Parshat B’reishit – In the Beginning

October 17, 2025 | 25 Tishrei 5786
Genesis 1:1–6:8

Written somewhere between Edinburgh and the Highlands, aboard the Royal Scotsman

The Beginning of Everything — Again

There is something truly extraordinary about Jewish time. Just as the secular world keeps trying to make “progress,” we Jews keep circling back. Every autumn, as the air cools and the world turns, we finish the Torah with the death of Moses — and then, without missing a beat, we start all over again: B’reishit bara Elohim et hashamayim v’et haaretz — “In the beginning, G-d created the heavens and the earth.”

Here time is not a linear story, but a sacred loop. We move from ending to beginning, from mortality to creation, from dust to light. It’s as if the Torah itself is saying, “Don’t get too comfortable. Every ending is a beginning if you’re willing to turn the scroll.”

This week, I’m writing from Scotland, where the hills roll like ancient parchment and the sky shifts moods more often than a rabbi at sermon time. Standing in Edinburgh, with its medieval stone streets and haunting bagpipes echoing off castle walls, I couldn’t help but think of creation itself — beauty born from chaos. The weather alone here is a living metaphor: you can have sun, rain, fog, and rainbow all within five minutes. Clearly, Scotland and B’reishit share a cosmic temperament and it was a perfect place to explore this week’s Torah commentary.

The Poetry of the Beginning

As many of you are aware, the very first and last words of the Torah form a hidden sentence. The Torah begins with “B’reishit” (In the beginning) and ends with “Yisrael.” Together, they read: “In the beginning, Israel.”

Our sages note that creation’s purpose was bound to the people of Israel — not as possessors of truth, but as bearers of responsibility. The Torah begins with creation and ends with covenant; one without the other would be incomplete. Creation gives us existence; covenant gives us meaning.

And here lies one of Judaism’s great gifts to civilization — the notion that time itself is not empty or accidental. Time is cyclical, sacred, and purposeful. In Jewish thought, the cycle isn’t just repetition; it’s deepening. Like walking around a spiral staircase — each time we come around, we’re higher, wiser, and hopefully (at least for me), less likely to bump our head on the same beam.

Creation, Chaos, and Comedy (because G-d clearly has a sense of humor)

The opening verses of Genesis are deceptively simple. Darkness, light. Waters, sky. Land, creatures. Six days of creation — and then, G-d rested. This is the story we have head since childhood, but if you look closely, you may see a divine comedy in it all.

G-d spends the first half of the week making chaos behave. Day and night, separated. Sky and sea, divided. Humanity, however, refuses to stay in its lane. Within moments, we’re eating from the one tree marked “Do Not Touch.” If you ever feel guilty about being imperfect, just remember: the first humans had only one rule, and they still blew it by lunch.

And yet, the story endures — because creation is not about perfection. It’s about potential. As my new favorite go to historical scholar Rabbi Rashi teaches, G-d’s act of creation was about havdalah — separation. The holiness of boundaries. The moral courage to define what belongs and what doesn’t.

Ibn Ezra, the great Spanish philosopher whose poetry I stumbled across this summer while tracing Jewish history through Granada, wrote that the command to “be fruitful and multiply” was not merely biological. It was intellectual and moral: multiply goodness, multiply understanding, multiply meaning. In that sense, creation never ended. Every kind act, every new idea, every spark of peace is another act of creation.

The Teachings at the Core of Faith

At its heart, B’reishit is the common root of both Judaism and Christianity. Here we find the first great theological truth: that the world is not random, that life has purpose, and that humanity is created b’tzelem Elohim — in the image of G-d.

From this one idea flows everything that gives dignity to human existence. It’s why both our faiths insist that every person, regardless of nation, color, or creed, carries divine worth. It’s why freedom, justice, and compassion are not human inventions but divine imperatives.

In Jewish tradition, the seven days of creation are not a scientific calendar but a moral framework. The world was created in order, balance, and blessing. Our task is to maintain that balance — to be caretakers, not conquerors. The very first mitzvah, in effect, was ecological and ethical stewardship.

An Interpretation for Israel

For Israel today, the message of B’reishit could not be more poignant. As the nation navigates the fragile calm of a ceasefire, and as the hostages return home, the Torah reminds us that creation itself began with light emerging from chaos.

In B’reishit, G-d does not obliterate the darkness — He brings light into it. The world’s first miracle is not the absence of night, but the courage of dawn. So too, Israel stands at that moment of divine tension — between the heartbreak of what has been lost and the fragile hope of what might yet be restored.

Each hostage that returns is an act of re-creation — the restoration of life, of family, of faith. Each parent’s embrace mirrors that sacred line, “Let there be light.” These moments powerfully remind us that even after the deepest darkness, light can still be spoken into existence.

The Torah’s opening chapter is, therefore, not ancient poetry — it is prophecy made real in our time. Creation and redemption are not one-time events; they are daily acts of courage. Israel’s ongoing miracle is that it continues to choose life in a world that often seems to prefer despair. And that, above all, is what B’reishit teaches — that beginnings are not the privilege of the past but the promise of the present.

Here in the United States

For us here in the United States, B’reishit is more than a tale of divine creation; it is an invitation to moral renewal. We, too, live in a time of uncertainty — political tension, cultural division, and global instability. Yet like the Torah’s first verses, it is out of chaos that order and purpose can emerge.

America has long been at its best when it acts as a partner in creation — building bridges, not walls; nurturing peace, not conflict. In this moment, as the Middle East teeters between war and renewal, we are again called to be co-creators with G-d — to help shape a future grounded in dignity, dialogue, and shared destiny.

The peace efforts and humanitarian partnerships forming now — however tentative — are themselves acts of B’reishit: a chance to rebuild the moral architecture of the region, one gesture of empathy and courage at a time.

Like G-d hovering over the waters before creation, America must not withdraw from the darkness but move gently and deliberately above it — bringing wisdom where there is confusion, partnership where there is fear, and possibility where there is pain.

Our nation’s founding principles — freedom, equality, and the inherent worth of every person — are echoes of that first divine declaration: “Let there be light.” We cannot create the world anew, but we can, and must, help repair it.

And Our Ocean Reef Community

And then, there’s our own little corner of paradise — Ocean Reef. Standing beneath our Chapel’s cross and Star of David intertwined, I often think of B’reishit as a mirror of who we are. We are a community born of creation, built on faith, generosity, and the willingness to begin again each season.

We, too, live in cycles — arrivals and departures, seasons and services, friendships renewed and memories cherished. The Chapel, in its own way, is our scroll — opened each year to reveal new light, new purpose, and new people called to be part of something sacred.

When I walk through the gardens or sit in the pews before a service, I feel the same stillness that hovered over the waters in Genesis — a presence that whispers, “Create something beautiful here.”

My challenge to you this season, as individuals and as a congregation, is to be co-creators with the Divine: to make light where there is confusion, to build bridges where there are divides, and to carry forward the message that endings and beginnings are not opposites, but partners.

Closing Reflection: The Sacred Circle (and a Bit of Scottish Spirit)

B’reishit is not only about the creation of the world — it is about the re-creation of ourselves. Every year, every reading, every breath offers us the chance to start again.

Last week, Moses died on Mount Nebo. This week, G-d creates life. It is as if Torah itself teaches that no life, no story, and no community truly ends — it simply transforms.

As I look out my window across the misty lochs of Scotland, I am reminded that time, faith, and creation are not straight lines — they are spirals. We rise, we fall, we rise again. That is how the world was made, and how it continues to be remade — by people of faith who refuse to stop creating light.

And speaking of light — I must confess, this week’s commentary may have been influenced by the kind of “spirits” not found in Genesis. Writing aboard the Royal Scotsman train, somewhere between Inverness and the Isle of Skye, I’ve found that Torah reflection pairs surprisingly well with single malt. Perhaps that’s what they meant by “let there be spirits.”

As the train rocks gently through the Highlands — bagpipes wailing in the distance, kilts swaying in rhythm, a dram of whisky in one hand and a lox-and-bagel breakfast in the other — I can only hope that this fusion of faith and flavor will be forgiven by both the Scots and our sages. It seems B’reishit is alive and well, even aboard a train where creation smells faintly of smoked salmon and peat moss.

And yet, amidst all the humor and Highland charm, I am reminded of something deeply personal. Being of Jewish faith — and a man who has worked in parts of the world not always welcoming to Jews — I find profound comfort knowing that all three monotheistic religions trace their roots to the Torah.

While our paths may differ, as children of the book, I find solace in remembering that their story begins here — with ours. We are, in truth, branches of the same tree. Our beginnings are shared; our hopes intertwined. The Torah is not just a Jewish book — it is humanity’s first moral charter.

And standing here, among the Scottish hills where history and myth are braided like Celtic knots, I am reminded that we are far more alike than different. Creation was not G-d’s first gift — connection was.

A Prayer for Creation and Peace

יִהְיֶה רָצוֹן מִלְּפָנֶיךָ, הַמֵּבִיא שָׁלוֹם בִּמְרוֹמָיו,
שֶׁיָּבִיא שָׁלוֹם עָלֵינוּ, עַל יִשְׂרָאֵל, עַל אַרְצוֹת הַבְּרִית, וְעַל קְהִילָתֵנוּ בְּאוֹשֶׁן רִיף.
וִיבָרֵךְ אֶת מַעֲשֵׂה יָדֵינוּ כְּהִתְחִלֵנוּ שׁוּב — בְּרֵאשִׁית.
וְנֹאמַר אָמֵן.

May the One who brings peace to the heavens bring peace to us, to Israel, to the United States, and to our community at Ocean Reef.
And may He bless the work of our hands as we begin again — in the beginning.
And let us say: Amen.

Shabbat Shalom
Michael L. Weiss Ph.D., ABD, HCCP

President, Congregation Ocean Reef