What the Pope’s Encyclical Misses About Language | Metaglossia: The Translation World | Scoop.it
We should express due appreciation for the pontiff’s profound effort to understand AI, and we should also welcome and encourage the unique power of language—its ability to bridge gaps, to encapsulate and disseminate experience, to inspire and encourage expression.

"The very first story in the Judeo-Christian tradition about humans forging supernatural beings can be found in Tractate Sanhedrin of the Babylonian Talmud.


 


The tale dates to the third century, and it records an ill-fated effort by a leading rabbinic figure to create an artificial man. The Hebrew letters composing the three words (רָבָא בְּרָא גַּבְרָא) are interchanged, anagrammed, in a virtuosic manipulation of language, as if to underline the uniquely human ability to employ words in all their nuance.


 


But Rava’s creature itself proved incapable of speech, and the story ends when Rabbi Zeira, Rava’s mentor, consigns the anthropoid to the dustbin. Without the power of language, the Talmud tells us, artificial entities are, at best, worthless and, at worst, dangerous.


 


This story swirled through my head earlier this week as I read Magnifica Humanitas, the thoughtful, constructive, and eloquent encyclical recently issued by Pope Leo XIV. As neither a Christian nor an expert in church doctrine, I’m unqualified to weigh in on Leo’s application of Catholic principles to contemporary debates over AI. But as someone who has researched and written about how ancient Jewish sources inform our understanding of this groundbreaking technology, I was struck by how the encyclical presented an incomplete perspective on how traditional conceptions of the power of language can and should influence our thinking about AI.


 


The pope contrasted two biblical constructs: the Tower of Babel and the Wall of Nehemiah. In the former story, situated in Genesis following the flood, humanity sets forth to build a tower ascending to the heavens. The builders were able to coordinate only because “everyone on earth spoke the same language and the same words.” Regarding this uniformity and what it allows humanity to do as a rebellion, God confounds their language into a babble—pun very much intended—and the project collapses.


 


By contrast, as Leo recounts beautifully, in the Book of Nehemiah, set in the sixth century B.C., the eponymous prophet collects the remnant of Jews who survived the Babylonians’ destruction of the Holy Temple and coordinates their reconstruction of Jerusalem—a joyous occasion of renewal of God’s covenant.


 


On one hand, the encyclical laments the hubris and arrogance of the tower builders. On the other hand, the pontiff heaped praise upon Nehemiah and his followers, noting how “the narrative shows how the city is reborn, not through the initiative of one man, but through the shared responsibility of all: men, women, priests, artisans, heads of households and young people all play a part.”


 


This sharply drawn binary represents a useful and poignant scaffolding for building an understanding of how tools can be made and used for good and for ill. It forms the backbone of the encyclical’s analysis of AI, and it figures to become a cornerstone of a practical and ethical understanding of technology and its limitations.


 


But precisely because of the importance of this paradigm, I humbly suggest that the encyclical neglects a key element of the Babel story: the appropriate role of language in society and in AI models.


 


Biblical sources distinguish humans from animals through the power of speech, and ancient, medieval, and early modern Jewish authorities amplify this message. Rava’s creature could not communicate and was therefore less than human.


 


Centuries later, Rava’s spiritual descendant, Rabbi Eleazar of medieval Germany, described how to animate a humanoid from a lump of clay. The would-be creator must sequentially read aloud Hebrew letters and word fragments to the clay in a manner eerily reminiscent of how today’s AI models undergo training. Rabbi Eleazar also prohibited individuals from creating these anthropoids on their own for their own private benefit, instead insisting that the act be performed in collaboration with others.


 


And, perhaps most famously, Rabbi Yehuda Loew of 16th-century Prague summoned a golem from the Vltava River. He did this by chanting a mystical rendition of the Genesis story, one that employed Hebrew letters whose kabbalistic numerical value totaled 310, equal to the value of the word yesh, or “existence.” The golem sought to defend the persecuted Jewish community confined to the ghetto in Prague.


 


These legendary feats of linguistic brilliance created superhuman creatures designed to protect and nurture the community—something of the essence of the beneficent type of AI that Pope Leo seeks to foster.


 


And that verbal beneficence indeed has parallels in today’s technology. As Yuval Levin observed in The New Atlantis, we call these products “large language models” for a reason. “AI has essentially broken all language barriers,” Levin argues, “not only between human languages but, more importantly, between human language and computing language.”


 


Yet, per Magnifica Humanitas, this linguistic breakthrough enriches human experience and should be welcomed. Leo quite correctly urges us to eschew “the pretense that a single language — even a digital one — can translate everything, including the mystery of the person, into data and performance” and instead to embrace a “plurality of voices and visions.” But far from constituting a single, uniform language, LLMs expand and enhance our understanding of the spoken and written word across an extraordinarily wide variety of templates. In this way, perhaps, AI made and used well combines the best of the Babel and Nehemiah stories: It both adopts and fosters the multiplicity of language and experience.


 


Put differently, today’s AI models do not flatten or steamroll language but, instead, improve our ability to understand the world and, more importantly, one another. Yes, some versions of ChatGPT and Claude tend to use similar vocabularies and sentence and paragraph structures. And it’s true that modern technology generally threatens certain endangered languages. 


 


But real-time translation, instant transcription, advanced cultural research, and similar offerings of LLMs preserve the robustness of a multiplicity of linguistic and cultural forms while dramatically improving access to them across geographies and other barriers. As Levin puts it, contemporary AI software “allows people and computers to communicate with each other in our own natural language without needing to translate between that language and various forms of computing scripts.” 


 


In this sense, LLMs are the anti-Babel: They respect and amplify the diversity of linguistic and cultural experiences; they embrace the nuances of the spoken and written word; and they render uniformity obsolete. For this reason, we should express due appreciation for the pontiff’s profound effort to understand AI, and we should also welcome and encourage the unique power of language—its ability to bridge gaps, to encapsulate and disseminate experience, to inspire and encourage expression. This is what large language models facilitate, and it’s precisely what makes humanity magnificent."


by Michael M. Rosen


Nonresident Senior Fellow


June 07, 2026


https://www.aei.org/op-eds/what-the-popes-encyclical-misses-about-language/


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