Parshat Bereishit – The Beginning of the Path:Learning to Walk the Road of Creation

In the Beginning of the Journey

The Torah doesn’t begin with order. It begins with potential — with a world that is raw, uncertain, and waiting to take shape.

“In the beginning of God’s creating the heavens and the earth — when the earth was astonishingly empty, and darkness was over the surface of the deep…” (Bereishit 1:1–2)

Before there was light, there was confusion. Before clarity, there was chaos. The Torah isn’t ashamed of this beginning. It presents it honestly, almost tenderly — as if to tell us that this is how creation always begins. Everything that would one day exist — light and darkness, heaven and earth, meaning and rest — was already there in potential, hidden within the void. It only needed to be drawn out, day by day.

Our own lives follow the same pattern. None of us begins in order. We begin, like the world itself, in uncertainty. We spend much of life trying to separate what is light from what is dark, what is real from what only feels that way. The Torah doesn’t judge that process; it dignifies it. It teaches that holiness is not found in the absence of struggle, but in the slow, patient work of bringing meaning out of it.

The Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 2:4) teaches that even before light existed, the Divine Presence hovered over the waters. That image is not just cosmic — it’s deeply personal. It reminds us that even when our own world feels formless, when we are still figuring out who we are and what life is becoming, God is already near. The hovering Presence means that we are not alone in our confusion; there is holiness even in the waiting.

And then, slowly, creation begins to unfold. Separation begins. Boundaries emerge. The world takes form. Only after this long process — after effort, growth, and choice — does Shabbat arrive, the day that crowns all the others.

Shabbat doesn’t come first. It comes after the work — after chaos has been faced, shaped, and sanctified. It is not the opposite of struggle but its fulfillment. It is the peace that follows the work of becoming, the stillness that gives meaning to all that came before.

If creation is the pattern, then our own lives — with all their confusion, effort, and becoming — follow the same sacred order. Each of us lives through our own six days of creation before we taste our Shabbat — the moment we begin to see purpose in the work that shaped us.

The Six Days as the Stages of a Human Life

The story of creation is not only the story of the world — it is the story of a life.

Chazal teach, “Adam hu olam katan” — “A human being is a small world” (Midrash Tanchuma, Pekudei 3). The Sefat Emet adds that the same divine words that brought the world into being continue to sustain it in every moment. Creation, then, never truly ended. The same process that formed the heavens and the earth continues to unfold within each of us. The six days of creation describe not only what once happened, but what keeps happening — the stages through which every soul must travel.

The First Day — Birth: Light and Darkness

“Vayehi or — Let there be light.”

The Zohar teaches that this light was not sunlight, but the Or HaGanuz — the hidden, original light of creation, too pure for this world, stored away for the righteous. The Sefat Emet explains that humanity’s first form was clothed in garments of light before sin replaced them with garments of skin.

Infancy mirrors that same radiance — a soul glowing through new flesh, untouched by confusion. Every baby carries that hidden light; their very existence declares, “Yehi or — let there be light.” And then, almost immediately, the Torah says, “And God separated the light from the darkness.” The first act of creation — and of life — is separation. The infant, too, begins to sense distinction: safe from unsafe, hunger from comfort, self from other.

To live is to begin this work of discernment. Even in our earliest moments, the world teaches us that not all light feels bright, not all darkness means danger. This is the first spiritual task — to learn to trust the Source that hovers even over the deep.

The Second Day — Childhood: The Waters Divided

On the second day, God separates the upper and lower waters. For the first time, the Torah does not say “ki tov” — “that it was good.” Bereishit Rabbah explains that division can never be called fully good, because it introduces tension.

Childhood mirrors that tension. It is the age when the inner waters begin to stir — when the child senses higher callings and lower pulls, dreams and fears, imagination and boundaries. Pirkei Avot maps this awakening: five years old for Scripture, ten for Mishnah, thirteen for mitzvot. A child begins to stretch outward — asking questions, testing limits, forming a sense of self.The second day is not yet about harmony; it is about learning to live within difference. Freedom is born here — beautiful, but never simple. Division is the beginning of choice, and choice is the beginning of responsibility.

The Third Day — Adolescence: Land and Growth

“Let the earth sprout vegetation.”

The Ramban writes that the power of growth was already hidden within the earth; the divine word merely called it forth. So too, adolescence draws out what was dormant. The soil of the self begins to push upward, and the soul asserts independence. Bereishit Rabbah identifies three forms of growth in this verse — grass, seed-bearing plants, and fruit trees — representing ordinary deeds, habits of goodness, and actions whose fruit endures.

The Sefat Emet calls this chidush — renewal — the continual reawakening of divine vitality within the human being. Adolescence is that awakening: passionate, uneven, alive. The struggle for identity and belonging is not rebellion against God but the stirring of divine energy within the soul. Like the earth itself, the adolescent holds hidden potential that must break open before it can bear fruit.

Adolescence is where the self first meets responsibility. It is a time when faith, emotion, and curiosity root deeply — not always in straight lines, but in living ones.

The Fourth Day — Young Adulthood: Light and Humility

“Let there be luminaries in the sky to give light upon the earth.”

The Gemara (Chullin 60b) tells that the moon protested, “Can two kings share one crown?” and God replied, “Go and diminish yourself.” The Sefat Emet teaches that this “diminishing” was not punishment but the birth of humility — the moon’s light shines precisely because it reflects another’s.

Young adulthood is the testing ground of that same truth. The drive to shine — to build, to lead, to create — meets the need for balance and humility. The Sforno explains that the luminaries’ role was to bring order and guidance, not dominance. True greatness lies not in brilliance that blinds but in light that warms and directs.These are the years of striving and decision, when ideals are tested by real life. Many lose heart when they discover the world’s limits, but that is part of the lesson: the brightest light is often reflected light — when ego gives way to service.

The Fifth Day — Adulthood: Depth and Flight

“Let the waters swarm with living creatures, and let birds fly across the heavens.”

The Ramban notes that fish come from water and birds from air — creatures of two worlds. Adulthood, too, belongs to two realms: the practical and the spiritual, the hidden and the visible. The Zohar teaches that fish represent quiet righteousness — good deeds done without recognition — while birds represent open expression, song, and prayer. The Sefat Emet calls this hishtalshelut — descent and ascent, the continual rhythm of life.

By this stage, life is full: work, family, responsibility, community. But it is also when detours come — disappointments, losses, the roads we never planned to walk. Like Yosef later in Bereishit, we may not choose these roads, yet they become the very places where divine purpose hides. Adulthood is learning to hold depth and motion at once — to swim through challenge while still flying toward hope.

Here, faith matures. It is no longer only inspiration; it is endurance — the quiet strength to keep creating even when the path feels unclear.

The Sixth Day — Elder Years: Wisdom and Reflection

“Let us make man in Our image.”

Elder years are the culmination of creation — when patterns once chaotic begin to reveal their meaning. The Rambam teaches that tzelem Elokim means moral and intellectual awareness. The Sefat Emet adds that the human calling is to make a dirah b’tachtonim — a dwelling place for God in the physical world.

Reaching this stage means seeing that every step — the light, the separations, the growth, the humility, the detours — was part of that dwelling. The elder can finally bless the road, not because it was smooth, but because it was purposeful. Wisdom does not come from having avoided mistakes but from seeing divine pattern even in them.These years invite gratitude more than ambition, presence more than progress. It is the soul’s quiet return to the beginning — to light that no longer strives, only shines.

And like creation itself, our journey is not complete until we learn to rest — to see the goodness in what has been built.

III. Shabbat – The First Rest and the Goal of the Journey

After six days of creation, the Torah pauses: “Vayechulu hashamayim veha’aretz… vayevarech Elokim et yom hashvi’i vayekadesh oto.” “The heavens and the earth were completed… and God blessed the seventh day and sanctified it.” (Bereishit 2:1–3)

The Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 10:9) teaches that “the world was incomplete until Shabbat came.” Without Shabbat, creation remained in motion — productive, but not yet whole. The arrival of Shabbat did not add another act of doing; it revealed the meaning of everything that had been done.

The Sefat Emet writes that Shabbat reveals the neshamah yetera — the “extra soul,” the deeper awareness that everything we are, and everything that exists, flows from God. Shabbat is not only the end of creation; it is the moment creation understands itself. It is the awareness that life is not held together by effort alone, but by relationship.

Before humanity is tested, before the first mistake or the first hiding, there is this: Shabbat. It is God’s first gesture of love — His way of saying, “You belong to Me. You were never meant to carry this world alone.” Shabbat is not a command to stop working; it is an invitation to remember who we are before all the striving began.

Every life needs its Shabbat — not just once a week, but as a rhythm of being. Without it, our days blur into motion; with it, our work gains meaning. Shabbat reminds us that our worth is not measured by what we produce but by the simple fact that we exist in God’s world.

The Midrash teaches that when God blessed the seventh day, He infused it with peace — menuchah (fullness). It is the pause that lets us see what was already good. It is the breath that allows creation to speak. Shabbat is the first moment of being held, the experience of knowing that completion does not come from achievement, but from connection.

And perhaps that is why the Torah moves next to its first human story — because only a being who has first tasted belonging can face the question that follows: “Ayeka — Where are you?”

IV. The First Question – “Where Are You?” (Ayeka)

But peace without presence is fragile.

Almost immediately after the stillness of Shabbat, the harmony shatters. Adam and Chava eat from the fruit, and the first emotion to enter the human heart is shame. They hide. The same beings who only moments ago walked freely with God in the garden now feel unworthy to be seen.

What happens next is one of the most revealing moments in all of Torah. The first divine words ever spoken to humankind after creation are not an accusation, but a question: “Ayeka?” — “Where are you?” (Bereishit 3:9)

Rashi, citing Bereishit Rabbah (19:9), explains that God of course knew where Adam was. The question was not for information, but for invitation. God was opening a space for dialogue. He asked gently, giving Adam room to step forward on his own. The question was not geographical — it was existential. Where are you right now? What are you feeling? What has happened to you?

The Sefat Emet teaches that this question was not meant for Adam alone. It echoes in every soul and in every generation. Each morning, as we move through our lives, God still asks: Ayeka — where are you in relation to Me? The question does not accuse; it awakens. It does not say, “What did you do?” It asks, “Where are you on your journey? What direction are you facing?”

And then comes one of the most tender verses in the entire Torah: “And Hashem Elokim made for Adam and his wife garments of skin, and He clothed them.” (Bereishit 3:21)

Even after failure, God does not turn away. He prepares them for what comes next. The Midrash teaches that the garments He made were not punishment, but compassion — a quiet way of saying, Even when you fall, you are still Mine. The Zohar deepens this moment, noting that these garments of skin — “עור” — share their sound with “אור”, light. It is a reminder that the light of the first day was never lost. It did not vanish; it was simply hidden within the coverings of our humanity.

And this, perhaps, is the first act of parenting in the Torah — to clothe another not only for protection, but for dignity; to remind them that even in their mistakes, they are still seen, still loved, and never alone on the road ahead.

The message is quiet but radical: holiness does not mean never falling; it means not walking away after we do. The first divine response to human failure is not correction but care. God does not erase consequence, but He covers shame with dignity. He teaches that relationship is not destroyed by failure — it is deepened through compassion.

That is the conversation of Ayeka. It is not a courtroom interrogation. It is a voice that meets us where we are — a hand held out in the dark, saying: I am still here. And I am asking where you are, because I still want to walk with you.

And this is where our story as parents begins. For every parent eventually re-lives the garden — watching a child hide after a mistake, wanting to call out, to fix, to reach. The question Ayeka becomes our own: Where are you, my child? Where are you in your pain, your confusion, your fear? The Torah’s first human dialogue becomes the model for every act of relationship that follows. God’s tone becomes the teacher’s tone, the parent’s tone — not condemning, but curious; not shaming, but sheltering.

V. Walking This Path with Our Children – The Generational Journey

Every parent eventually lives this story again.

Our children, like us, begin in light — full of potential and wonder — and then move through confusion, separation, growth, and discovery. To raise a child is to accompany another soul through its own six days of creation, watching them build their world one step at a time.

When a child hides — after a mistake, a disappointment, or a moment of shame — the most healing thing we can offer is the same word that God first spoke to humanity: Ayeka. Not “What were you thinking?” but “Where are you right now? What’s happening inside you?”

It is the language of compassion rather than control, of curiosity rather than judgment. It is how relationship survives failure. The Talmud teaches, “Just as God is compassionate and gracious, so shall you be” (Shabbat 133b). Parenting, mentoring, or guiding others is holy work because it imitates God’s own way of relating to us.

God did not abandon Adam and Chava in their mistake. He clothed them before sending them out, ensuring they could face the world covered, not exposed. He restored their dignity before addressing their behavior. That is the pattern for us as well.

Our task is not to raise perfect children, but to raise connected ones. Each stage of their development mirrors one of the days of creation — their first light, their inner divisions, their bursts of growth, their moments of humility, their flights and descents, their search for meaning. Through all of it, our calling is to stay present — to create safety when they are lost, to set boundaries when needed, to let go when the time comes, and to remind them that they never walk alone.

To parent in the spirit of Bereishit is to say: I see you in your becoming. I will not rush you, and I will not leave you. I will walk this road beside you — as God once did for us all.

VI. The Human Road – Creation Still Happening

The story of Bereishit is not a memory of what once was. It is a map of what always is.

Just as we watch our children grow through their own days of creation, we continue to move through ours. Life does not unfold in a straight line. It circles — through chaos and light, division and growth, humility and reflection — again and again, each time revealing something new about who we are and who we are becoming.

Bereishit Rabbah (9:5) teaches that when God looked at the world and called it “very good,” He was including even death — meaning that limitation, imperfection, and struggle are part of divine goodness. Our unfinishedness is not failure; it is design. Creation was never meant to end.

The Sefat Emet writes that every day, God still renews the world through His word — “hamchadesh b’tuvo b’chol yom tamid ma’aseh bereishit.” That renewal happens within us too. Each time we face uncertainty, it is Day One again — the moment we must find light in darkness. When we wrestle with inner conflict, it is Day Two — the work of separating upper from lower, truth from confusion. When we rebuild after loss, it is Day Three — the slow sprouting of new life from broken ground.

The Slonimer Rebbe adds that this renewal is not only divine but human — that “kol adam mechuyav livrot et atzmo b’chol yom” — each person is obligated to recreate themselves every day. Creation is the work of the soul: to begin again, even in the same place.

The days of creation are not behind us; they are within us. They repeat in every challenge, every change, every new beginning. The goal is not to escape them, but to recognize the holiness inside them — to see that every struggle hides an opportunity for revelation.

The voice that once said “Yehi or — Let there be light” still speaks within every soul. Sometimes it is faint; sometimes it sounds like longing, courage, or the simple will to keep going. Our task is to keep listening — to hear that voice in the ordinary moments of our lives and to believe that creation is still happening, right here, through us.

And perhaps that is the ultimate meaning of Bereishit: that God did not only create the world once, but entrusted us to keep creating it — in our homes, our relationships, and our hearts — until every hidden light is revealed again.

VII. Closing Reflection – Answering the Question

The Torah begins not with command but with conversation.

Before there is law, there is relationship. Before there is what to do, there is who we are to each other. The Creator of the universe bends toward the human heart and asks a single, enduring question: “Ayeka?” — “Where are you?”

The Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 19:9) teaches that this question was not only for Adam — it was for every generation to come. God still walks through the garden of human history, asking each of us to locate ourselves: Where are you in your life? In your faith? In your relationships? In the story I’m still writing with you?

That question has never stopped being asked. It reaches across centuries, through every rise and fall, through every moment of hiding and return. And each of us must decide how to answer. We can stay hidden behind our defenses, or we can take a breath, step forward, and whisper, “Hineini — Here I am.”

That is where faith begins. Not in certainty or perfection, but in presence — in the courage to be seen. Every prayer, every act of honesty, every turning toward love begins there. The journey of Bereishit — from chaos to light, from hiding to relationship — is the story of the human heart learning to answer that question again and again.

And when we allow Ayeka to reach us, we hear something else beneath it: the quiet promise of Shabbat. We discover that we were never alone in the work of becoming. The same God who asked Ayeka still walks beside us, calling softly, waiting for us to lift our eyes.

Creation did not end on the seventh day. It continues in every moment we choose to show up — to listen, to love, to begin again. Each time we do, the world becomes a little more whole. And perhaps that is what God has been asking all along — not Where are you? as in Where did you go? But Where are you now, so that I can meet you there?

Have a Wonderful Shabbos!!!

Yaakov Lazar

Taking the Journey Together