Parshat Bereishit: When the World Inside Feels Different

Understanding the Struggle We May Not Be Able to See

Introduction

The Torah begins its account of creation in an unexpected place. Before יְהִי אוֹר, before the separation of heaven and earth, sea and dry land, day and night, it describes a world that is difficult even to picture: וְהָאָרֶץ הָיְתָה תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ וְחֹשֶׁךְ עַל פְּנֵי תְהוֹם וְרוּחַ אֱלֹקים מְרַחֶפֶת עַל פְּנֵי הַמָּיִם — “The earth was unformed and empty, with darkness over the surface of the deep, and the spirit of God hovered over the surface of the waters.”

The words are familiar enough that we can read them simply as the condition of the world before creation took shape and then move quickly toward the light that follows. The meforshim help us understand more precisely what תֹהוּ describes. Rashi explains it as לשון תימה ושממון, שאדם תוהה ומשתומם — a state that leaves a person bewildered and astonished. The Netziv describes תֹהוּ as something שאין לו גדר והבדל זה מזה, in which the boundaries and distinctions that allow one thing to be recognized from another have not yet emerged.

The Mei HaShiloach takes this language beyond the physical condition of the early world. He understands תֹהוּ, בֹהוּ וְחֹשֶׁךְ as forms of הסתרות שעוברים על האדם — concealments through which a person can pass. Of תֹהוּ he writes that שנעלם ממנו מה הוא הדבר שימלא חסרונו ואינו יודע מה טוב לו — what would fill what is lacking is hidden from the person, and he does not know what is good for him. There are experiences in which the difficulty is not only that we do not know how to reach what we need. We may struggle to understand what is happening within us well enough to know what we need in the first place.

Bereishit therefore begins before the world has taken recognizable form. Within that same description, the Torah also tells us וְרוּחַ אֱלֹקים מְרַחֶפֶת עַל פְּנֵי הַמָּיִם.

As the parsha moves from creation to the first human beings, the focus becomes more personal. The Torah begins to describe not only what people do, but something of what is happening within them. With Kayin, the Torah allows us to encounter something deeply human: an inner experience that is real even before another person can fully understand what it means.

I. וַיִּפְּלוּ פָּנָיו — When a Face Falls

Kayin and Hevel each bring an offering to Hashem. Hashem turns toward Hevel and his offering but not toward Kayin and his, and rather than recording anything Kayin says in response, the Torah tells us what happens to him: וַיִּחַר לְקַיִן מְאֹד וַיִּפְּלוּ פָּנָיו — “Kayin became deeply distressed, and his face fell.”

The Netziv pays close attention to the two parts of that description because Hashem will soon ask about each of them separately. He understands וַיִּחַר  as the intense צער  Kayin experiences over what has happened, while נפילת הפנים reaches further. Kayin begins to think שהוא באמת שפל ונבזה ואין לו להרים ראש להבא — that he is truly low and diminished, with no reason to lift his head going forward. The rejection of the korban has become more than something painful that happened. It has begun to shape how he understands himself and what he believes remains possible for him.

It is in that state that Hashem asks לָמָּה חָרָה לָךְ וְלָמָּה נָפְלוּ פָנֶיךָ — “Why are you distressed, and why has your face fallen?” Before Kayin has harmed his brother and before Hashem warns him about the danger ahead, He addresses the change that has taken place within him. The question does not tell us that Kayin's understanding of what happened is correct; it shows that what is happening within him is part of the conversation.

Sforno finds the possibility of a different future within Hashem's question itself. On וְלָמָּה נָפְלוּ פָנֶיךָ, he explains that כי כשיש לקלקול איזו תקנה אין ראוי להצטער על מה שעבר אבל ראוי להשתדל להשיג תקון לעתיד — when something that has gone wrong can still be repaired, the task is not to remain consumed by what has already but to work toward repairing it going forward,. Hashem then tells Kayin הֲלוֹא אִם תֵּיטִיב שְׂאֵת — “If you improve, will you not be lifted?” Ibn Ezra connects שְׂאֵת, being lifted, with the face that has fallen. Hashem speaks to Kayin as someone for whom another response remains possible.

That possibility comes with responsibility. Hashem warns Kayin that וְאִם לֹא תֵיטִיב לַפֶּתַח חַטָּאת רֹבֵץ וְאֵלֶיךָ תְּשׁוּקָתוֹ וְאַתָּה תִּמְשָׁל בּוֹ — “If you do not improve, sin crouches at the entrance; its desire is toward you, but you can rule over it.” Hashem's attention to Kayin's fallen face does not remove the seriousness of the moral choice before him. Hashem addresses what has happened within Kayin while holding him responsible for what he does from there.

The warning does not change what follows. The Torah tells us וַיָּקָם קַיִן אֶל הֶבֶל אָחִיו וַיַּהַרְגֵהוּ — “Kayin rose against Hevel his brother and killed him.”

II. אֵי הֶבֶל אָחִיךָ — After the Choice Has Been Made

After the murder, Hashem speaks to Kayin again, but the question has changed. Earlier He asked לָמָּה חָרָה לָךְ וְלָמָּה נָפְלוּ פָנֶיךָ — “Why are you distressed, and why has your face fallen?” Now He asks אֵי הֶבֶל אָחִיךָ — “Where is Hevel, your brother?” The first conversation addressed what was happening within Kayin while the choice was still before him. Once another person has been harmed, the conversation can no longer remain centered there. Hashem turns Kayin toward the brother whose life he has taken.

Kayin responds לֹא יָדַעְתִּי הֲשֹׁמֵר אָחִי אָנֹכִי — “I do not know. Am I my brother's keeper?” Hashem answers with a question of His own: מֶה עָשִׂיתָ — “What have you done?” He then tells Kayin קוֹל דְּמֵי אָחִיךָ צֹעֲקִים אֵלַי מִן הָאֲדָמָה — “The voice of your brother's blood cries out to Me from the ground.” Whatever was taking place within Kayin before the murder remains part of what preceded his action, but it cannot alter what has happened to Hevel. The fallen face that Hashem addressed earlier does not disappear from the Torah's account; neither does it become an explanation that diminishes Kayin's responsibility.

The consequences are severe. Kayin is cursed from the ground that received his brother's blood, the earth will no longer yield its strength to him, and he will become נָע וָנָד בָּאָרֶץ, a wanderer upon the earth. Kayin then turns toward what this sentence will mean for him. He fears being driven away and tells Hashem וְהָיָה כָל מֹצְאִי יַהַרְגֵנִי — “whoever finds me will kill me.” The Torah tells us that the person who has been judged is now afraid for his life, and that fear becomes part of the exchange between Kayin and Hashem.

Hashem responds to that fear without withdrawing what He has already decreed. Kayin will remain נָע וָנָד, but Hashem declares that anyone who kills him will be punished and places an אוֹת  upon him לְבִלְתִּי הַכּוֹת אֹתוֹ כָּל מֹצְאוֹ — so that whoever encounters him will not strike him. Ramban emphasizes that Kayin cannot ultimately secure his own safety and depends upon Divine protection. Hashem does not undo the consequence of Kayin's act. Kayin will continue to live with what has been decreed, but his punishment does not mean that every harm that might come to him has now become deserved.

The אוֹת leaves us with a more complicated picture than either condemnation or sympathy alone would provide. Hevel's blood still cries from the ground, and nothing in Hashem's response to Kayin's fear changes what Kayin has done to his brother. At the same time, the Torah does not end its account of Kayin with the sentence pronounced against him. His fear is heard. His vulnerability still matters.

For a parent, there is something important in that possibility. There are times when a child has made choices whose consequences should not be removed, or when behavior has made boundaries necessary. Remaining present does not require pretending that nothing happened, protecting a child from every consequence, or abandoning limits that need to remain in place. We can take seriously what has happened without making the relationship itself another consequence. A child may need to live with the results of choices he has made while still knowing that the people who love him have not disappeared.

III. When the Struggle Is Within

Kayin should not be read as an account of mental illness. The Torah gives us no basis for diagnosing him, and nothing about his distress diminishes his responsibility for the murder of Hevel. Hashem's words אִם תֵּיטִיב address the moral choice before Kayin; they should not be taken to mean that every painful inner state can be changed through an act of will. What the account of Kayin gives us, together with the opening description of creation, is language for a human reality that is easy to overlook: what is happening within another person may be difficult for us to understand, even when it is real and consequential.

That gap becomes especially important when we speak about mental illness. Most of us know sadness, worry, exhaustion, disappointment, loneliness, and fear. Because these experiences are familiar, it can be tempting to understand depression or anxiety as stronger versions of feelings we have experienced ourselves. Mental illness can affect the way a person thinks, feels, experiences his body, relates to other people, and manages things that once seemed ordinary. Someone may understand intellectually that there is no reason to be frightened and still experience fear that reasoning does not quiet. He may want to get out of bed, answer a message, go to work, walk into shul, or spend time with people he loves, while finding that these ordinary acts now require something from him that they did not require before.

The language of תֹהוּ can help us approach such an experience without pretending that the Torah is offering a clinical description. Rashi speaks of bewilderment, while the Mei HaShiloach describes a person who cannot identify what would fill what is lacking. There are forms of suffering that can be difficult even for the person experiencing them to explain. He may not know why something has become so difficult, what would help, or how to put into words what has changed. Our inability to understand what someone is experiencing, or his inability to explain it, does not make the experience less real. From the outside, we usually encounter that struggle through behavior. Withdrawal can look like indifference, difficulty beginning something can look like laziness, and irritability may be experienced simply as anger or ingratitude.

Understanding what lies beneath behavior does not mean that the effects of that behavior cease to matter. Anger may become frightening, responsibilities may fall repeatedly upon other members of a family, or boundaries may become necessary. These situations bear no comparison to what Kayin did to Hevel. The relevance of the Torah's account lies elsewhere: Hashem addresses וַיִּפְּלוּ פָּנָיו, and after Kayin harms his brother, He asks אֵי הֶבֶל אָחִיךָ. We do not have to choose between taking seriously what is happening within a person and taking seriously how his behavior affects those around him. Pain, limitation, and responsibility can all be present, and understanding the first two can help us think more carefully about what the third reasonably asks of a particular person at a particular time.

For the person living with mental illness, the struggle can take another form. The Netziv's description of נפילת הפנים captures what can happen when an experience begins to shape a person's judgment about who he is and what remains possible for him. Difficulty functioning can slowly become evidence in his own mind that he is inadequate. Needing therapy, medication, accommodations, or help with things he once managed independently can become a source of shame. A period in which his capacities are diminished can begin to feel like a definition of who he has become and a prediction of what his life will always be.

There can also be a particular loneliness in watching other people do without apparent effort what has become difficult for you. You may struggle to explain why you cancelled again, why you could not walk into the room, why you have stopped answering messages, or why something that once brought pleasure now feels unreachable. After enough attempts to explain something you may not fully understand yourself, silence can become easier. Being understood does not depend upon another person experiencing what you experience. It begins when someone is willing to believe that the world may feel different from where you are standing.

For a religious person, that difference can reach into places that once provided stability and comfort. You may still believe in Hashem while finding davening difficult, struggling to concentrate when you learn, or discovering that Shabbat no longer feels as it once did. Being told simply to have more emunah can deepen the struggle by turning an illness that is already difficult to bear into evidence of spiritual failure. The inability to experience faith as you once did is not necessarily the same as having lost it.

A person may begin to wonder what his inability to feel closeness, reassurance, or even hope says about his relationship with Hashem. Bereishit began with a world in which clarity had not emerged, with תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ וְחֹשֶׁךְ עַל פְּנֵי תְהוֹם. The question that remains is what else was present when the world was still that way.

Conclusion — וְרוּחַ אֱלֹקים מְרַחֶפֶת

The Torah tells us that while the world is still תֹהוּ, before clarity and order have emerged, וְרוּחַ אֱלֹקים מְרַחֶפֶת עַל פְּנֵי הַמָּיִם — “the spirit of God hovered over the surface of the waters.” Hashem's presence does not begin once the confusion has passed or once the world has become recognizable. It is already there while darkness remains over the deep.

For someone struggling with mental illness, this can be difficult to hold onto. Illness can affect concentration, emotion, motivation, and the ability to experience comfort or connection. A person who once felt close to Hashem may continue doing many of the same things without feeling what he once felt, or may find himself unable to do them as he once did. If our capacity to experience closeness can be affected by illness, then the absence of that feeling cannot by itself tell us whether Hashem is absent.

Mental illness can be treated. Many people improve significantly or recover, while others live meaningful lives with conditions that recur or remain with them over time. Therapy, medication, professional support, and the steady presence of people who care can all matter. Seeking help does not reflect a failure of emunah; it is a response to suffering that deserves to be taken seriously.

None of this requires giving suffering a meaning we do not know or promising what will happen next. It does not ask a person to call חֹשֶׁךְ  light or תֹהוּ  clarity. There may be periods when faith consists less in feeling close to Hashem than in leaving room for the possibility that our inability to feel His closeness is not the measure of whether He is close.

There is room within Bereishit for the person who does not know what he needs, who struggles to recognize himself in the life he is living, or who cannot access feelings of closeness that once came more naturally. The Torah begins with a world still described as תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ, with darkness over the deep, and tells us that even there, וְרוּחַ אֱלֹקים מְרַחֶפֶת עַל פְּנֵי הַמָּיִם.

Have a Wonderful Shabbos!!!

Yaakov Lazar