Parshat Bereshit5 min read

God Asked Angels Before Making Human Beings

Before the first human appears, God convenes the heavenly court, and creation fills itself with small messengers sent on impossible errands.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Council Met Before the Clay Was Touched
  2. Small Creatures Carried the Hardest Missions
  3. Noah's Children Arrived Late for a Reason
  4. The Bow Was Turned Away From Earth

The Council Met Before the Clay Was Touched

When God said "let us make man," the rabbis heard a door open. Not because God needed permission, but because God chose to consult. Bereshit Rabbah reads the plural in that verse as evidence of divine restraint. God spread the plan before the heavenly court, not to receive instruction, but to model the kind of deliberation that the world would need if human beings were going to survive in it.

Rabbi Yirmeya ben Elazar took the image further. When Adam was first formed, he said, God made him androgynous, male and female in a single body. Rabbi Shmuel bar Nahman pushed past even that. He described a creature with two faces, pressed together, front and back, that God then sawed apart. The separation of the sexes was not subtraction. It was a division of something that had been too large for the world to hold in one piece.

What emerged from the council and the clay was a being enormous in potential and dangerous in freedom. Rabbi Yohanan read Psalm 139 over the moment: "back and front, You shaped me." If the human is worthy, this means a share in two worlds, the present one and the one to come. If not, it means an accounting. The same body that might ascend to heaven can fall in the opposite direction. The council knew this before the creature drew its first breath.

Small Creatures Carried the Hardest Missions

Nothing in creation, however small, was placed there without purpose. Bereshit Rabbah is certain of this. Rabbi Aha told the story of a man who watched a frog carry a scorpion across a river on its back, then watched the scorpion sting someone waiting on the far bank. The frog had been sent. The scorpion had been sent. The sting had been ordained before the crossing began. God uses every creature, the text says, even a serpent, even a gnat, even a frog.

This is not a comfortable teaching. It means that the creature you swat away might be carrying a message you are not yet equipped to read. It means the line between natural process and divine mission is thinner than it appears. The ant, the fly, the scorpion in the grass, all of them exist within a structure that is moral as well as biological. What looks like random harm may be a rod bent toward a purpose invisible to the one being struck.

The rabbis did not use this to excuse cruelty or to dismiss suffering. They used it to press against the idea that anything in the created world is truly superfluous. The human being was made last, after all the creatures, after all the days, as though the world had to be ready to receive something this complicated before it was introduced.

Noah's Children Arrived Late for a Reason

Psalm 92 described the righteous as planted in the house of God, blossoming in the courts of the holy place. Bereshit Rabbah applied this to Noah. He was the plant. His sons were the blossoms that came later. Genesis tells us Noah begot Shem, Ham, and Japheth, but the midrash sits with the timing of it. Noah's sons were born after he was five hundred years old, far later than the patriarchal norm. Why?

Because God saw what was coming. If Noah's sons had been born earlier, they would have grown up among the generation of the Flood and been swept away with them. The delay was protection. God withheld the births until the world that would destroy those children was already marked for destruction. The righteous man who was planted in the house of God had his blossoms preserved by the timing of their arrival. They were born into a world that was almost over, and because of that, they survived into the world that came next.

The midrash refuses to see the gap between Noah and his children as neglect. It sees it as care so precise that it operates across decades. The same patience that allowed creation to consult before making a human being was still operating, still scheduling births and deaths around the survival of what was worth preserving.

The Bow Was Turned Away From Earth

After the Flood, God set a rainbow in the cloud as the sign of the covenant. The Hebrew word for rainbow, keshet, is also the word for bow, a weapon. Bereshit Rabbah presses that double meaning. The rabbis asked whether the rainbow was a representation of God, since the Hebrew could be read as my likeness. They then recoiled from the question. To picture God as a form visible in light was a step toward idolatry. They backed away from the literalism.

What remained was the image itself: a bow, curved in the sky, with its back to the earth. A weapon pointed upward, away from the human world. God's restraint made visible. The covenant was not only the promise never to flood again. It was the posture of the promise, the instrument of destruction turned away, suspended in color over the clouds, a sign that the deliberation in the heavenly council had reached a conclusion. Human beings would remain. Creation would hold. The bow would stay aimed at heaven and not at the ground below it.

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Bereshit Rabbah 8:1Bereshit Rabbah

Rabbi Yoḥanan starts us off with a verse from Psalms (139:5): "Back and front [ahor vakedem], You shaped me…" Ahor vakedem, it's a phrase that hints at so much. Rabbi Yoḥanan suggests it means that if we're worthy, we partake of two worlds, this one, and the World to Come. But if not? Then we'll have to give an accounting for our actions. A sobering thought.

Then Rabbi Yirmeya ben Elazar drops a bombshell: When God created Adam, the first human, He created him androgynous! As it says, "He created them male and female" (Genesis 5:2).

Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥman takes it even further. He suggests that Adam was created with two faces, two conjoined bodies, male and female. Then, God "sawed him in two," separating the female part and giving him "two backs." Now, some might object: What about the verse that says God took one of Adam's ribs [tzalotav] to create Eve? Rabbi Shmuel counters that tzela doesn't necessarily mean "rib." It can also mean "side," like the side of the Tabernacle, as we see in (Exodus 26:20). It's a powerful reminder that even seemingly straightforward words can hold layers of meaning.

The interpretations just keep getting wilder. Rabbi Tanḥuma, in the name of Rabbi Benaya and Rabbi Berekhya, cites Rabbi Elazar in saying that Adam was initially created as an unformed being stretching from one end of the world to the other! As it says in (Psalms 139:16), "Your eyes saw my unformed parts…"

Rabbi Yehoshua bar Neḥemya and Rabbi Yehuda bar Simon, again citing Rabbi Elazar, add that Adam filled the entire world, east to west, north to south, even filling the empty spaces! The prooftext? Again, that verse, "Back [ahor] and front [kedem], You shaped me…" (Psalms 139:5). It's a truly cosmic vision of humanity's origins.

Rabbi Elazar offers another perspective: Adam was created last among the acts of creation on the last day – that is, his body was the last thing made on Friday – but his spirit was the first thing made on that day. Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish tweaks this, saying Adam was last on the sixth day, but first on the first day, connecting Adam's spirit to the spirit of the messianic king, based on (Isaiah 11:2).

These rabbis are really playing with the concepts of first and last, ahor vakedem, to teach us something profound about humanity's place in the universe.

Rav Naḥman offers a slightly different take: Adam was last in creation, but first in punishment. As it says regarding the Flood, "He obliterated all existence…from man, to animal…" (Genesis 7:23). Rabbi Shmuel adds that Adam also comes last in praising God, only after the heavens, the sea creatures, and the depths have had their turn.

Rabbi Samlai explains this by saying that just as Adam's praise comes after the animals, so too did his creation. First the water swarms (Genesis 1:20), then the earth produces (Genesis 1:24), and only then does God say, "Let us make Man in our image."

So, what are we to make of all this? These seemingly contradictory interpretations paint a complex picture of humanity's role in creation. We are both the culmination of God's work and a late arrival on the scene. We are both physical beings bound to the earth and spiritual beings connected to the divine. We are both capable of great praise and subject to harsh judgment.

Perhaps the key takeaway is this: being created "in God's image" is not a static concept. It's a dynamic, ever-evolving process. It's something we strive for, something we embody to varying degrees, and something that ultimately connects us to something far greater than ourselves. It's a responsibility, a privilege, and a profound mystery all rolled into one. And as we continue to confront this ancient question, we find ourselves drawn deeper into the heart of what it means to be human.

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Bereshit Rabbah 10:7Bereshit Rabbah

We might swat them away without a second thought, but according to the Rabbis, even these creatures have a purpose. As we find in Bereshit Rabbah, even these so-called "superfluous" beings are part of creation, and God uses them to carry out His will.

It’s a powerful reminder that everything, no matter how small, is interconnected and plays a role in the grand scheme of things. The Rabbis tell us that the Holy One, blessed be He, executes His missions through all things – "even by means of a serpent, even by means of a gnat, even by means of a frog.”

To illustrate this idea, the text shares a series of fascinating stories.

First, Rabbi Aḥa tells of a man who saw a frog transporting a scorpion across a river. Why? Because, as the story goes, the scorpion was on a mission to kill someone. Once the deed was done, the frog dutifully carried it back.

Then there's the story Rabbi Pinḥas tells, in the name of Rabbi Ḥanan of Tzippori, about a man who unknowingly saved himself from a serpent's venom by wearing a particular herb as a wreath. The serpent was sent to kill him, but the herb, apparently an antidote, initially thwarted its mission. However, fate, or perhaps divine will, eventually caught up with the man.

Rabbi Yanai, sitting at the entrance to his city, observed a serpent persistently trying to enter. No matter how many times he chased it away, it kept returning. He declared, "This one is on his way to perform a mission." Shortly after, news arrived that someone in the city had been fatally bitten by a snake.

Rabbi Elazar had a similar experience. A Roman rudely interrupted him at the latrine, only to be killed by a serpent soon after. Rabbi Elazar saw this as divine retribution, quoting (Isaiah 43:4): “I placed a man [adam] in your stead” – interpreting "man" as referring to Edom, a symbolic stand-in for the Romans.

These tales highlight a recurring theme: seemingly random events are often part of a larger, divine plan. Even the smallest creatures and most mundane objects can be instruments of God’s will.

Another story recounts how Rabbi Yitzḥak ben Elazar saw a thighbone rolling along the shore of Caesarea, always returning no matter how many times he tried to push it away. He recognized it was “prepared to perform a mission.” Days later, a courier tripped on the bone and died, revealing that he was carrying evil decrees against the Jews of Caesarea.

But perhaps the most dramatic story involves Titus, the Roman emperor who destroyed the Second Temple. The narrative depicts his sacrilegious acts within the Holy of Holies, his boastful claims of defeating God, and his subsequent demise.

The story details how Titus entered the Holy of Holies, desecrated the Temple, and blasphemed against God. He claimed victory over God, boasting that he had defeated Him in His own palace. As he sailed away, a storm arose, but Titus dismissed it, believing that God's power was limited to water.

However, divine retribution was not to be avoided. As the text recounts, God vowed to punish Titus with the smallest of creatures. Upon arriving in Rome, a gnat entered Titus's nose and began to gnaw at his brain, growing to an enormous size. Doctors eventually removed the growth, finding it weighed two pounds. As it withered, Titus withered along with it, until finally, the gnat flew away, and Titus died.

This final story serves as a powerful example of divine justice. Even the mighty Titus, conqueror of Jerusalem, was ultimately brought down by a tiny gnat. It's a stark reminder that no one, no matter how powerful, is beyond the reach of God's judgment.

So, what are we to take away from these stories? They teach us to look beyond the surface, to recognize that everything in creation has a purpose, and that even the smallest of things can play a significant role in the unfolding of divine will. They urge us to be mindful of the interconnectedness of all things, and to appreciate the hidden hand of God at work in the world around us. Perhaps the next time you see a fly, a flea, or a gnat, you'll remember these tales and consider the possibility that it, too, is on a mission.

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Bereshit Rabbah 26:2Bereshit Rabbah

The familiar story is this: the ark, the flood, the animals two by two. But have you ever stopped to wonder about the timing of it all? It's not just about the rain, but about the generations that came before and after.

(Genesis 6:10) tells us, "Noah begot three sons, Shem, Ḥam, and Yefet." Simple enough. But Bereshit Rabbah 26, a midrash, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of Genesis, dives much deeper. It uses (Psalm 92:14), "Planted in the House of the Lord, they blossom in the courts of our God," to understand Noah's place in the grand scheme. "Planted in the House of the Lord" is Noah himself, safe within the ark. And "they blossom in the courts of our God" refers to the birth of Shem, Ḥam, and Yefet, his legacy after the flood.

(Psalm 92:15) says, "They will continue to yield fruit even in old age; they will remain full and fresh." Bereshit Rabbah connects this to the fact that Noah fathered children at the ripe old age of 500! Why so late? Rabbi Yudan asks this very question. most of the generations before Noah were having kids at 100 or 200 years old. Why the delay for Noah? The answer, according to Rabbi Yudan, is rather profound. God, blessed be He, considered the potential outcomes. If Noah had children earlier, and those children turned out wicked, God wouldn't want to destroy them in the flood. But if they were righteous, it would mean Noah would have to build even MORE arks!

So, God, in a way, suppressed Noah’s ability to procreate, holding back the flood until the right moment. It's a fascinating insight into the divine calculus, isn't it? God weighing the options, considering the consequences, not just of the flood itself, but of the generations that would follow.

Rabbi Nehemya, quoting Rabbi Eliezer son of Rabbi Yosei HaGelili, adds another layer. He suggests that even Yefet, the eldest son, wouldn’t be 100 years old when the flood came, thus not yet subject to divine punishment. In those days, apparently, 100 was the age of accountability.

And speaking of punishment, the discussion then shifts to the nature of death itself. Rabbi Ḥanina boldly proclaims that in the future, there will be no death except for idolaters. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi goes even further, saying there will be no death for anyone, citing (Isaiah 25:8): "He will destroy death forever, and the Lord God will wipe tears from all faces."

But wait, what about (Isaiah 65:20), which says, "As the youth will die when he is one hundred years old"? Rabbi Ḥanina uses this verse to support his claim, suggesting that at 100, one becomes liable to punishment, implying a different kind of "death." Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi interprets it to mean that at that age, one becomes fit for punishment, not necessarily that they will die.

Then there's (Psalm 49:15), "Like sheep, they are destined for the grave; death will shepherd them. The upright will rule over them." This seems to contradict the idea of eternal life. Rabbi Ḥanina uses this to further support his claim. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi says that in this world, there were figures like Pharaoh, Sisera, and Sennacherib who were punished, but in the future, the Angel of Death will be the permanent sentry administering eternal punishment.

Those who are alive at that time will not die. The verse, "The upright will rule over them in the morning; their form will be consumed in the grave, an abode [zevul] for him" (Psalms 49:15) teaches that the grave may wear away, but their bodies will not wear away, but will be subject to eternal torment. Why to that extent? Because they extended their hands against the Temple, as it is written: "I have built You an abode [zevul]" (I (Kings 8:1)3).

It’s a complex and somewhat unsettling vision, isn't it? A future where death is abolished for some, but replaced by eternal torment for others. It all hinges on our actions, our choices, and our relationship with the divine.

So, what do we take away from this deep dive into Bereshit Rabbah 26? Perhaps it's a reminder that even in the story of Noah, a story we think we know so well, there are layers upon layers of meaning, waiting to be uncovered. It’s a reminder that our actions have consequences, not just in this life, but perhaps in the world to come. And it’s a evidence of the enduring power of Jewish tradition to confront the biggest questions of life, death, and everything in between.

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Bereshit Rabbah 35:3Bereshit Rabbah

In fact, according to Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of Rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Genesis, the rainbow holds profound meaning, a glimpse, perhaps, into the very nature of God.

(Genesis 9:13) states, “My rainbow I have set in the cloud, and it shall be as a sign of a covenant between Me and the earth.” But the Rabbis dig deeper. They ask: What does it really mean that God "sets" a rainbow? The Hebrew word for rainbow, kashti, sounds similar to the word for "My likeness," kishuti. Does this mean the rainbow is a representation of God? Can we even imagine what that would look like?

The text immediately questions this, asking, "Is that possible?" Can we speak of God as having a visual representation? The answer, of course, is no. Instead, the text offers a clever analogy: it's like the straw (kashin) of the grain. The straw is connected to the grain, but utterly different from it. The rainbow, similarly, reminds us of God's presence, but it's not actually a likeness of the Divine. It's a symbol, a reminder of the covenant, a promise.

Here's another fascinating idea. Remember the story of Noah and the flood? God promises never again to destroy the world with a flood. So, what happens when God is angry? Rabbi Yudan, in the name of Rabbi Yudan bar Simon, offers a powerful image: Imagine someone holding a hot metal tool, ready to strike their child in anger. Instead, they strike their servant. Similarly, when God brings clouds, intending perhaps to punish humankind, God deflects that punishment onto uninhabited areas, where it won't cause destruction. It's a powerful image of divine restraint and mercy.

The rainbow, then, is a reminder of that restraint, a symbol of the "eternal covenant between God and every living creature." The text even links the rainbow to the middot, the divine attributes. The rainbow, it says, represents the supernal attribute of justice. One might think of justice as harsh, but in this context, it's tempered by mercy and compassion.

This idea of departing and returning for a blessing is a recurring theme. The text explores it through several stories. We hear about Joshua blessing the tribes of Reuben and Gad, Solomon dismissing the people after dedicating the Temple, and Elisha and the woman with the oil. In each case, there's an initial departure, followed by a return, and a greater blessing bestowed upon the second parting. It suggests that repeated connection, continued engagement with the sacred, deepens the blessing.

One of the accompanying Torah scholars expounds that the pillar of cloud that protected the Israelites in the desert, representing divine justice, was redirected by God to strike the Egyptians instead. Here, we see the earlier parable of the father with the hot metal tool played out on a grand scale.

Finally, the text concludes with a story about Artevan sending a priceless jewel to Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, the patriarch. Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi sends back a mezuza, the small scroll containing verses from the Torah that is affixed to doorframes in Jewish homes. Artevan is confused: "I sent you something priceless, and you sent me something worth a few coins?" Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi responds that his gift is far more valuable, because it contains the words of the Torah and protects the recipient. As (Proverbs 6:22) says, "It [the Torah] will guide you when you walk...when you lie down, it will protect you...and when you awaken, it will be your conversation."

The mezuza, then, is a constant reminder of God’s presence, a physical manifestation of the covenant represented by the rainbow. And like the rainbow, it’s a symbol that points to something far greater than itself. It's a reminder that true value isn't always measured in gold or jewels, but in the wisdom and protection offered by a connection to the Divine.

So, next time you see a rainbow, take a moment. Remember the covenant, the promise of restraint, and the enduring connection between humanity and the Divine. And maybe, just maybe, you'll catch a glimpse of something truly extraordinary.

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Vayikra Rabbah 22:4Vayikra Rabbah

Vayikra Rabbah 22, a fascinating collection of stories and teachings, explores just that. It suggests that everything – from frogs to plants to even inanimate objects – can be instruments of divine will.

One story tells of a man observing a frog ferrying a scorpion across a river. He marvels, thinking, "This one is prepared to perform its mission." And, the scorpion stings someone, causing their death. The frog then carries the scorpion back. The sound of wailing fills the city. It's a stark reminder that even seemingly insignificant actions can have profound consequences.

Rabbi Pinḥas, citing Rabbi Ḥanin of Tzippori, shares a similar tale. A man in the Beit Shofarei Valley fashions a wreath from a shrub. When he kills a snake, a snake charmer examines the dead reptile and is curious who killed it. The man admits it was him. The snake charmer, realizing the shrub is protecting the man, asks him to remove it. The moment he does, the snake’s venom instantly kills him. The shrub, an ordinary plant, was fulfilling its protective mission until the very end.

These stories aren’t just strange anecdotes. They point to a deeper truth: that everything in creation has a purpose, a role to play in the grand scheme of things. Even seemingly harmful creatures, like scorpions and snakes, might be acting as agents of divine justice.

Rabbi Yanai, teaching at the city gate, witnesses a snake behaving erratically. He declares, "This one is prepared to perform its mission." Moments later, someone in the city is bitten and dies. Rabbi Elazar experiences a similar situation with a Roman who disrespects him. A snake appears and kills the Roman, prompting Rabbi Elazar to quote (Isaiah 43:4): "I placed a person in your stead."

And it's not just living things. Rabbi Elazar also encounters a thighbone that refuses to stay buried. Eventually, it trips up a Roman courier carrying evil decrees against the Jews of Caesarea, leading to his death. The bone, seemingly inanimate, becomes an instrument of justice.

The text continues with more extraordinary tales. Rabbi Shimon observes a hoopoe, a non-kosher bird, building a nest. When Rabbi Shimon interferes, the hoopoe uses a magical herb to undo his actions. Rabbi Yannai's donkey eats a herb and becomes blind, then eats another and regains its sight. A man returning from Babylon witnesses birds using an herb to revive the dead and decides to use it to resurrect the dead of Israel, but when he tries it on a dead lion, the revived lion devours him! As the saying goes: If you have performed good for the wicked, you have performed evil. Do not perform good for the wicked, and evil will not befall you.

These stories, found within Vayikra Rabbah, may seem outlandish, but they offer a profound message about the interconnectedness of all things and the potential for even the smallest elements of creation to play a role in the divine plan.

Even water, Rabbi Tanhuma reminds us, can fulfill God's mission. He tells of a man afflicted with boils who is healed by immersing himself in the Spring of Miriam in Tiberias. This spring, a miraculous source of water that accompanied the Israelites in the wilderness, is said to be located in the Sea of Tiberias. According to Rabbi Ḥiyya bar Abba, if you climb Mount Yeshimon, you might see a sieve-like item in the sea, and that is the spring of Miriam. Rabbi Yoḥanan ben Nuri adds that it's aligned opposite the middle gate of the ancient synagogue of Tiberias.

What are we to make of these stories? Are they literal accounts of miraculous events, or allegories meant to teach us a deeper truth? Perhaps it's both. They remind us to be mindful of our actions and to recognize the potential for the divine to manifest in the most unexpected ways. They challenge us to see the world not as a collection of random events, but as a weaving with purpose and meaning, where every thread, no matter how small, plays a vital role. So, the next time you see a frog, a plant, or even a stray bone, remember Vayikra Rabbah 22, and wonder: what mission might this be prepared to perform?

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Midrash Aggadah, Genesis 1:26Midrash Aggadah

"And God said: Let us make man" (Genesis 1:26). To whom did He say it? To the angels, who are spirits; therefore He took counsel with them in the creation of man. And do not be astonished, for everything that the Holy One, blessed be He, does with the children of men, He takes counsel with the angels. So too Micaiah said to Ahab, "I saw the Lord sitting upon His throne, and all the host of heaven," etc., "and the Lord said: Who shall entice Ahab," etc. (1 Kings 22:19-20). And when the Holy One, blessed be He, told Moses our teacher to write the Torah, the Holy One, blessed be He, said to him: Moses, write "Let us make man in our image, after our likeness." He said before Him: Master of the Universe, why do You give an opening to the heretics to say that there are two powers? The Holy One, blessed be He, said to Moses: Write what I tell you, and whoever wishes to err, let him err; for from Me all who come into the world shall learn that if a great one comes to do a thing, he should take counsel from a lesser one, for behold, I, when I came to create man, took counsel with My ministering angels.

Another interpretation: "And God said: Let us make man," etc. With whom did He take counsel? With the Torah did He take counsel, for all its commandments gave Him counsel that he should create man, as it is said, "Counsel is mine, and sound wisdom" (Proverbs 8:14).

"In our image" (Genesis 1:26): that he should have the spirit of life. "After our likeness": that he should have wisdom and understanding, from the wellspring of the wisdom above; and as you say, "Yet You have made him but little lower than God, and have crowned him with glory and honor" (Psalms 8:6), this refers to the day of death, when he shall behold the glory of the Creator.

"And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea" (Genesis 1:26): because he had wisdom and understanding to recognize his Creator, therefore He gave him the ability to rule over His creatures.

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