A reflection for Shabbos Bereishis
This past Shabbos, we began the Torah again.
After weeks of reflection, teshuva, and celebration, we return to Bereishis. To the very beginning. To the creation of the world.
I've been thinking quite a bit about creation lately. More specifically, about what it means to create something new when you are carrying so much of what came before.
I suppose that's where I find myself these days.
I'm in the process of recreating myself. And I don't mean starting from scratch, as though I could erase the past twenty years and begin with a blank page. Those years are part of me. The people I've met, the communities I've helped build, the Torah I've learned and taught, and yes, the mistakes I've made.
All of it comes with me.
There is a fascinating Midrash in Bereishis Rabbah in which Rabbi Abbahu teaches that Hashem created worlds and destroyed them before creating our world.
Kabbalah takes us deeper into the spiritual processes preceding creation as we know it. We learn about the world of Tohu, where extraordinarily intense divine light could not be contained by its vessels, resulting in sheviras hakeilim, the shattering of the vessels.
The sparks of holiness associated with that shattering become part of the spiritual story of our world. And much of our purpose involves tikkun, the work of refining and elevating those sparks.
Of course, these teachings describe profound spiritual realities. Hashem wasn't making mistakes and learning from them. But something about the imagery has been occupying my thoughts.
Even in the story of creation, what came before has a place in understanding what comes next.
There is brokenness. There are scattered sparks. There is work to be done.
And from all of that, there is a world in which we are meant to build something meaningful.
For nearly twenty years, much of my identity has been wrapped up in teaching, learning, and building Jewish community. I love sitting with people, exploring an idea, challenging assumptions, and watching the moment when something suddenly clicks (for both of us).
I love the conversations that continue long after a class was supposed to end. The questions that don't have easy answers. The relationships that develop when people learn together over time.
I miss those things.
And I still have an enormous desire to teach, to give, and to contribute.
But there is a difficult reality that I am learning to live with.
My desire to teach does not necessarily mean that others have a desire to learn from me.
I have made mistakes. I've made choices I regret, and those choices have consequences. Some people may no longer see me as someone they want to learn from, regardless of what knowledge or experience I might have to offer.
I understand that.
But understanding something intellectually and coming to terms with it emotionally are two very different things.
And here is where I find myself struggling with the very concept of teshuva.
I believe deeply in teshuva. I believe that people can change, confront their failures, take responsibility for their actions, and become better versions of themselves.
The Rambam, in Hilchos Teshuva, describes the extraordinary standing of someone who has genuinely returned. Their previous actions do not have to define their relationship with Hashem forever.
But what does that look like in practice?
What happens when someone is genuinely trying to change, but the people around them still see the person they used to be, or worse, see them only through the lens of their mistakes?
And perhaps the question I find even more difficult is this:
Is it possible that the very experiences that have made me a less desirable teacher in some people's eyes might, through the difficult work of teshuva, eventually make me a better one?
I hesitate even writing that.
I don't want to romanticize mistakes or suggest that hurting people somehow becomes worthwhile because we learn something afterward. I would much rather have learned certain lessons without having to confront my own failures.
But those experiences are now part of my life.
Perhaps honestly confronting them can make me a more patient listener. Perhaps I can develop a deeper appreciation for how complicated people's lives really are. Perhaps I can become less certain of my own righteousness and more careful about the advice I offer.
And perhaps, when someone else is struggling with their own mistakes, I might be able to sit with them with a little more understanding and a little less judgment.
I don't know whether I've achieved those things. I know I want to.
The Rambam also makes clear that when our actions have harmed another person, our spiritual work alone is insufficient. We have obligations to those we have wronged.
And even when we work to make amends, rebuilding trust is its own process.
I cannot demand that someone trust me simply because I believe I have changed. People are entitled to their own experiences, their own boundaries, and their own judgments.
But where does that leave the desire to contribute?
Most of my adult life has been spent learning and teaching. And now, as I learn lessons that may deepen my understanding of both, what am I supposed to do with that?
I don't have an easy answer.
Perhaps part of my teshuva involves finding new ways to share what I've learned, in places where it is genuinely welcome. Perhaps it involves accepting that some doors may remain closed, even as others open.
That is particularly difficult.
Because I still feel that teaching is what I am meant to do.
And I still believe I have something worthwhile to offer.
There is another teaching from Chassidus about creation that has been on my mind.
The Alter Rebbe explains that creation is ongoing. The world depends upon Hashem's creative energy sustaining it at every moment.
Creation is happening constantly.
I find that thought particularly meaningful right now.
I cannot recreate myself through one dramatic declaration that I am a different person. Whatever change I hope to make has to happen repeatedly.
In the way I speak to people. In the way I respond when challenged. In the decisions I make when nobody is watching. In the willingness to acknowledge when I am wrong.
And in the patience to keep working on myself without knowing exactly what the results will be.
There is a question I have been asking myself that I find particularly uncomfortable.
Would I still be committed to this work of personal growth if it never resulted in the opportunities I hope for?
If I never returned to teaching in the way I once did, would I still be willing to do the difficult work of teshuva?
I want to believe the answer is yes.
As we begin reading Bereishis again this Shabbos, I am reminded that creation is an ongoing responsibility.
There are things from my past I hope to carry forward. There are things I need to repair. And there are things I need to learn to leave behind.
I am still figuring out which is which.
I don't know exactly what the next chapter of my life will look like. I don't know who will want to learn from me, what opportunities will emerge, or how long it will take for some of the changes I am working toward to become visible.
I do know that I want to keep learning, keep growing, and become someone whose actions increasingly reflect the Torah I have spent so many years teaching.
Maybe, in time, some of what I am learning now will become something I can offer to someone else.
For now, I am trying to do the work.
After all, Bereishis is only the beginning.