We Begin Again
That’s what Bereshit means — not just “in the beginning,” but, as the Hasidic masters taught, be’reshit — “with beginnings.” The world was created pregnant with possibility, capable of renewal again and again. Creation isn’t a one-time act but 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 the pain of Jewish peoplehood: our souls remembered that we belong to one another.
That pain awakened us. Now, as we turn the scroll back to Bereshit, as our brothers and sisters finally return home, we’re called to remember that Torah must sustain us.
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The first two Torah portions in Genesis 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 represent the failure of personal responsibility. Confronted with their sin, Adam blames Eve and Eve blames the serpent.
Cain's murder of Abel represents 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 the Torah.
Noah represents the failure of collective responsibility. Though righteous, he saved only himself and his family. He does not pray for his generation, which was wiped out by the flood.
The builders of Babel represent the failure of spiritual responsibility. The builders try to replace God with humanity itself.
By the end of Noach, humanity has shown 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: a family destined to become a people bound by covenant. The Torah’s answer to Cain’s question is the eternal yes of Abraham’s family.
It is as if the Torah is saying: human beings learn morality not in isolation but in relationship. We need the classroom of a family — 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. Too many walk around shamelessly with Cain’s mark on their forehead.
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. That pain pushed us. It helped us move mountains. It gave birth to movements of solidarity, of activism, of care.
But pain cannot be our only teacher. Torah study is what cultivates and nourishes our instinct to be our brother’s keeper.
When we learn together, we’re not just acquiring knowledge, we’re strengthening the very bonds that make responsibility possible. Every question we ask, every insight we share, every moment we choose Torah over despair is an act of collective faith.
We study not in isolation, but as a people. We inherit the same sacred texts, wrestle with the same questions, carry forward the same covenant, and read weekly the same parasha.
This is why Torah study like The Simchat Torah Challenge has always been our response to crises. 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 reminds us that creation is not a one-time act but a choice renewed — the courage to begin again.
Each time we learn, each time we give, each time we take responsibility for one another, we echo God’s first words: yehi. Or, let there be light.
This year, as we open the Torah once more, our eyes wet with gratitude for the homecoming of our captives, may our learning be that light.
May it help us rebuild what was broken, not only through pain, but through joy.
And may we remember that we are not only readers of this story, but its authors.
Bereshit bara Elohim et hashamayim ve’et ha’aretz.
In the beginning, God created heaven and earth.
And with every beginning, we continue the work of creation.
