That’s what Bereshit means — not just “in the beginning,” but, as the Hasidic masters taught, b’reshit — “with beginnings.” The world was created pregnant with possibility, capable of renewal again and again. Creation isn’t a one-time act. It’s an ongoing invitation: to begin once more.
Two years ago, many of us felt that beginning in its most painful form. On Simchat Torah 2023, our world shattered. As our brothers and sisters in Israel faced unspeakable tragedy, we discovered that we were part of something larger than ourselves — a people. The pain we felt was peoplehood itself: our souls remembering that we belong to one another.
Pain awakened us. Now, as we turn the scroll back to Bereshit, we’re called to remember that Torah can sustain us.
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The first two portions trace the unraveling of creation — the collapse of human responsibility. My teacher, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks z”l, described four failures that define this early history:
Adam and Eve — the failure of personal responsibility. Confronted with their sin, Adam blames Eve and Eve blames the serpent.
Cain and Abel — the failure of moral responsibility. When God asks, “Where is your brother Abel?” Cain replies, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” It’s the most chilling question in Torah.
Noah — the failure of collective responsibility. Though righteous, he saves only himself and his family. He does not pray for his generation.
Babel — the failure of spiritual responsibility. The builders try to replace God with humanity itself.
By the end of Noach, humanity has proved that, left to itself, it cannot sustain moral order.
But the story doesn’t end there. Out of the wreckage, a new idea is born: the creation of a family destined to become a people bound by covenant. The Torah’s answer to Cain’s question is Abraham’s family’s eternal yes.
It is as if the Torah is saying: human beings learn morality not in isolation but in relationship. We need the classroom of a people to become who we are meant to be.
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That question — “Am I my brother’s keeper?” — still defines our moral landscape. We see its inversion everywhere: cruelty without consequence, dehumanization without shame.
But Jewish peoplehood is our collective answer. Across generations, we’ve tried — imperfectly but persistently — to say yes.
Two years ago, that instinct came alive in real time. When Jews across the world cried out for those murdered, for those taken, for the families in grief — that cry was the sound of peoplehood. The pain was unbearable, but it revealed a truth many of us had nearly forgotten: we are one body, one people.
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Torah study is how we practice being our brother’s keeper.
When we learn together, we’re not just acquiring knowledge — we’re building the very relationships that make responsibility possible. Every question we ask, every insight we share, every moment we choose Torah learning over despair is an act of collective faith. We study not in isolation, but as a people. We inherit the same texts, wrestle with the same questions, and carry forward the same covenant.
This is why Torah study has always been our response to crisis. It’s not an escape from pain — it’s how we metabolize it, how we turn ache into purpose. When we learn, we’re saying: yes, I am responsible. Not only for my own growth, but for ours. Not only in grief, but in joy. Not only in memory, but in creation.
Bereshit teaches that the world begins not once, but whenever we choose to begin it again. Each time we learn, each time we give, each time we take responsibility for one another — we say yehi or: let there be light.
This year, may our learning be that light.
May it help us rebuild what has been broken — not only through pain, but through joy.
And may we remember that we are not reading this story alone. We are writing it together.
Bereshit bara Elohim et hashamayim ve’et ha’aretz.
In the beginning, God created heaven and earth.
And with beginnings, we continue to create.
