A
Seventh Part of Creation
D’var
Torah for Parashat B’reishit (Genesis 1:1—6:8)
By
Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
Creation myths abound in human culture.
Unlike other creation myths, however, Genesis doesn’t
pretend to explain how matter was created—or, for that matter, how God happened
to become God. Those are questions which
the human mind simply isn’t equipped to answer.
Our cumulative knowledge is only now beginning to probe the mysteries of
Creation—and what preceded it.
The book of Genesis is a collection of creation myths meant
to explain the universe the way it appeared to people who lived around 1500 BCE,
without benefit of Galileo or Copernicus, Darwin or Einstein. The
question of why things are (the way they are) is as old as humanity itself. Genesis begins not with a direct answer, but
rather with a veiled question.
There are two ways to interpret Gen. 1:1. First is the version of the verse that we’ve
all memorized as, “In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth.”
Rashi, however, a tenth century rabbi and commentator, offers
another explanation: B’reishit: Not at the exact moment, but a rather more
approximate “at the beginning of God’s creation.” As God’s
work of creating heaven and earth begins, matter already exists. It doesn’t matter how that came to be—that’s
not the point of this lesson. Certainly
we are given to understand that there
was water already, since God’s spirit was “hovering over the water.” There was also darkness—a void of light; and most
abundantly, there was chaos. In short, a
true tohu va-vohu, a scrambling, tumbling
existence without boundaries, rules or relationships.
At the moment that Genesis picks up, God’s work consists not
exactly of creating, but rather separating, establishing order and setting up
rules. The moment is illuminated by a
light that God releases—lets be
rather than creates. The darkness is crushing, devastating. It offers no chance for existence, life, or
hope. Space for all these has to be made
to appear, and God does so by making room, by limiting the overwhelming darkness
and setting it bounds, thus enabling light to exist.
Similarly, God separates the water, that primordial medium
that bore the potential of life, and
allows dry earth to appear—earth in which the seed of life might take root,
where the potential might become real.
Separation, bringing order, establishing boundaries—that is
the work of God’s creation, a process, however, that God leaves unfinished. And it is here that we can find the first
answer that the Torah ever offers. The
question it comes to answer, however, is not how God created the world, but why
it seems so imperfect.
Understandably, limited gods can only do so much. Mesopotamian myths tell that the gods created
human beings so they could till the earth and bring them food—necessary for the
gods’ existence as it is for us humans.
These are limited, needful creatures—divine, perhaps, in the sense that
they are metaphysical, beyond the realm of the merely physical, extending into
the unseen realms that surround our own existence—but limited nonetheless, and
dependent on human beings for their existence.
Our God, on the other hand, is perfect—or so we expect. How then, to explain the imperfection of the
world? How, or why, would a perfect God
stop with an imperfect world, one in which there is pain, illness, death,
unfairness and, sometimes, even blatant injustice?
This is the vital question, the one that the Torah would
have us focus on. What is the reason for
the suffering? Is there some divine plan
we cannot understand? Or is it all in
vain, all this questioning and exploring, probing and investigating?
For whatever reason, the human mind will simply not accept
option two. We can think, therefore we
think. Because we can ask the question,
we have to have an answer. So therefore
there has to be some reason or purpose for it all, difficult as it might be to
comprehend or accept.
The rest of the Torah stems from this one question, as it
steers us toward a particular way of thinking about and understanding this
universe. There IS a reason, and there
IS a purpose.
Again taking its cue from the Mesopotamian myths, the book
of Genesis has God giving Adam—and all humanity through him—reason and
purpose: to till this earth, to tend to
this garden and enable it to reach its potential. However, whereas in the ancient myths the
food gathered from tilling the ground was meant to serve the gods (with human beings
getting the leftovers), Genesis offers a new way of viewing our tasks. We are to take care of this earth not for the
sake of the gods—or even for God’s sake—but for its own sake and for the sake
of all its inhabitants.
Why would a perfect God create an imperfect world? So that we—arguably its most intelligent tenant—could
pursue the goal of improving it.
Understanding it is crucial; learning the rules by which the earth
exists helps us live with—and surmount—its demands and requirements. It’s tricky business, considering the extent
of our imagination and powers. We have
to ponder the balance between creation and destruction—both of which are within
our powers. Maintaining the balance,
weighing the options, clarifying and shedding light on the chaos, and
separating the right from the wrong—these are the chores that the Torah places
on us.
The Torah teaches us that we humans have the image of God implanted
within us (revolutionary thinking in itself).
How to be Godlike in doing our part in the ongoing work of Creation is
an on-going lesson, one that takes constant reflection and practice. But we have a lot of time—a seventh part of
all Creation. God worked for six parts;
now it’s our turn. It’s a true gift—as long
as we don’t misuse it. Its power is
truly enormous, its reach is vast. Its consequences
are vital. We pray that our part of
Creation, the one we sanctify and call Shabbat, will reach its goal of shalom, of peace.
Shabbat shalom.
©2012
by Boaz D. Heilman
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