5 min read

God Saw Both the Wicked and the Righteous Before Reaching for the Clay

God covered the column of the wicked with mercy before reaching for the clay. Sarah was rebuilt before Isaac. Jacob asked on a stone road before help arrived.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The moment before Adam existed
  2. Sarah's body and the prayer that moved decades
  3. Jacob lifting his eyes to the hills
  4. The pause before every help arrived

The moment before Adam existed

God looked at what was coming and almost stopped. Not because the task was difficult. Because the outcome was divided. Rabbi Berekhya, sitting with a verse in Genesis that did not obviously require this much weight, opened a room before the first human breath and described God pausing there.

If I create him, God thought, the wicked will descend from him. If I do not create him, how will the righteous descend?

This is not the God of certainty and decree. This is a God standing at a threshold with a full view of what is on the other side, and the view is not reassuring. Both columns are visible. The righteous who will follow. The wicked who will follow. Same dust. Same breath. Same lineage going in two directions at once.

Rabbi Berekhya's resolution was not logical. It was merciful. God covered the path of the wicked from immediate view, bound the attribute of mercy to himself, and then reached for the clay. He did not solve the problem of the wicked. He made a decision to act anyway, with mercy as the frame. Rabbi Hanina added a sharper version. God seized the attribute of mercy like a man picking up a tool, held it, and pressed forward.

Sarah's body and the prayer that moved decades

Sarah was past the age of childbearing, past the ordinary reach of biology, and she knew it. The text of Genesis notes that the way of women had ceased for her (Genesis 18:11). The angels' announcement that she would have a son by the following year arrived not as welcome news but as something Sarah laughed at from behind the tent flap. Not a laugh of joy. A laugh of disbelief directed inward.

The rabbis turned to Sarah's prayer, or the condition her prayer addressed, with the same seriousness they brought to God's hesitation at creation. She was not simply old. She was, in their reading, constitutionally unable to conceive. The place inside her where a child would have developed had not formed correctly. What was needed was not time reversed but structure created where structure had never existed.

God, in this reading, created in Sarah a new capacity. Not a pregnancy but the physical equipment for one. She was rebuilt in a specific and interior way before Isaac was conceived. The rabbis who held this reading were not trying to make the miracle more dramatic. They were trying to account for the gap between Sarah's condition as described and the reality of Isaac as born. Something had to change first. The prayer, or the divine response to it, changed it.

Jacob lifting his eyes to the hills

Jacob left his father's house with nothing. Esau was murderous. The road to Haran was long. He stopped for the night at a place he did not know and slept on the ground with a stone under his head. He dreamed of a ladder and received a promise. When he woke, he made a conditional vow. If God would keep him safe, feed him bread and clothing, and bring him home in peace, then he would acknowledge this as holy ground and give a tenth of what he received.

The rabbis read that vow as a request, not a transaction. Jacob was not bargaining with God. He was lifting his eyes to the hills, as Psalm 121 puts it, asking where help would come from. He was naming what he needed precisely because he was not sure it would arrive. The psalm's answer to its own question is that help comes from the one who made heaven and earth. But Jacob, sleeping on a stone at the top of a road he had never traveled, was not yet certain of that. He was asking in the conditional mode of someone who hopes but does not yet know.

The pause before every help arrived

The three images together, God hesitating before Adam, God rebuilding Sarah's body before Isaac, Jacob asking on the road to Haran, all map the same arc. Help arrives. But not automatically. Not without a pause during which the weight of the situation is fully understood. The rabbis of Bereshit Rabbah did not find this unsettling. They found it honest. A God who does not hesitate before creating humanity has not understood what he is doing. A woman who receives a miracle that did not first require her specific incapacity has not been seen. A man who receives a divine promise without first lying down on the stone and asking has not brought himself into the encounter.

CreationPatriarchsMidrash RabbahIntercessionHesitation
← All myths

From the tradition

Sources

3 sources

The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Bereshit Rabbah 8:4Bereshit Rabbah

The rabbis of old, confronting the very same question, offered some pretty fascinating answers.

Take this story from Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Genesis. Rabbi Berekhya imagines God, before creating Adam, wrestling with a monumental dilemma. He sees, in His divine foresight, the whole spectrum of humanity that will descend from this first man – the righteous and, inevitably, the wicked.

"If I create him," God thinks, "wicked people will descend from him." A sobering thought. But then comes the counterpoint: "But if I do not create him, how will righteous people ever descend from him?" It’s a real cosmic Catch-22.

So, what does God do? According to Rabbi Berekhya, God "distanced the way of the wicked from His attention" and "appended the attribute of mercy to Himself" before creating Adam. In other words, God, knowing the risks, chose to focus on the potential for good, emphasizing mercy in the act of creation. It's a profound statement about hope, isn't it? That even knowing the potential for darkness, the possibility of light is worth the risk.

The verse from (Psalms 1:6) becomes key here: "For the Lord knows the way of the righteous, and the way of the wicked will be eradicated." Rabbi Berekhya interprets this to mean that God eradicated the awareness of the wicked from His immediate focus to allow for creation to proceed. And it’s worth noting, as the text points out, that at this pivotal moment of creation, the text shifts from using only the name Elohim (God) to Hashem Elohim (the Lord, God), with Hashem indicating God's attribute of mercy.

Now, Rabbi Ḥanina offers a slightly different, but equally compelling, take on the story. He pictures God consulting with the ministering angels before creating Adam, saying, "Let us make Man in our image, in our likeness" (Genesis 1:26).

The angels, naturally, want to know what this new creation will be like. God tells them that righteous people will arise from him. This is where (Psalms 1:6) comes in again. Rabbi Ḥanina interprets "For the Lord knows [yode’a] the way of the righteous" as God informing [hodi’a] the angels about the righteous who would emerge.

But here's the kicker: God doesn't tell them about the wicked. He "eradicated" or concealed that part from them. Why? Because, according to Rabbi Ḥanina, if the angels had known the full picture, the "attribute of justice" would have prevented them from agreeing to Adam's creation. They would have protested! The very existence of humanity, with all its flaws and failings, might never have happened if the full truth had been revealed beforehand. This interpretation highlights the delicate balance between justice and mercy, and the necessity of hope, even in the face of uncertainty.

These stories, these midrashim (rabbinic interpretive commentary) – interpretations – aren't just ancient tales. They're profound meditations on the nature of existence, the choices God makes (or is imagined to make), and the very real consequences of those choices for us. They remind us that we are, in a way, the answer to that original question: the embodiment of both the potential for righteousness and the shadow of wickedness. What we choose to do with that potential, that's up to us.

Full source
Bereshit Rabbah 53:5Bereshit Rabbah

The Torah, and the rabbinic tradition that blossoms from it, is obsessed with this very question. to a fascinating passage from Bereshit Rabbah 53, a midrash – a rabbinic interpretation – on the verses in Genesis about Sarah finally conceiving Isaac.

The passage kicks off with a quote from I Kings, Solomon's prayer at the dedication of the Temple: "Lord, God of Israel… who upheld for Your servant David, my father, what You had spoken to him." (I (Kings 8:23)–24). Bereshit Rabbah sees this as a pattern, a divine precedent. Just as God keeps promises to David, so too did God remember Sarah. “Who upheld for Your servant” – this, the midrash says, refers to Abraham. “What You had spoken to him” – that is, "at the prescribed time, I will return to you.” The promise, spoken long ago, finally comes to fruition. “You spoke with Your mouth, and You fulfilled it with Your hand, on this day” (I (Kings 8:2)4) – and this is linked directly to (Genesis 21:1)–2: “the Lord remembered Sarah […and Sarah conceived, and bore Abraham a son in his old age, at the appointed time that God had spoken to him].”

The midrash then turns to (Psalms 113:9): “He sets the barren woman at home, the mother of children is joyful.” This verse, according to the Rabbis, perfectly encapsulates Sarah's transformation. "He sets the barren woman at home" – that's Sarah, the Sarah who "was barren" (Genesis 11:30). "The mother of children is joyful" – that's Sarah, too, the Sarah who "would nurse children" (Genesis 21:7).

The midrash doesn’t stop there. The verse in Genesis says, "The Lord remembered Sarah as He had said, [and the Lord did to Sarah as He had spoken]." Why the double language? Why "said" and "spoken"? The Rabbis, masters of close reading, see significance in every word. What He Himself had "said" to her was communicated with saying, while "The Lord did to Sarah as He had spoken" refers to what He had spoken to her by means of an angel. It’s a subtle distinction, highlighting the different ways God communicates promise and fulfillment.

Rabbi Nechemya, however, flips the script. According to him, what He had said to her by means of an angel was with saying, while what He Himself had spoken to her was what He actually did.

Then comes Rabbi Yehuda, who offers yet another layer. "As He had said" – to grant her a son. "As He had spoken" – to bless her with milk. Rabbi Nechemya challenges this, pointing out that Sarah never received tidings about producing milk. This leads to another interpretation: God restored her to the days of her youth.

Rabbi Abahu adds that God imposed fear of her upon all the nations of the world, so they would not torment her and call her the barren woman. Imagine the societal stigma Sarah endured, and how this divine act protected her from further pain.

And then, a truly radical idea from Rabbi Yehuda in the name of Reish Lakish: She did not even have a womb, and the Holy One blessed be He now carved out a womb for her. This is more than just a miraculous pregnancy; it's a complete, transformative creation.

Finally, Rabbi Ada offers a powerful analogy: God is a "keeper of deposits [pikdonot]." Amalek deposited with God bundles of thorns – their animosity towards Israel. God returned those thorns. Sarah, on the other hand, deposited with God mitzvot (commandments) and good deeds. And God returned to her mitzvot and good deeds – "the Lord remembered Sarah." In other words, she was granted a son who would become a righteous person and perform mitzvot, fulfilling her legacy of good.

So, what does it all mean? This passage from Bereshit Rabbah isn't just about a miracle birth. It’s about the nature of promise and fulfillment, the many-sided ways God interacts with humanity, and the profound impact of righteous actions. It’s about a transformation so complete that it transcends even the physical limitations of the body. And ultimately, it's a reminder that even in the face of seemingly impossible circumstances, hope, faith, and good deeds can shape our destiny. What "deposits" are we making in the world, and what kind of "remembrance" are we hoping for?

Full source
Bereshit Rabbah 68:2Bereshit Rabbah

Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥman begins our story in Bereshit Rabbah 68, by interpreting a verse from Psalms (121:1) as referring directly to Jacob’s experience. “A song of ascents. I lift my eyes to the mountains [heharim]” – but Rabbi Shmuel doesn’t see literal mountains. Instead, he sees those who came before: “I lift my eyes to the parents [hahorim], to my teachers, and to those who raised me.” It’s about looking back to our foundations, to those who shaped us.

Then comes the gut punch: “From where will my help come?”

Jacob is about to begin a journey, a potentially dangerous one. He's being sent away from his family, from the safety of his father's home, to find a wife. He’s venturing out into the unknown. And he's comparing his situation to that of Eliezer, Abraham's servant, when he went to find a wife for Isaac. Remember that story? "The slave took ten camels…" (Genesis 24:10). He was loaded with gifts, provisions, everything he needed! But Jacob? Jacob laments, “…but I do not have even one nose ring or one bracelet.”

Ouch.

The Rabbis debate why Jacob was sent off so seemingly empty-handed. Rabbi Ḥanina says plainly: Isaac sent him empty-handed. Harsh! But Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi offers a slightly different take: He did send him with gifts, but Esau, ever the troublemaker, rose up and took them from him!

Either way, Jacob feels stripped bare.

So what does he do? Does he despair? Does he give up before he even starts?

No. Instead, he declares, “What, will I lose my confidence in my Creator? God forbid, I will not lose my confidence in my Creator.” He recognizes where his true help lies. Instead, “My help is from the Lord” (Psalms 121:2).

It's a powerful moment of faith. Jacob understands that material possessions aren't everything. His trust is in something far greater.

The passage continues, drawing strength from the Psalms: “He will not let your foot give way; He who watches over you will not slumber” (Psalms 121:3). “Behold, [the Guardian of Israel] neither slumbers nor sleeps…” (Psalms 121:4).

This idea of God as a constant, watchful protector is a recurring theme in Jewish thought. It's a source of immense comfort, especially in times of uncertainty.

“The Lord will guard you from all evil" (Psalms 121:7) – from Esau and from Laban; “He will guard your life” (Psalms 121:7) – from the angel of death. “The Lord will guard your going and your coming” (Psalms 121:8) – “Jacob departed.”

Even as Jacob departs, seemingly vulnerable and alone, he's surrounded by divine protection. This isn't just physical safety; it's a safeguarding of his very essence, his life force.

So, what can we take away from this? Maybe it's this: we might not always have the "ten camels" we think we need. We might feel unprepared, ill-equipped, facing a daunting journey. But like Jacob, we can choose to place our trust in something deeper, something more enduring. We can remember that our help comes from a source that never slumbers nor sleeps, a source that guards our going and our coming. And that, perhaps, is the most powerful resource of all.

Full source