Women Are from Eden: Reflections on Parashat Bereishit

 

 

Women Are from Eden: Reflections on Parashat Bereishit

Rabbi Ari Kahn

We begin our study of Bereishit as the echoes of the festival season still linger. Though the holidays have ended, their spiritual resonance lingers still. Life resumes its rhythms—traffic hums, schools reopen, routines reassert themselves—but beneath this surface of ordinary time, a deeper question stirs: how does creation itself begin anew? How does the infinite give rise to the finite, and how does meaning emerge from the primordial void?

To contemplate creation is to enter a realm of mystery, a terrain where questions often resist resolution. Inquiry itself is sacred. Even the Vilna Gaon, in his Aderet Eliyahu, poses thirty-two penetrating questions on the opening verses of Bereishit—mirroring the thirty-two paths of wisdom in Kabbalah; many he addresses, yet rarely in ways that yield easy answers. The text invites the humility of wonder, not the certainty of closure.

And so, we return to the very first words:

"בְּרֵאשִׁית בָּרָא אֱ-לֹהִים"
"In the beginning, God created…" (Bereishit 1:1).

Creation is at once familiar and elusive, immediate and ineffable. It is the ground of all reality and the arena of human reflection. In approaching the opening verse, we do not merely seek to understand the mechanics of the cosmos, but to grasp the emergence of meaning itself—the profound interplay between limitation and transcendence, structure and freedom, eternity and time.

Creation, as the Torah presents it, is not merely an event in time; it is a process, a rhythm, and a teaching. Each word, each repetition, carries multiple dimensions—cosmic, ethical, relational, and spiritual. The opening verses are simultaneously narrative and meditation, revealing the unfolding of the universe while inviting us to reflect on our own beginnings, our responsibilities, and our potential. They ask us to see not only the world that comes into being, but the being within the world.

In this light, Adam is more than the first human: he is the first covenantal self, aware of being, of responsibility, of choice. The Garden of Eden is not only a physical place but for us also a symbolic space in which the dynamics of freedom, knowledge, and relationality are enacted. Even the presence of Eve, formed from Adam's essence, teaches that human existence is not complete in solitude, and that identity and moral consciousness are realized through connection.

The story that follows—the temptation, the ethical awakening, and ultimately, the exile—reveals the profound paradox of human life: we are called to know, to choose, to act, and to bear the consequences. The text does not offer simple answers; it asks us to enter into a co-creative partnership with the Divine, to navigate the tension between freedom and limitation, and to inhabit a world in which moral and spiritual growth is continuous, never finished.

Our focus, however, lies not in cosmology or the intersection of science and theology, though these questions remain essential. Rather, we direct our gaze toward Adam—toward humanity itself—and perhaps, in due course, toward Chavah as well. The story of creation is not only divine; it is profoundly human. Were Adam to possess a social profile, his status would surely read: "complicated." To understand that complexity, we return to the very first verses:

"In the beginning, God created"—(Bereishit 1:1).

Even here, the beginning is not straightforward. Where does the verse begin? Where does the pause belong—the comma that separates divine eternity from temporal unfolding? The cantillation marks (ta'amim) shape meaning: does the text speak of the beginning as an absolute origin, or of the beginning of God's creating? The difference is not grammatical alone; it is theological. Our reading determines the nature of creation itself.

The Torah's opening words conceal layers of interpretation. What is the relationship between the first and second verses? Are they sequential, parallel, or reflective—one a commentary upon the other? Creation resists the linear logic of human narrative; its timeline is unlike ours. It is for this reason that we begin not with the first verse, but with the divine command:

"וַיֹּאמֶר אֱלֹהִים יְהִי אוֹר וַֽיְהִי־אוֹר"

"And God said: Let there be light" (Bereishit 1:3).

At this moment, language itself becomes creative. The Torah employs two verbs: bara—to create ex nihilo—and amar—to say. Bara denotes creation from nothing, an act that transcends human comprehension; amar introduces articulation—creation through divine speech, the expression of will. In these two words lies the dual mystery of creation: the hidden and the revealed, the silent act of origination and the spoken word that illuminates the world.

The Torah's second verb, yehi—"let there be"—introduces a shift. Previously, creation (beriah) was described through bara, origination from nothingness. Now, with yehi, creation emerges, unfolds, and becomes articulate. It is not mere command; it is divine utterance through which reality takes shape.

Later, the Torah introduces vaya'as—"and God made" (Bereishit 1:16–17). Asiyah connotes formation, the fashioning of that which already exists. If beriah is creation from nothingness, and amar is creation through divine declaration, asiyah is the realization of form within matter. "וַיַּעַשׂ אֱלֹהִים אֶת שְׁנֵי הַמְּאֹרֹת הַגְּדֹלִים"—"And God made the two great lights." The text continues: "וַיִּתֵּן אֹתָם אֱלֹהִים בִּרְקִיעַ הַשָּׁמָיִם"—"And God placed them in the firmament." The act of placing differs—it is arrangement, establishing order and relationship within creation.

Soon the Torah returns to beriah: "וַיִּבְרָא אֱלֹהִים אֶת הַתַּנִּינִם הַגְּדֹלִים"—"And God created the great sea creatures" (Bereishit 1:21). Life, nefesh chayah, demands a higher ontological register. Vitality, consciousness, and motion require not mere formation but renewed beriah. The creation of life cannot be described merely as formation; it is a new beginning.

Then comes vayevarech Elokim—"וַיְבָרֶךְ אֹתָם אֱלֹהִים"—"And God blessed them: be fruitful and multiply" (Bereishit 1:22). The world is endowed with continuity and self-perpetuation. Divine creativity does not end with the initial act—it is embedded within creation itself. Life becomes a partner in creation, bearing within itself the divine spark of perpetual renewal.

Having examined creation as process—beriah (בְּרִיאָה – creation ex nihilo), asiyah (עֲשִׂיָּה – formation), and amirah (אֲמִירָה – divine speech)—we arrive at one of the most enigmatic and theologically charged verses in Bereishit:

"נַֽעֲשֶׂ֥ה אָדָ֛ם בְּצַלְמֵ֖נוּ כִּדְמוּתֵ֑נוּ"
"Let us make man in Our image, in Our likeness" (Bereishit 1:26).

Until this point, creation unfolds through a divine monologue: each element of existence emerges from the singular word of the Creator. But here, for the first time, God speaks in the plural: Na'aseh—"Let us make." The shift is both grammatical and theological, opening a mystery that echoes through human history.

Who is God addressing? The text offers no explicit answer. Rashi, following Bereishit Rabbah, explains that God speaks to the angels, teaching humility: "Though they did not assist in the creation of man, the Holy One consulted with them, so that the greater might learn from the lesser." Yet this midrashic explanation, while morally instructive, does not exhaust the verse's depth.[1]

The Zohar (I:22a) offers a more mystical reading: God speaks to all forces of creation—the celestial and terrestrial, the spiritual and the material. The human being, fashioned in divine image, emerges not ex nihilo but as the culmination and convergence of all that preceded him. Every stratum of existence contributes to his formation. When God says, Na'aseh adam, He addresses the totality of creation, inviting it to participate in its own transcendence. Humanity thus becomes not merely the last creature, but the microcosm of all creation—its consciousness and its conscience.

Within every human being lies a synthesis of the cosmos itself. The dust of the earth and the breath of heaven intertwine. This, perhaps, is why the very name Adam reflects both dimensions. Adam derives from adamah—earth, soil, substance—the physical matrix from which man is formed. Yet Adam is also linked to d'mut—likeness, reflection, as in b'tzalmenu kidmutenu—"in our image, in our likeness." Man is thus defined by paradox: at once earthbound and divine, temporal and eternal.

Ramban (ad loc.) captures this tension: man's body originates from the elements of the world, but his soul emanates directly from God. He is neither angel nor animal, but a synthesis of both—capable of sanctity or degradation, of ascent or descent. When the Torah states, "God created the man" (1:27), it employs once again the verb bara—creation ex nihilo. Life had been asiyah—formed; but humanity requires beriah—a renewal of divine creativity. Man is not merely assembled; he is breathed into existence.

Notably, the verse does not simply say et Adam, but et ha-adam—"the man." Some commentators (Ibn Ezra, Radak) understand this as a reference to the human species, not merely the first individual. Yet as the Torah narrative unfolds, Adam becomes both a proper name and a universal archetype. The ambiguity is intentional. The first man is both one person and every person. Each of us carries within the tension of being ha-adam—the human—an individual expression of collective humanity, and at the same time, a reflection of the Divine Image.

Thus, when God declares, Na'aseh adam, He inaugurates relationship. The plural verb marks the moment in which creation becomes participatory—when existence itself becomes a partner in its own perfection:

)כז) וַיִּבְרָ֨א אֱלֹהִ֤ים׀ אֶת־הָֽאָדָם֙ בְּצַלְמ֔וֹ בְּצֶ֥לֶם אֱלֹהִ֖ים בָּרָ֣א אֹת֑וֹ זָכָ֥ר וּנְקֵבָ֖ה בָּרָ֥א אֹתָֽם:
"And God created man in His image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them" (Bereishit 1:27).

The verse appears repetitive, even redundant—yet within this repetition lies the mystery of human identity. Until now, the divine declaration had been:

"נַעֲשֶׂה אָדָם בְּצַלְמֵנוּ כִּדְמוּתֵנוּ"
"Let us make man in our image, after our likeness" (Bereishit 1:26).

Now the verse proclaims the fulfillment of that word:

"וַיִּבְרָא אֱלֹהִים אֶת־הָאָדָם"
"And God created the man" (Bereishit 1:27).

The act corresponds to the pronouncement, yet the plural Na'aseh resolves into the singular vayivra Elokim—for only God creates. Creation, though participatory in language, is ultimately divine in essence.

Why the repetition?

"בְּצַלְמוֹ, בְּצֶלֶם אֱלֹהִים"
"In His image, in the image of God."

Ramban (ad loc.) teaches that the first phrase refers to the inner form—the spiritual capacity that mirrors the divine intellect—while the second emphasizes the external manifestation: the moral agency by which man acts in the world as God's representative. The image of God is thus both ontological and ethical: man bears the stamp of transcendence and the responsibility of stewardship.

The verse then surprises us:

"זָכָר וּנְקֵבָה בָּרָא אוֹתָם"
"Male and female He created them."

Yet until now, there was only:

"אֹתוֹ"
"Him."

The plural otam (them) introduces duality, suggesting that within the one called Adam there existed both potentials. Bereishit Rabbah (ח:א) records differing traditions: according to one, the first human was created androginos (אַנְדְּרוֹגִינוֹס)—a single being embodying both masculine and feminine aspects; according to another, the feminine was latent, drawn forth only later to become a separate entity. In both readings, the human being begins as unity that divides, only to seek reunion.

This duality hints at the cosmic rhythm of creation itself: every wholeness gives birth to differentiation, and differentiation yearns for harmony. The zakhar u'nekevah (male and female) motif embodies not only biological reality but metaphysical polarity—the tension between giving and receiving, transcendence and immanence, spirit and matter. In the human, these opposites converge and aspire toward integration.

Here, too, a temporal question arises. When God said "Let there be light"—and "there was light"—was the fulfillment instantaneous? Or, as Ramban and the Zohar (I:31b) suggest, did the primordial light (ha-or haganuz) emerge beyond time, hidden until the appointed moment? So too with humanity: between the divine command Na'aseh adam and the realization Vayivra Elokim et ha-adam, there may exist a metaphysical interval, a gestation in which potential becomes actual.

Immediately following, the verse introduces the divine benediction:

"וַיְבָרֶךְ אֹתָם אֱלֹהִים וַיֹּאמֶר לָהֶם אֱלֹהִים פְּרוּ וּרְבוּ וּמִלְאוּ אֶת־הָאָרֶץ וְכִבְשֻׁהָ וּרְדוּ בִּדְגַת הַיָּם וּבְעוֹף הַשָּׁמַיִם וּבְכָל־חַיָּה הָרֹמֶשֶׂת עַל־הָאָרֶץ"
"And God blessed them, and God said to them: Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the heavens, and over every living thing that moves upon the earth" (Bereishit 1:28).

The blessing defines humanity's purpose: not mere survival, but participation in ongoing creation. Man and woman, fashioned from the very elements of the cosmos—the dust of the earth and the breath of heaven—are commanded to master the world, to extend divine creativity into time and history.

The word kivshuha—"subdue it"—has been widely misunderstood. It is not a license for exploitation but a charge of guardianship. Man's dominion is meant to mirror God's—firm yet compassionate, authoritative yet nurturing. True mastery is achieved through knowledge and responsibility, not through force. The divine image confers power, but also moral constraint; dominion must always remain in dialogue with sanctity.

The Torah's account of creation concludes with a gesture of wholeness:

"וּלְכָל־חַיַּת הָאָרֶץ וּלְכָל־עוֹף הַשָּׁמַיִם וּלְכֹל רוֹמֵשׂ עַל־הָאָרֶץ אֲשֶׁר־בּוֹ נֶפֶשׁ חַיָּה אֶת־כָּל־יֶרֶק עֵשֶׂב לְאָכְלָה וַיְהִי־כֵן"
"And to every beast of the earth, and to every bird of the heavens, and to everything that creeps upon the earth in which there is a living soul—I have given every green herb for food. And it was so" (Bereishit 1:30).

Creation, at least in its first articulation, is harmonious: every being is sustained, every creature nourished.

The closing verse of the first chapter:

"וַיַּרְא אֱלֹהִים אֶת־כָּל־אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה וְהִנֵּה־טוֹב מְאֹד"
"And God saw everything that He had made, and behold, it was very good" (Bereishit 1:31).

This suggests completion, yet it simultaneously invites inquiry. What, precisely, has been completed? What is this tov me'od—"very good"—this superlative goodness that transcends the merely good?

With the words "it was evening and it was morning, the sixth day" (Bereishit 1:31), the narrative pauses. The rhythm of creation—erev and boker—ceases, and the text shifts from the dynamic to the contemplative. The second chapter begins not with movement but with cessation:

"וַיִּשְׁבֹּת בַּיּוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי מִכֹּל מְלַאכְתּוֹ אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה"
"And He rested on the seventh day from all His work which He had done" (Bereishit 2:2).

Creation ends not in activity but in rest, not in proliferation of being but in the sanctification of time. This Shabbat introduces a new ontological category—kedushah. Until now, existence was defined by distinction and form; now, the Torah speaks of an inner stillness that transcends differentiation.

The narrative turns inward—from cosmos to human being:

"אֵלֶּה תוֹלְדוֹת הַשָּׁמַיִם וְהָאָרֶץ בְּהִבָּרְאָם בְּיוֹם עֲשׂוֹת ה' אֱלֹהִים אֶרֶץ וְשָׁמָיִם"
"These are the generations of the heavens and the earth when they were created, on the day that the Lord God made earth and heaven" (Bereishit 2:4).

The verse subtly reverses the earlier formulation. What was once:

"בָּרָא אֱלֹהִים אֵת הַשָּׁמַיִם וְאֵת הָאָרֶץ"
"God created the heavens and the earth" (Bereishit 1:1)

is now:

"עֲשׂוֹת ה' אֱלֹהִים אֶרֶץ וְשָׁמָיִם"
"When the Lord God made earth and heaven" (Bereishit 2:4).

Creation and formation are no longer distant acts of cosmic design but intimate expressions of Divine artistry. The introduction of the Tetragrammaton—"ה' אֱלֹהִים" (Hashem Elokim)—signals a synthesis of transcendence and immanence, justice and mercy, the infinite and the particular.

In the first chapter, man is created in the Divine image—b'tzelem Elokim—as a plural being: "זָכָר וּנְקֵבָה בָּרָא אֹתָם" (zakhar u'nekevah bara otam, Bereishit 1:27). The text speaks of "him" and yet of "them," of singularity and duality intertwined. Adam is both individual and species, solitary consciousness and communal potential. The ambiguity is intentional; it reveals the layered nature of humanity.

In the second chapter, the vocabulary changes. The act is no longer beriah—creation ex nihilo—but yetzirah, formation:

"וַיִּיצֶר ה' אֱלֹהִים אֶת הָאָדָם עָפָר מִן הָאֲדָמָה"
"And the Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground" (Bereishit 2:7).

The doubling of the letter yod in vayyitzer led the Sages to discern dual impulses within man: the yetzer hatov (יֵצֶר הַטּוֹב) and the yetzer hara (יֵצֶר הָרַע), the divine and earthly inclinations (Berakhot 61a). Humanity is thus formed from dust but animated by the breath of God—a fusion of matter and spirit, of limitation and transcendence.

Each verb of creation—yehi (יְהִי – "Let there be"), bara (בָּרָא – "created"), asah (עָשָׂה – "made"), yatzar (יָצַר – "formed")—signifies a distinct modality of Divine engagement. The Kabbalistic tradition interprets these as reflections of distinct ontological strata, corresponding to the four worlds: Atzilut (עֲצִילוּת – emanation), Beriah (בְּרִיאָה – creation), Yetzirah (יִצִירָה – formation), and Asiyah (עֲשִׂיָּה – action).

Creation unfolds from the most refined Divine radiance to tangible reality. Atzilut is the world of pure Divine presence, where will and act are indistinguishable. Beriah marks the emergence of otherness. Yetzirah is the world of form. Asiyahthe realm of manifestation.

Thus, when the Torah moves from bara to asah to yatzar, it mirrors this descent—not as a fall, but as incarnation. Creation is the Divine word seeking embodiment. Humanity, situated within this chain, becomes the meeting point of all worlds—a creature of dust bearing the echo of eternity.

The dual narrative of Adam—Adam I and Adam II (cf. R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik, The Lonely Man of Faith)—is not a contradiction but a progression. Adam I represents the cosmic image, humanity as Divine idea; Adam II, humanity as Divine intimacy. Adam I gazes outward, tasked with mastery and dominion; Adam II looks inward, yearning for relationship and meaning. Between them lies the essence of the human condition: reconciling the majesty of being with the humility of dust.

The fourfold language of creation—beriah, asiyah, yetzirah, yehi—reveals not redundancy, but depth. Each term gestures toward a distinct ontological register, a different mode of Divine self-expression. What might appear as poetic variation is, in truth, metaphysical precision: the Torah's lexicon maps the descent of being from ineffable to formed, from Divine intention to embodied existence.

Thus, in verse 7:

"וַיִּיצֶר ה' אֱלֹהִים אֶת הָאָדָם עָפָר מִן הָאֲדָמָה"
"And the Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground" (Bereishit 2:7).

The verse continues:

"וַיִּפַּח בְּאַפָּיו נִשְׁמַת חַיִּים וַיְהִי הָאָדָם לְנֶפֶשׁ חַיָּה"
"And breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living soul."

Onkelos translates nefesh chayah (נֶפֶשׁ חַיָּה – "living soul") as ruach memalela (רוּחַ מְמַלֶּלֶת – "speaking spirit")—a being endowed with speech, the Divine act par excellence. When man speaks, he partakes in miniature in the same creative dynamic.

The narrative then moves decisively:

"וַיִּטַע ה' אֱלֹהִים גַּן בְּעֵדֶן מִקֶּדֶם וַיָּשֶׂם שָׁם אֶת הָאָדָם אֲשֶׁר יָצָר"
"And the Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and placed there the man whom He had formed" (Bereishit 2:8).

Humanity is not native to Eden; the first man comes from raw soil, then is transplanted into sacred space. Placement introduces a motif that reverberates throughout Scripture: man as one who is taken and placed—

"וַיִּקַּח ה' אֱלֹהִים אֶת הָאָדָם וַיַּנִּחֵהוּ בְּגַן עֵדֶן"
"And the Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden" (Bereishit 2:15).

The verb vayanichehu evokes both rest and responsibility; man is not a passive inhabitant but an appointed guardian.

God planted a garden eastward in Eden, and there He placed the man whom He had formed—this hybrid being composed of physical matter yet animated by the Divine breath within. Man is not native to Eden. He originates elsewhere, transplanted into sacred space. The narrative introduces a motif that reverberates throughout Scripture: humanity as displaced, taken from one realm and positioned within another. This is the original Beverly Hillbillies—taking someone with no natural place in the Garden of Eden and placing him in paradise. Adam arrives as outsider, the archetypal stranger in sacred space.

Only one being can claim Eden as birthplace: Eve. Her origin distinguishes her fundamentally from Adam. Where he arrives as outsider, she emerges as indigenous inhabitant. This asymmetry invites profound halakhic reflection: Why do men require certain mitzvot from which women are exempt? Perhaps because she is native to holiness itself, while he must be brought there and taught to sustain his presence through commandment and vigilance.

Adam is granted both privilege and responsibility. God took the man and placed him in Eden to work it and to guard it (2:15). The Garden represents utopia, yet Adam's presence there is conditional, defined by service and vigilance.

The commandment follows: "מִכֹּל עֵץ הַגָּן אָכֹל תֹּאכֵל"—From every tree of the Garden you may freely eat (2:16). This includes the Tree of Life. "וּמֵעֵץ הַדַּעַת טוֹב וָרָע לֹא תֹאכַל מִמֶּנּוּ כִּי בְּיוֹם אֲכָלְךָ מִמֶּנּוּ מוֹת תָּמוּת"—But from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, you shall not eat, for on the day you eat from it, you shall surely die.

Then: "לֹא טוֹב הֱיוֹת הָאָדָם לְבַדּוֹ אֶעֱשֶׂה לּוֹ עֵזֶר כְּנֶגְדּוֹ"—It is not good for man to be alone; I shall make him a helper opposite him (2:18).

God caused a deep sleep to fall upon the man, and He took one of his ribs and closed the flesh beneath it (2:21). "וַיִּבֶן ה' אֱלֹהִים אֶת הַצֵּלָע אֲשֶׁר לָקַח מִן הָאָדָם לְאִשָּׁה"—And the Lord God built the rib He had taken from the man into a woman (2:22).

The verb vayyiven—"built"—constitutes perhaps the most architectural description of creation in all of Scripture. This is not mere formation but construction, the fashioning of structure and dwelling.

Adam responds: "זֹאת הַפַּעַם עֶצֶם מֵעֲצָמַי וּבָשָׂר מִבְּשָׂרִי לְזֹאת יִקָּרֵא אִשָּׁה כִּי מֵאִישׁ לֻקֳחָה זֹּאת"—This time, bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called Woman, for from Man was she taken (2:23).

The text generates profound interpretive tension. In the first chapter, we encounter "Let us make man in our image." Then, "God created man." In the second chapter: "God formed." Additionally: "He breathed into his nostrils." The result: "Man became a living soul."

Before we even arrive at Eve's creation, multiple modalities describe humanity's emergence: making, creating, forming, breathing, becoming. This multiplicity does not confuse—it intrigues. Each verb unveils a distinct ontological stratum, a different dimension of what it means to be human.

Only one creature is truly of Eden—woman, formed later but arising within Eden itself. She is not placed; she emerges. Man arrives; woman arises. Their origins symbolize complementary dimensions: the earthy and the ethereal, the transient and the rooted. Male and female reflect polarity: the male soul, rising from below to above, seeks elevation through mitzvah; the female soul, descending from above to below, embodies presence and wholeness. When these two meet, Eden becomes a theater of encounter, of union and exile, of promise and loss.

The serpent (nachash), upon entering the story, functions as catalyst. Before its transgression, it is capable of communication and thought; its fall mirrors humanity's own. Punishment—"upon your belly you shall go"—reflects the loss of verticality, the forfeiture of transcendence. Humanity's potential for speech and consciousness can collapse into mere instinct and appetite.

Thus, the early chapters of Bereishit are not primitive myth but profound anthropology. They describe eternal aspects of the self: earthly and heavenly, placed and native, speaker and silent dust. Eden is not merely a historical place—it is the Divine possibility within the present, the meeting point of breath and clay, of aspiration and return.

The narrative now returns to the formed man within Eden, to the garden itself and its flora:

"וַיַּצְמַח ה' מִן הָאֲדָמָה כָּל עֵץ נֶחְמָד לְמַרְאֶה וְטוֹב לְמַאֲכָל"
"And the Lord caused to grow from the ground every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food" (Bereishit 2:9).

Trees spring from the ground, beautiful to behold and good for sustenance. The Torah's language echoes the creation of Adam himself: just as humanity arose from the dust, so too does the cultivated world arise from the earth. The garden is simultaneously source and reflection—a microcosm of creation, where the fertility of the soil mirrors the potential of the human being.

Among these trees, one is singled out: the Eitz HaChayim, the Tree of Life. Its singularity within abundance signals not only nourishment but a spiritual axis—life itself anchored within sacred reality. A second tree is mentioned almost parenthetically: v'eitz hada'at tov v'ra. Its description is laconic, yet its significance will dominate the unfolding narrative. Between these trees, between the overt and the concealed, flow the waters of Eden: v'nahar yotzei me'Eden l'hashkot et hagan. Life streams forth, nourishing the cosmos in miniature.

Into this ordered, abundant world, God places Adam: "וַיִּקַּח ה' אֱלֹהִים אֶת הָאָדָם וַיַּנִּחֵהוּ בְגַן עֵדֶן לְעָבְדָהּ וּלְשָׁמְרָהּ" (Bereishit 2:15). Man is at once privileged and tasked. Though surrounded by abundance, he is a watchman—a guardian. Placement within paradise does not abolish responsibility; rather, it defines it. Eden is not a realm of passive pleasure but a domain of stewardship, where privilege and duty are inseparable.

The Torah emphasizes the duality of mandate: "מִכֹּל עֵץ הַגָּן אָכֹל תֹּאכֵל וּמֵעֵץ הַדַּעַת טוֹב וָרָע לֹא תֹאכַל מִמֶּנּוּ כִּי בְּיוֹם אֲכָלְךָ מִמֶּנּוּ מוֹת תָּמוּת" (Bereishit 2:16–17). Adam is granted freedom and sustenance; one tree alone is forbidden. The prohibition is not mere restriction but invitation: to discern, to exercise judgment, to confront moral choice. Autonomy is bounded by limits; life is ordered but contingent upon obedience. This tension between freedom and restriction constitutes the foundation of human ethics.

Yet even this sufficiency proves incomplete: "לֹא טוֹב הֱיוֹת הָאָדָם לְבַדּוֹ אֶעֱשֶׂה לּוֹ עֵזֶר כְּנֶגְדּוֹ" (Bereishit 2:18). Solitude is inadequate; the human being requires complementarity. The text introduces relationality as an ontological necessity. Creation, though complete in forms and provisions, is relationally deficient without the other. This introduces a pattern that resonates throughout the Torah: the interplay between independence and interdependence, selfhood and otherness.

God then orchestrates the transition from solitude to union through the deep sleep: "וַיַּפֵּל ה' אֱלֹהִים תַּרְדֵּמָה עַל הָאָדָם וַיִּישָׁן" (Bereishit 2:21). From this repose, God forms woman: "וַיִּקַּח אַחַת מִצַּלְעֹתָיו וַיִּסְגֹּר בָּשָׂר תַּחְתֶּנָּה וַיִּבֶן אֹתָהּ לְאִשָּׁה" (ibid.). The verb vayyiven recalls bara from the first chapter, signaling that even in the formation of the second human, the act is imbued with divine creativity. Woman is drawn from man, yet the process elevates her origin: she emerges from relational union, underscoring the interplay between independence and interconnection inherent in human nature.

This act introduces a profound paradox: the being formed from Adam is simultaneously continuous with him and distinct. She is neither Adam's possession nor mere extension but an autonomous reflection of his being. The narrative encodes the dynamic of relationship: unity emerging from differentiation, interdependence arising from individuality. Humanity is realized only in encounter—with God, with the other, and ultimately, with creation itself.

Through these early chapters, Eden is not merely a geographical locale but a symbolic domain: a site of abundance, ethical formation, relational encounter, and the manifestation of Divine breath within finite form. Adam, placed yet responsible, solitary yet relationally incomplete, embodies the human condition—a being of dust animated by spirit, called to participate in ongoing creation while navigating freedom, limitation, and relational responsibility.

God then builds from Adam what is called ha-tzela, the rib:

)כב) וַיִּבֶן ה' אֱלֹהִים אֶת הַצֵּלָע אֲשֶׁר לָקַח מִן הָאָדָם לְאִשָּׁה וַיְבִאֶהָ אֶל הָאָדָם (כג) וַיֹּאמֶר הָאָדָם זֹאת הַפַּעַם עֶצֶם מֵעֲצָמַי וּבָשָׂר מִבְּשָׂרִי לְזֹאת יִקָּרֵא אִשָּׁה כִּי מֵאִישׁ לֻקֳחָה זֹּאת"
"And the Lord God built the rib that He had taken from the man into a woman, and He brought her to the man. And the man said, 'This time, it is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called Woman (Ishah), for from man (Ish) she was taken'" (Bereishit 2:22–23).

This moment is perhaps the most intimate, concentrated description of human formation within the Torah. Creation and formation converge: the Divine hand removes and constructs, extracts and elevates. The human being, already complex and hybrid, is now relationally configured—the first instance of complementarity, the first manifestation of relational ontology.

The narrative repeats and amplifies, deepening layers of meaning. Adam is at once na'aseh (נַעֲשֶׂה – "Let us make"), nivra (נִבְרָא – "was created"), yitzer (יִצֵּר – "He formed"), and recipient of nishmat chayim (נִשְׁמַת חַיִּים – "the breath of life"). He is made in the image of God (b'tzalmenu – בְּצַלְמֵנוּ – "in Our image"), yet also formed from dust, animated by Divine breath, becoming a living soul (nefesh chayah – נֶפֶשׁ חַיָּה – "a living being").

Each verb—na'aseh, nivra, yitzer, v'yipach (וַיִּפַּח – "He breathed")—contributes a distinct dimension: the pronouncement of creation, the act of formation, the infusion of spirit. Each invites reflection: If man sins, which aspects of this multi-layered formation are affected? Does he forfeit his nefesh chayah, or merely his moral innocence? Does the Divine image remain intact even as actions deviate from intention? The text, in its layered syntax, anticipates these ethical and ontological dilemmas, embedding potentiality and responsibility within the very act of being.

The creation of Eve from Adam's rib extends this reflection into relational metaphysics. She is drawn from his essence yet configured as an autonomous being. Here, creation is relational, not merely material. Identity and complementarity arise simultaneously; solitude is resolved not through duplication but through interdependent formation. Woman's emergence illuminates a principle fundamental to human existence: relationality is constitutive, not incidental, to the soul's integrity.

Even before Eve is introduced, the text presents a dense layering of human formation: na'aseh (נַעֲשֶׂה – "Let us make"), nivra (נִבְרָא – "was created"), yitzer (יִצֵּר – "He formed"), v'yipach (וַיִּפַּח – "He breathed")—each verb signaling facets of humanity susceptible to moral disruption. The consequence of sin is thus not merely corporeal decay—the return to dust—but disturbance in the relational, ethical, and spiritual harmonics constituting human being. Death remains both eventual and emblematic: the temporal horizon of human limitation, while each creative act retains its distinct ontological signature.

As the narrative moves into the third chapter, complexity intensifies. The serpent emerges, subtle and cunning, yet embedded within creation's natural order. The text signals that moral agency, temptation, and the consequences of choice are intrinsic to both the human and cosmic order. Adam's placement, Eve's emergence, and the serpent's presence form a triad in which freedom, responsibility, and relationality converge. The garden becomes more than habitat: it is arena, pedagogy, and symbolic theater, wherein humanity encounters its potentiality, vulnerability, and ethical calling.

Returning to the creation of man, we note a profound shift in Divine nomenclature. Unlike the first chapter, where we read "בְּצֶלֶם אֱלֹהִים בָּרָא אֹתוֹ," here the text unites Hashem and Elokim:

וַיִּיצֶר ה' אֱלֹהִים אֶת הָאָדָם עָפָר מִן הָאֲדָמָה וַיִּפַּח בְּאַפָּיו נִשְׁמַת חַיִּים וַיְהִי הָאָדָם לְנֶפֶשׁ חַיָּה
"And the Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground, and He breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being" (Bereishit 2:7).

This synthesis signals not stylistic variation but a revelation of essence: Hashem evokes middat ha-rachamim—compassion, expansive creative will; Elokim denotes middat ha-din—precision, limitation, and boundary (cf. Bereishit Rabbah 12:15; Ramban 2:7). Humanity, formed in this conjunction, mirrors Divine polarity: justice and mercy, limitation and transcendence.

The initial phrase "Let us make man in our image" gains further depth in midrashic interpretation. Bereishit Rabbah (8:3) and Rashi explain that God consults the angels: "Though they did not assist in the creation of man, the Holy One consulted with them, so that the greater might learn from the lesser." Each angel embodies a singular Divine attribute—Michael, compassion (chesed); Gabriel, judgment (gevurah); Raphael, healing—unidimensional, incapable of contradiction. Man, by contrast, is a synthesis of these forces. Humanity contains multiplicity, capable of embodying contradiction: compassion and judgment, love and discipline, holiness and transgression.

Thus, man is paradoxically like the angels, yet unlike them. Angels act without choice; humans choose, err, and repent. The plural form Elohim expresses this potentiality: it is not a plurality of beings but a plurality of capacities harmonized within a single source. To be created b'tzelem Elohim is to hold within oneself the convergence of opposing forces, the arena where Divine attributes find expression in finite form. Moral life, then, unfolds within the tension of multiplicity, where each person must integrate the attributes of heaven within human limitation.

When humanity is expelled from Eden, two keruvim guard the way (Bereishit 3:24). Angels replace man, reminding us that man was never meant to be an angel. Angels act; they do not choose. Their mission is singular; once completed, their existence is bound to function. Humanity, in contrast, contains all potentials. The Midrashic consultation with angels signals that man will reflect the totality of creation and all Divine attributes without being reducible to any one of them.

Indeed, God's declaration "Let us make man" may also address the totality of creation itself. Before angels appear in the narrative, God may be speaking to the universe: to heavens, earth, and all living forces. Humanity emerges as the culmination of prior forms—the convergence of vitality, stability, and energy. On the literal level, creation itself collaborates to yield its ultimate form; on the spiritual level, God's singular creative act encompasses multiplicity. The Torah's language collapses realms—physical and metaphysical, cosmic and intimate—into a single, profound utterance.

To understand why the first chapter uses the Name Elokim exclusively, and not the Tetragrammaton (YHVH), we may first frame our hermeneutical approach. This essay reads Genesis through a multi-layered methodology: 

peshat (literal), remez (thematic/structural), derash (homiletic), and sod (mystical).

Each layer illuminates different aspects of creation, humanity, and ethics, while the synthesis of these approaches allows a richer understanding of human responsibility and the divine-human partnership.

Rashi's classic formulation explains that God initially intended to create the world with middat ha-din, strict justice, but saw that it could not endure; He therefore combined it with middat ha-rachamim (Rashi, Bereishit 1:1; cf. Bereishit Rabbah 12:15). Conceptually, Elokim represents not merely judgment but structure—the introduction of boundaries, temporality, and causality. In contrast, YHVH denotes transcendence, being beyond time—haya, hoveh, v'yihyeh—simultaneously. To say that YHVH "creates" would be paradoxical, for creation presupposes time, and time itself begins with creation. Thus, "Bereishit bara Elokim" describes the moment when the Eternal contracts the infinite into finitude, creating not only the cosmos but the very instrument of measurement: time.

Some classical sources suggest that "Bereishit bara Elokim" may be read as "In the beginning, the Eternal One brought forth the aspect of Elokim." That is, God first generated the quality of restraint, the principle by which a universe could exist at all. Before creation, there was no judgment—no time, no other, no differentiation between good and evil. There was only Divine oneness. Kabbalistic thought later describes this transition as yesh me'ayin—something from nothing—but not all "nothing" is created equal. The ayin that precedes creation is not emptiness; it is the concealed fullness of the Infinite. In theological terms, this addresses the profound question: how does Ein Sof, the infinite, produce finitude?

Here we observe an intriguing convergence—and divergence—between science and theology. Modern physics, tracing reality to the Big Bang, acknowledges that something emerged from an apparent void but cannot define "before" that emergence. The irony is profound: while rejecting Christianity's virgin birth—because one cannot have effect without cause—modern science proposes that the entire universe emerged spontaneously from nothing. They reject the notion that one woman could conceive without a cause, yet accept that the cosmos itself required no cause. In dismissing theological myth, science has constructed its own: the virgin birth writ cosmically large. Theology, in contrast, situates creation in meaning rather than chronology. Judaism has never been bound by literalism; every verse is layered, multivalent, and interpretive. Our reading of Genesis is therefore dynamic: creation is a process, not a fixed instant, and time itself is part of the unfolding act.

Ramban, centuries ago, cautioned that the verses of creation conceal more than they reveal. "Ma'aseh Bereishit," he writes, is a secret not comprehensible solely through words. Literal readings are approximations; the Torah uses language of concealment to gesture toward profound truths (Ramban, Bereishit 1:1–2). In this light, Adam is not the first biological hominid but the first being aware of being—the first covenantal self, moral consciousness embodied.

The narrative's ethical and pedagogical dimensions emerge vividly in the story of the serpent. Rashi notes that Adam and Chava are described as arumim—naked, unguarded, innocent—before temptation (Bereishit 3:1). The serpent perceives this state and awakens desire, initiating the human encounter with the yetzer hara. His question—"Did God indeed say you may not eat from every tree of the garden?"—is partially true, yet deliberately framed to provoke dissatisfaction. Desire is drawn to the forbidden; restriction shapes ethical awareness. Chava's misidentification of the forbidden tree reflects a confusion that may itself constitute part of the fall—a blurring of moral categories that were once distinct. The serpent's claim, "You will not surely die," is technically accurate in temporal terms, yet intention distorts truth, highlighting the ethical tension inherent in human freedom. When humanity eats, knowledge of good and evil emerges (yodea tov v'ra), but without moral grounding, this capacity leads to exile.

The text then presents a profound pedagogical message: the human being is not fixed like the angels. Angels act without choice; humans embody multiplicity, moral responsibility, and the capacity to err and repent. Man's duality—being both capable of judgment and mercy, creation and destruction—reflects Hashem Elokim, the synthesis of infinite and finite. The divine-human relationship is therefore an ongoing dialogue: "Na'aseh adam b'tzalmenu kidmutenu"—let us make man in our image, after our likeness. The Vilna Gaon reads this as God speaking to man: creation is not a completed act but an invitation. Humanity participates in its own becoming.[2]

Herein lies the pedagogical implication: co-creation is a model for ethical and spiritual development. Every moral choice, act of compassion, and moment of self-restraint participates in the divine-human partnership. The "divine spark" (nitzotz Eloki) within each person renders moral cultivation a form of sacred collaboration. Ethical and spiritual growth is therefore not imposed externally but co-authored, mirroring the original creation in Eden. Humanity's responsibility is not merely to cultivate the world but to cultivate itself, shaping the moral, relational, and spiritual contours of its existence.

The exile from Eden, with the keruvim guarding the tree of life, underscores that moral consciousness cannot dwell in innocence alone; the human soul must navigate ambiguity, integrating knowledge and action. Man's ongoing task is to reconcile multiplicity within himself, harmonizing justice and mercy, temporal limitation and eternal aspiration. Each day, each choice, is an enactment of Na'aseh adam: God invites humanity to participate in its own formation and ethical actualization.

Thus, the story of Eden is not a tale of past exile but a paradigm for ongoing dialogue between Creator and creation. It frames human life as co-creative, ethically charged, and spiritually profound. As we return each year to Parashat Bereishit, the echoes of the festival season still lingering, we are reminded: creation is not complete. To be human is to stand at the threshold between dust and divinity, forever answering the invitation—Na'aseh adam—let us make man.

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[1] Bereishit Rabbah 21:5:

Rabbi Pappus expounded: "Behold, the man has become like one of us" (Bereishit 3:22) — like one of the ministering angels. Rabbi Akiva said to him: "Enough, Pappus!" He replied, "Then how do you interpret the verse: 'Behold, the man has become like one of us'?" Rabbi Akiva answered: "The Holy One, Blessed be He, placed before him two paths — the path of life and the path of death — and he chose a different path." Rabbi Yehudah bar Simon said: "Like the Unique One of the world," as it is said: 'Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One' (Devarim 6:4). The Rabbis said: "Like Gabriel," as it is said: 'And behold, a man clothed in linen' (Daniel 10:5) — like a locust whose garment is part of himself. Reish Lakish said: "Like Jonah — just as Jonah fled from the mission of the Omnipresent, as it is said: 'And Jonah rose to flee to Tarshish from before the Lord' (Yonah 1:3), so too did this one flee from fulfilling the command of the Omnipresent. Just as Jonah did not retain his honor, so too this one did not retain his honor with him." Rabbi Berechiah in the name of Rabbi Chanina said: "Like Elijah — just as Elijah did not taste the taste of death, so too this one was not meant to taste the taste of death." This follows the opinion of Rabbi Berechiah in the name of Rabbi Chanin, who said: "As long as Adam was 'as one,' he was not subject to death. But once his side was taken from him, he came to know good and evil."

בראשית רבה, פרשה כ"א:ה'
דָּרַשׁ רַבִּי פַּפּוּס הֵן הָאָדָם הָיָה כְּאַחַד מִמֶּנּוּ, כְּאֶחָד מִמַּלְאֲכֵי הַשָּׁרֵת, אָמַר לֵיהּ רַבִּי עֲקִיבָא דַּיְּךָ פַּפּוּס, אָמַר לוֹ מָה אַתָּה מְקַיֵּם הֵן הָאָדָם הָיָה כְּאַחַד מִמֶּנּוּ, אָמַר לוֹ שֶׁנָּתַן לוֹ הַמָּקוֹם לְפָנָיו שְׁנֵי דְרָכִים, דֶּרֶךְ הַחַיִּים וְדֶרֶךְ הַמָּוֶת, וּבֵרַר לוֹ דֶּרֶךְ אַחֶרֶת. רַבִּי יְהוּדָה בַּר סִימוֹן אָמַר כִּיחִידוֹ שֶׁל עוֹלָם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר (דברים ו, ד): שְׁמַע יִשְׂרָאֵל ה' אֱלֹהֵינוּ ה' אֶחָד. רַבָּנָן אָמְרֵי כְּגַבְרִיאֵל, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר (דניאל י, ה): וְהִנֵּה אִישׁ אֶחָד לָבוּשׁ בַּדִּים, כְּהָדֵין קַמְצָא דִּלְבוּשֵׁיהּ מִינֵיהּ וּבֵיהּ. רֵישׁ לָקִישׁ אָמַר כְּיוֹנָה, מַה זֶּה בּוֹרֵחַ מִשְׁלִיחוּתוֹ שֶׁל מָקוֹם, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר (יונה א, ג): וַיָּקָם יוֹנָה לִבְרֹחַ תַּרְשִׁישָׁה מִלִּפְנֵי ה', אַף זֶה בּוֹרֵחַ מִלְּקַיֵּים צִוּוּי הַמָּקוֹם. מַה זֶּה לֹא לָן בִּכְבוֹדוֹ, אַף זֶה לֹא לָן כְּבוֹדוֹ עִמּוֹ. רַבִּי בֶּרֶכְיָה בְּשֵׁם רַבִּי חֲנִינָא אָמַר כְּאֵלִיָּהוּ, מַה זֶּה לֹא טָעַם טַעַם מָוֶת, אַף זֶה לֹא הָיָה רָאוּי לִטְעֹם טַעַם מָוֶת, הִיא דַעְתֵּיהּ דְּרַבִּי בֶּרֶכְיָה בְּשֵׁם רַבִּי חָנִין, דְּאָמַר כָּל זְמַן שֶׁהָיָה אָדָם הָיָה כְּאֶחָד, וְכֵיוָן שֶׁנִּטְלָה מִמֶּנּוּ צַלְעָתוֹ, לָדַעַת טוֹב וָרָע.

[2] Vilna Gaon’s commentary on Tikkunei Zohar, Tikkun 53 (תיקון נ"ג):

 ‘Let us make man’—I and you, that you should join Me at the moment of union (zivug), for ‘unless the Lord…’ [the verse is incomplete, but likely refers to Psalms 127:1: ‘Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain’].

ביאור הגר״א על תיקוני הזוהר – תיקון נ״ג
נַעֲשֶׂה אָדָם – אֲנִי וְאַתֶּם, שֶׁתְּצַרְפוּנִי בִּשְׁעַת הַזִּוּוּג, דְּאִם ה׳ לֹא כו'.