When Ten is more than just a number

The fifth chapter of Pirkei Avot, the mishnaic tractate that deals with mussar and middot, curiously opens with a mishnah that tells how the world was created with ten statements. But maybe there's a hidden message for us. Jeremy Phillips speculates.

The mishnah at Avot 5:1 links the divine notion creation of the world to the very human idea of being accountable for what we do, for good or ill:

The world was created with ten utterances. What does this come to teach us? It could have been created with a single utterance. However, this is in order to make the wicked accountable for destroying a world that was created with ten utterances, and to reward the righteous for sustaining a world that was created with ten utterances.

Many commentaries on this mishnah, including the Rambam, the Bartenura and the Machzor Vitry, recite that, in the Torah’s account of the Creation, nine acts of divine creativity are preceded by the utterance “And the Lord said…” Added to this is the first word in the Torah, “Bereshit” (“In the beginning”), which also constitutes an utterance, making up the full complement of ten.

Here’s a fresh explanation, one that does not have the support of tradition but which does offer some further meaning to this Mishnah. There is a verse in Yeshayah 51:16 that reads as follows:

And I have put My words into your mouth and have covered you in the shadow of My hand, so that I may plant the Heavens, and lay the foundations of the Earth, and say unto Zion: “You are My people.”

The Hebrew word for “My words” in this verse is דברי (divarai). If you insert a space between the letter י (the yud) of דברי and the rest of the word, you change the meaning. This is because the yud represents the numerical value 10. You now have דבר י (devar yud, “a matter of 10”). Revisiting our verse, we can now learn it as:

And I have put a “matter of 10” into your mouth and have covered you in the shadow of My hand, so that I may plant the Heavens, and lay the foundations of the Earth, and say unto Zion: “You are My people.”

The number 10 is rich with Jewish symbolism, and one of the things it alludes to is the Ten Commandments, the quintessence of the Torah and the acceptance of which can be said to perfect the creation of humankind. The idea of linking the ten utterances of Creation with the Ten Commandments is not new: it is found in the Zohar and has influenced Torah commentators ever since—including the late Lubavitcher Rebbe, who maintained that the Ten Commandments were implicit in the ten utterances.

Armed with this verse, we can return to our mishnah and postulate that, when its anonymous author is alluding to the creation of the  world, he adopts the Maharsl’s concept of the olam katan, the “small world” which is every human, in other words every one of us.

In this context the mishnah appears to envision an individual who is initially incomplete but is created in his final form through the “matter of 10,” the Ten Commandments that God uttered on Mount Sinai. With the ultimate perfection of man comes the conclusion of the Creation which began with the Heavens and the Earth—mentioned here in our verse from Yeshayah and also in the very first verse of the Torah itself. When a person destroys another human being, who has been “created” through acceptance of the Ten Commandments, his punishment is in proportion to his having broken the link between his victim and all ten of them.  Conversely, someone who saves another is taken to have affirmed all ten and his reward is commensurate with this.

Beginning Again with Responsibility

The first Shabbat of a new Torah cycle arrives with a familiar question: What will remain of the inspiration of the Chagim when ordinary life resumes? Rabbi Paul Bloom poses this question and offers some practical suggestions.

We have prayed, asked forgiveness, sat in the sukkah, and celebrated with the Torah. Now we open Bereishit again. Its account of creation offers a practical direction for the year ahead. The world belongs to Hashem, and our place within it carries responsibility. We are asked to care for what we receive, take ownership of our choices, and attend to the welfare of other people.

For those of us at Beit Knesset Hanassi in Jerusalem, the opening of the Torah has a particular resonance. Rashi, citing Rabbi Yitzchak, asks why the Torah begins with creation rather than the first commandment given to Israel as a nation. His answer concerns Eretz Yisrael: creation establishes the Creator’s authority over the earth and the foundation of Israel’s claim to the land He gives us. Before Avraham’s journey or the revelation at Sinai, the Torah’s opening already provides that foundation.

Rashi’s explanation can renew our gratitude for the privilege of living here. Jerusalem easily becomes the setting for ordinary errands, appointments, delays, and frustrations. Yet familiarity need not erase wonder. We walk streets toward which generations turned in prayer. We learn Torah and build Jewish homes in a place our ancestors longed to reach. The practical question I draw from Rashi is how our conduct should reflect gratitude for that gift. What kind of neighbors, family members, and fellow Jews will we be here?

The second chapter of Bereishit gives human responsibility a concrete setting. Hashem places Adam in Gan Eden “לְעָבְדָהּ וּלְשָׁמְרָהּ,” to cultivate it and guard it (Bereishit 2:15). Even the garden requires care. Abundance does not remove obligation; receiving something valuable creates a reason to protect and nourish it. The same insight applies to a home, a marriage, a community, or a commitment to Torah learning. Each needs effort that helps it grow and attention that protects it from harm.

A shul, for example, requires more than a building and a schedule of minyanim. Its human atmosphere also needs cultivation. A person entering for the first time may know how to daven and still feel uncertain about where to sit or whom to approach. A greeting, an introduction, or an invitation can turn attendance into belonging. Similarly, an older member’s absence may call for a phone call. These actions are modest, but they give substance to communal responsibility.

The Torah’s teaching that the human being is created “בְּצֶלֶם אֱלֹהִים,” in the image of God (Bereishit 1:27), deepens that responsibility. A person’s dignity precedes our judgment of their usefulness, ability, or agreement with us. This is most difficult to remember when we are frustrated. We see the clerk who cannot solve our problem, the person taking too long, or the relative whose opinion irritates us. Tzelem Elokim asks us to recover our awareness of the person before us, even while addressing a real difficulty. This matters especially in a community whose members bring different languages and experiences. Someone struggling to express a thought in Hebrew may need patience rather than correction. Someone unfamiliar with Israeli life may need an explanation that others take for granted. And within our own homes, people who know us best still need the courtesy and attention we readily give strangers. The opening of Bereishit challenges us to make human dignity visible in our everyday speech.

The parshah then confronts failure. Adam and Chavah eat from the tree and hide. Hashem asks Adam “אַיֶּכָּה,” where are you (Bereishit 3:9)? Within the narrative, Adam has hidden among the trees. In our own spiritual lives, we can hear the question as an invitation to examine where we stand. What have we avoided acknowledging? Which commitment needs renewed attention? Where has an explanation become a way of escaping responsibility?

Adam points to the woman given to him; Chavah points to the serpent. Each identifies an influence on the decision, yet each also directs attention away from personal choice (Bereishit 3:12–13). We know this habit. We spoke harshly because we were provoked, failed to call because nobody called us, or abandoned a commitment because circumstances became difficult. Those circumstances may be real. The remaining question is what action belongs to us now. An honest apology or a realistic renewed commitment can begin repair without pretending that life is simple.

Kayin’s answer after killing Hevel exposes a further refusal: “הֲשֹׁמֵר אָחִי אָנֹכִי,” am I my brother’s keeper (Bereishit 4:9)? Beyond its terrible immediate context, the question warns against declaring another person’s welfare outside our concern. In communal life that temptation often appears as the assumption that somebody else will notice. A respectful offer of help interrupts it. We need not take over another person’s choices to ask whether a ride, a visit, or a listening ear would be welcome.

Those who have made Aliyah can express this care through honest companionship for people considering their future. We can describe the blessings of life here while taking concerns about livelihood, children, Hebrew, and family seriously. A thoughtful conversation begins by listening. Trust grows when encouragement makes room for the actual circumstances of the person before us.

Bereishit also leaves room for hope. Before Kayin’s crime, Hashem warns him of the danger and tells him that he can rule over it (Bereishit 4:7). Rashi explains that overcoming the inclination remains possible if he chooses. [9] The next destructive response is not inevitable. For us, too, a familiar pattern can be interrupted: a sharp remark left unsaid, a neglected call finally made, or a concern heard with greater patience.

The coming week gives us a manageable place to begin. We can choose something to cultivate, something to guard, and someone whose welfare to notice. A modest commitment, fulfilled consistently, can carry the inspiration of the Chagim into ordinary days. As we open the Torah again in Jerusalem, may our gratitude for being here deepen our willingness to care for the lives entrusted to us.

The Power to See Good (Bereishit 5787)

This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first published in Hanassi Highlights on 8 October 2026. Thanks to ChatGPT you can also read it in Hebrew here.

Can we create something simply by looking at it? At first glance, the question seems absurd. Creation requires imagination, effort and action. Surely merely observing something cannot be considered an act of creation?

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks suggests that this may be one of the profound lessons contained in the opening chapter of the Torah. Every year, as we begin reading Bereishit anew, we encounter the majestic account of the Creation of the world. But the Torah is not a textbook of cosmology. Its purpose is not simply to explain how the universe came into existence, but to teach us how we are supposed to live within it. The account of creation, therefore, is not just a description of what happened, but a moral guide as to how we are to become creators.

Repeatedly, in the opening verses of the Torah, we encounter three distinct stages:

·         Vayomer Elokim - “And God said…”

·         Vayehi - “And it was…”

·         Vayar Elokim ki tov - “And God saw that it was good.”

Each stage, suggests Rabbi Sacks, contains a lesson about our own capacity to create.

The first is the power of imagination. Before anything can change, we must be able to envision something different. Every meaningful achievement begins with an idea, with the recognition that the world as it is need not be the world as it could be. The second is the power of action. Ideas alone accomplish very little. It takes determination, commitment and hard work to translate our aspirations into reality. We must move from “let there be” to “and there was.”

But what about the third stage? Why does the Torah repeatedly emphasize that God saw that His creation was good? What does seeing add to the creative process? Perhaps this is the most important lesson of all. Rabbi Sacks described how, in his visits to prisons and institutions for young offenders, he encountered people with enormous unrealized potential. Often, what they lacked was not ability or ambition, but a basic sense of their own worth. Nobody had ever helped them recognise the goodness within themselves. And this is where seeing becomes an act of creation.

When we recognise the good in another person, when we acknowledge their strengths, encourage their efforts and help them appreciate their own potential, we can bring something new into existence. Sometimes, a kind word or a sincere expression of appreciation can change the course of someone’s life. The Torah teaches that we are created b’tzelem Elokim, in the image of God. We too are called upon to be creators – not only through our ideas and actions, but through the way we see the people around us. Sometimes, the greatest thing we can create is the confidence in another person to discover what they are capable of becoming.

Shabbat Shalom!

Bereishit and the forbidden fruit -- a misdirection?

Taking a fresh and imaginative look at one of our most familiar parshiyot, Rabbi Steven Ettinger wonders what might have happened if Adam and his helpmeet had engaged a good defense lawyer--and whether the real offense was not the eating of the forbidden fruit but something arguably more important -- with a message for us to learn.

The sequence of events when Hashem creates Adam, as recounted in Bereishit, Chapter 2, is perplexing:

1. He creates and animates man (forming clay and then infusing it with Divine spirit – interpreted as giving man and only man the power of speech);

2. He plants Gan Eden and places Adam there;

3. The plants (trees) sprout, including the Trees of Knowledge and Life;

4. Main rivers flow from Eden to irrigate Gan Eden and the civilized world;

5. Hashem “takes” Adam and “places” him in Gan Eden to work and protect it; 

6.  He commands Adam that he may eat from all trees except the Tree of Knowledge and warns that—if he eats from that tree, he will die;

7. Hashem recognizes that it is not good for Adam to be alone, so he provides him with a helpmate;

8  Finally, Adam names all of the animals.

There are many questions we could ask: why was Adam placed in Gan Eden twice? Why did the trees only sprout after Adam was placed in Eden? What exactly was Adam’s task in Eden? Why did Hashem give Adam just the one command?Why was it only at the end that Hashem created woman? Where did the animals come from? A lot of trees seem to be mentioned, but no animals.

The key to understanding this unusual sequence is the famous story that follows. The “woman” encounters the nachash who says to her “Didn’t Hashem tell you not to eat any fruit of this garden?” He said this so that he could engage her in conversation (see Rashi to Bereishit 3:1), As we know, he convinces her to eat the forbidden fruit, she then gives it to Adam—who also eats it. Hashem reacts by punishing Adam, the woman and the nachash. Adam is exiled from the Garden and the woman is cursed with birth pains and being subjugated to her husband.

The takeaway is that Adam and the woman could have used a good lawyer. When Hashem confronted them, they did not really mount an effective defense. They merely tried to shift blame—Adam to the woman, then the woman to the nachash. However, they actually had an effective and quite reasonable defense.

As noted above, the creation of Adam was unique in that man is the only entity in creation with the power of speech (creation has four categories: inanimate objects, vegetation, living creatures, speaking beings – only man is in this last category). 

Now woman is out alone in the Garden and she encounters the nachash. To her surprise, this being is speaking. Thus, to her limited experience and understanding there could be only two possible explanations: this being either is another type of “man,” or perhaps was he created by another God. Add to this is the fact that she was created after everything else. She did not therefore witness Hashem’s handiwork in planting the Garden, she was not “placed” there, she did not hear God’s command directly – indeed, she never encountered Hashem directly. For her, everything is hearsay. As far as she knows, the nachash has inside information, maybe even better information than her husband. His behavior, his speech, his very existence, are proof that there are beliefs and rules other than those which, she has been told, are valid – and these rules might perhaps be superior (she is being told that, by eating the fruit, she could even become Godlike). Additionally, she has not yet been commanded to listen to Adam. Bottom-line, especially since she only heard the command second-hand, she should not be culpable.

At this point the woman does eat—but she does not die! Since she did not do so, one can only imagine the conversation she had with Adam:

Woman: “Guess what? There is another speaking ‘man,’ there may even be other Gods or God-like beings, so eat the fruit of the Tree and enjoy – I did.”

Adam: “But God said if we eat it, we will die!”

Woman: “I ate it and I am still here, so as you can see, it is perfectly safe – and there are some amazing benefits. It is consciousness raising!”

So Adam ate too.  Again, this is perfectly understandable—and even excusable, given the facts and circumstances. This gave Adam the right to “blame or rely on” the woman (she presented a cogent argument and had eaten the fruit and did not die), and the woman could “blame” the fact that the nachash defied the natural order (which perhaps implicitly made it Hashem’s fault). So why were they punished? After all, iit does NOT seem like they did anything wrong. Or, at worst, maybe Hashem even entrapped them with the talking nachash!

Perhaps the reason Adam was punished has nothing to do with the command not to eat the fruit. That was simply a misdirection. Hashem punished Adam because he violated the primary command: “to work and protect the Garden.”

Returning to the sequence in Chapter 2, Hashem placed Adam in the Garden before the trees sprouted. Adam watched the trees  emerge but he expended no effort in nurturing them. And when the rivers burst forth to irrigate the Garden, Adam again had no need to do anything. Nevertheless, Hashem places him in the Garden again and tells him to work and protect it.

But we can ask “What work? What protection?”  It doesn’t seem that there is anything for him to do. But there is! “Working” and “protecting” are code, synonym for” taking responsibility”—just like the sign on President Harry Truman’s desk: “The buck stops here.” Adam named the animals because he (and not the lion) was the King of the Jungle. In other words, he was responsible. And, though he did not need to plant or irrigate the Garden, he was responsible for it—for good and for bad.

When Adam erred and ate the fruit (possibly NOT a sin, as explained above, as he may have had had a valid excuse), he failed in his obligation was to take responsibility. That was the job Hashem gave to him.  That was what he was commanded to do. Hashem likely did not care about the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, that was a mere pretense.

We have emerged from the Yamim Noraim with a clean slate. We have done teshuvah.  We also know that we will err and sin, likely doing many of the same things we transgressed last year and the year before, etc. Hashem knows this. We know this. We need to learn the lesson from Adam’s behavior: if we want to avoid serious consequences, we need to accept responsibility. If you peel away the excuses, if you do not assign blame to others, if you do not redirect and misdirect—only then can you make positive changes.

“Ki Tov” and “Tov Me’od”: Seeing the Divine in Creation

When we say something is good, we usually mean that we like it and it has our approval. But when God uses this term, He perceives something of greater value. In this penetrating analysis, Rabbi Paul Bloom looks more deeply into what we should understand when God describes His creations as "good".

When the Torah describes the unfolding of Creation, a single phrase recurs six times: “וַיַּרְא אֱלֹקים כִּי־טוֹב” — “And God saw that it was good.”  At first glance, this seems like a simple statement: God looked upon what He had made and declared it good. Yet, on closer reflection, the expression “ki tov” raises a profound question. The word “טוֹב – good” in Tanach usually refers to something of spiritual and eternal value, not merely something that functions well. The Torah itself is called “טוֹב”, as is the Divine Will — goodness that is not only efficient, but enduring and holy.

Why, then, does the Torah use this lofty term to describe the physical processes of nature — the growth of vegetation, the shining of the sun, the movement of the stars? And why, after all these six stages of “ki tov”, does the Torah conclude the chapter with a final, elevated declaration:

וַיַּרְא אֱלֹהִים אֶת-כָּל-אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה, וְהִנֵּה-טוֹב מְאֹד  

“And God saw all that He had made, and behold, it was very good”.

What changed between “tov” and “tov me’od”?

The Whole Greater Than Its Parts

One level of interpretation, offered by many classical commentators, is that “tov me’od” marks the moment when the entire creation came together as a unified whole. Each element — the plants, the animals, the heavenly bodies, the seas — was indeed good on its own. But when they began to function together in perfect harmony, forming a complex, interdependent system, the result was something greater than the sum of its parts.  This interconnectedness — what we would now call the ecological balance of the universe — is what made creation not merely good, but “tov me’od.”

The Kli Yakar: “Ki Tov” as Future Potential

The Kli Yakar, however, offers a strikingly different and deeper insight.  He notes that in Biblical Hebrew, the word “כי” (ki) often refers to a future event — something that will happen, rather than something that already is. For example: “כי תבוא אל האר” — “When you will come into the Land,” or “כי תצא למלחמה” — “When you will go out to war.”

Applying this principle to “וַיַּרְא אֱלֹקים כִּי־טוֹב”, the Kli Yakar suggests:  God saw that it would one day become good.  Each stage of creation contained within it the potential for eternal goodness, but that goodness had not yet been realized. The world at that point was magnificent, awe-inspiring — but it lacked meaning. It awaited something, or rather someone, who could perceive and internalize its Divine source.

“Tov Me’od”: When Humanity Awakens

That realization came only with the arrival of Adam and Chavah. When human beings opened their eyes and saw the world not as a collection of phenomena, but as a revelation of the Creator’s wisdom, everything changed. At that moment, all the previous “ki tovs” became “tov me’od.”  Creation now had an observer capable of recognizing its purpose. The universe was no longer a silent masterpiece; it became a living testimony to the glory of its Maker.

The Kli Yakar even finds a beautiful hint in the phrase “טוֹב מְאֹד”. Rearrange the letters of מְאֹד, he says, and it spells “אָדָם” — man.  It was Adam’s consciousness — the human capacity to perceive and declare “מָה רַבּוּ מַעֲשֶׂיךָ’” (How great are Your works, Hashem) — that transformed creation from merely good to very good. Humanity conferred meaning on the world.

Becoming Partners with the Creator

This insight resonates deeply with the teaching of Chazal in Masechet Shabbat (119b):

“Anyone who recites Kiddush on Friday night becomes a partner with the Holy One, blessed be He, in the work of Creation.”

How can a human being be a partner in creation? We cannot form matter from nothing; we cannot shape galaxies or call forth life. Yet, in a profound sense, we complete creation — not physically, but spiritually. God created the physical universe, but it was human awareness that gave it meaning. When a person stands on Friday night and declares “ויכלו השמים והארץ” — “Thus were completed the heavens and the earth” — he affirms that the world has a purpose and a Creator. At that moment, he invests the cosmos with spiritual significance.

In that sense, man is indeed a shutaf laKadosh Baruch Hu — a partner with God. The universe was waiting for beings who could look upon it and see “Kevod Shamayim” — the glory of Heaven — reflected in every element of nature.

“Vayechulu”: The World as a Vessel

The Sfas Emes adds a beautiful layer to this idea. The Torah says:

 “וַיְכֻלוּ הַשָּׁמַיִם וְהָאָרֶץ”

“The heavens and the earth were completed.”

 The word “ויכלו” shares its root with “כֵּלִי” — a vessel or instrument.  When Shabbat entered, and Adam and Chavah recognized their Creator, the entire world became a single great vessel — a kli through which the Divine Presence could dwell and be revealed. Thus, “ויכלו” means more than completion; it means transformation. The universe became a receptacle for holiness, a medium for the Divine will. Creation was not just finished — it was fulfilled.

The Eternal “Ki Tov” in Our Lives

The lesson of “ki tov” and “tov me’od” extends far beyond the opening chapter of Bereishit. Each of us, in our own lives, is called to see the Yad Hashem — the hand of God — in nature, in history, and in our own experiences. When we open our eyes to the miraculous balance of the natural world, when we perceive Divine providence in the unfolding of events, and when we sanctify time through Shabbat — we continue the work of Creation.  We turn potential goodness into realized goodness; “ki tov” into “tov me’od.”

On Shabbat, when we cease our own creative work and simply recognize God’s world, we achieve the highest human calling: to be a partner with the Creator, seeing His light in every corner of existence.

וַיַּרְא אֱלֹהִים אֶת-כָּל-אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה, וְהִנֵּה-טוֹב מְאֹד 

When man recognizes the Divine within creation — only then is the world truly very good.

Is our fresh start ever really fresh?

 In this piece, written to mark our return to the beginning of the Torah for our weekly readings, Jeremy Phillips takes a look at the concept of the fresh start within the context of life at Beit Knesset Hanassi. This piece also appears on the front page of this week's Hanassi Highlights.

This Shabbat, Parashat Bereishit, we open our Sifrei Torah at the very beginning. We read again of the creation of the world and of the place of humans within it. This gives us a good feeling. We have just marked the New Year with the festival of Rosh Hashanah, wiped away our past mistakes on Yom Kippur, and completed a full year’s reading of the Torah. Now we are mentally attuned to starting afresh, drawing a line under the past and facing our pristine, untainted future.

But how we feel and what is real can be two different things. Our fresh start this year is built on the firm foundations of the past, of respect for the Torah, its laws and those traditions that, passed down to us, we in turn seek to pass down to future generations. For traditions, love within families and loyalties within communities there is no fresh start each year: instead, there is a precious continuity of shared values that transcend the mindset of “stop-start”.

A year ago, when we celebrated Parashat Bereishit, we had among us two remarkable individuals who were both deeply committed to continuity. One, Rabbi Berel Wein zt’l, emphasized the importance of connecting the past, present and future; in doing so he elevated it from a neat idea for a sermon to a fundamental philosophy and the key to Jewish survival. The other, Moshe Loshinsky zt’l, was the repository of the customs and traditions of Beit Knesset Hanassi as well as the enforcer—zealous to ensure that a generation of olim adjusted themselves to Jewish life and practice in Israel, a melting-pot for Jewish culture but a refining vessel for life as a Jew in the land God gave us. These two men are no longer with us but their message endures.

In one sense, then, we have our fresh start—but it is also a further step on the long journey that has taken us through the lands of exile and through the millennia. Our task, as members of Am Yisrael and, in local terms, as members of Beit Knesset Hanassi, is to continue this ancient journey but to imbue it with a fresh enthusiasm and optimism that we will be the ones privileged to see it through. In this task we are privileged to be led by Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg, whose vision and energy are an inspiration to us all. May this year, 5786, be the year our journey reaches its destination.

Truth comes down to earth: Bereishit 5785

The Midrash teaches us that when God, so to speak, consulted in Heaven as to whether to create humans, four representatives presented their views to the Almighty. This Midrash is an instructive way to begin to understand the role of Midrash generally in rabbinic writing.

The rabbis generally seek to express deep philosophic ideas, conundrums and contradictions that we constantly face in daily life in a manner that, on the surface, appears as a story or a fable: oversimplified and almost naïve in presentation. Each student of Midrash must ferret out its intended deeper message and its relevance to our lives, society and situation. This is because Midrash is a living document, pointing towards current guidance and thought—not a book of stories about the past.

But let us return to the debate in heaven as to whether humans should have ever been created in the first place. Truth and Peace objected. Said Truth, since humans tended not to tell the truth, they could never be trusted and therefore had no useful function. Peace agreed. There would never be a time in human history when war, violence and dispute were absent. So, again, there would be no constructive purpose in creating such beings and in having them populate the world only for them to destroy one another.

Kindness stated that humans should be created: there will always be a streak of goodness and compassion within human beings. They will build schools, hospitals, orphanages and day care centers. They will search for medical cures to disease and raise vast amounts of wealth to help those who are less fortunate and truly needy. Overall, they would be worthy of being created. Justice agreed, Humans possess an intrinsic sense of fair play. They will establish courts of law and attempt to adjudicate disputes between themselves. They will create police forces to make for a secure society. Again, overall, humans could be a positive force in the world.

The Midrash continues by saying that God, so to speak, considered all four protagonists and their arguments. They were evenly balanced at two against two. In order to reach a decision, He threw Truth down to earth so that now the “vote” was two to one in favor of creating humans, which He then proceeded to do.

The great Rabbi Menachem Mendel Morgenstern (Halperin) of Kotzk asked: “If God was only looking to break the tie vote, so to speak, why did he throw down Truth? He could just have easily thrown down Peace. With Truth remaining alone, the vote would still be two to one.” He then answered: “Truth can never be outvoted. No matter what the vote is, no matter how many speak against it, Truth remains at its core, which is eternally true. Peace may be compromised and manipulated. Not so Truth. It is a value that is all or nothing. Something which is ninety-nine percent true is still not Truth. It does not adjust to ever changing mores, fads or current correctness. So, Truth had to be disposed of before a vote could be taken.”

The Jewish people have always been outnumbered. God promised us that we would be a small people numerically—and that promise has certainly been fulfilled. The human race consists of billions of people who disagree with us and outvote us regularly. Sometimes they do this peacefully, but most of the time with hostile intent. Other faiths have, for centuries, attempted to convince us that the majority rules and that, since they prevail, we should give up and join them. But we have not wavered as a nation in our belief in truth as revealed to us by God at Sinai. We cannot be outvoted as we represent Truth in its essence and sincerity. And that is the secret of the creation of humans and the existence of Judaism throughout the ages.

Shabat shalom, Rabbi Berel Wein

The Creation: Bereishit set to music

Here's another topical music clip from Beit Knesset Hanassi's very own Max Stern: it's "Creation of the World (Bereshith) for soprano, flute, strings and percussion". The text is based on the words of the Torah (Bereishit 1:1-31 and 2:1-3). In this clip it is performed by the Ashdod Chamber Orchestra conducted by Luis Gorelik. The soloists are Amalia Ishak (soprano) and Avihai Ornoy (flute). 

This recording was made at a live concert at Kibbutz Yavneh nearly 30 years ago, back in 1995. Of this work, music critic Uri Epstein described it as, 

"...an expression of exhilaration and awe in witnessing the phenomenon on creation."

The piece, which is of 20 minutes in duration, is structured in seven variations, each being a day in the process of the world's formation: 1 darkness-light, 2 seas-heaven, 3 land-vegetation, 4 sun-moon-stars, 5 fish-birds, 6 beasts-man, 7 Sabbath.

You can watch and listen to it by clicking here.