinary interests and aspirations of our community. I witnessed many moments of joy and celebration punctuated by new questions, questions large and small, questions that seemed small but turned out to be large, questions too numerous to answer in a single career or even a lifetime. But questions posed, considered, and refined just the same, with confidence that the search for knowledge is eternal.
This posing and considering and refining—this unceasing evolution of ideas—does not come from a place of comfort. Working alone, we struggle. Working together, we struggle more. Though our efforts often lead to affirmation and agreement, they begin and proceed with confrontation and debate, fueled by a shared desire for deeper and richer understanding. Academic institutions, like religious institutions, depend on our passion to seek truth. They depend on our determination to overcome doubt, disapproval, and dismissiveness. Solitude is an important ingredient, and internal debate can be as brutal as the criticism of others, but success nearly always depends on a supportive but critical community.
My own religion, Judaism, is built on a foundation of debate and disagreement. The Talmud, at the center of rabbinical Judaism, is an era-crossing record of ongoing rabbinical debate over the meaning of the Torah and its application to every facet of life. In many ways, it is as important as the Torah itself. Following the destruction of the temple and exile, a process of communal discovery helped sustain a religion and an identity for millennia.
My own experience with Talmudic study is limited but illuminating. Learning with a partner, who is both guide and companion—in my case, always someone with far greater knowledge of Hebrew, Aramaic (which I had never learned), and the content of the Talmud—gave me rapid access to Talmudic reasoning, to the role of argument in advancing understanding, and to practices that build a community and bind its members. The patience of my partners taught me the value of persistence.
At their best, institutions—academic, religious, and otherwise—provide a place and a framework to know one another, to challenge one another, to encourage one another, to elevate and celebrate one another. They stir and strengthen feelings of connection that lead to compassion and genuine appreciation. At the same time, institutions challenge us to resist our inclinations, to confront our assumptions, and to develop the capacity to explore different views with the seriousness they deserve. That is how they ensure that our endless and unending quests for unvarying, underlying truth will be rewarding.
That is some of what institutions do for us. What do they need from us in return? They need our commitment. We must recognize their value with even greater intention when confusion and hurry—and a host of other calamities—threaten to overwhelm them. It is up to us, the beneficiaries of the greatness and endurance of institutions, to defend and protect them, to steady and ready them so that they might continue to thrive.
We are all seekers, fortunate to find ourselves—and one another—at a University that renews and continues the eternal search for knowledge each academic year, turning our sights to distant horizons and inviting us to look together, to draw on our disparate views, to push each other, and to find answers that beget more questions.
May this year bring opportunities for us to affirm and fulfill the commitment to Veritas that unites and strengthens us as an institution and as a community. And, as we argue, discuss, and work together under the shadow of the eternal, may our contributions to understanding—and the progress they enable—make our nation and the world a better place.