Parshat Bereshit4 min read

The Soul Made a Sound the World Could Not Hear

Three sounds cross the world from end to end though human ears cannot hold them. The loudest is the sound of a soul leaving the body.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Rabbi Pinchas Rebuked the People Who Laughed
  2. Three Sounds the World Cannot Contain
  3. The World Was Made for a Man Not But Born
  4. It Is Not Good to Be Alone

Rabbi Pinchas Rebuked the People Who Laughed

When Rabbi Shmuel bar Naḥman died in Tzippori, people nearby were laughing. Rabbi Pinchas turned to them and said: do you not understand what is happening right now? The sound of the soul leaving the body is crossing the world from one end to the other. You are laughing while the air itself is splitting.

His image was precise. The soul leaving the body, Rabbi Levi had taught, makes a sound as loud as the sound of a saw biting through cedar. A human being has just left the world, and the departure is not quiet. The death that looks peaceful from the outside is the sound of massive things being separated that were not meant to separate easily.

Three Sounds the World Cannot Contain

Three sounds travel from one end of the world to the other, even when no human ear can receive them. The first is the sound of the sun moving through its circuit in the sky, sawing through the heavens the way iron saws through wood. The second is the sound of the waters above calling to the waters below, and the waters below calling back. When the deep calls to the deep, the whole cosmic water system is in conversation with itself.

The third is the soul departing. The sun moves through heaven every day without announcement. Rain falls without anyone hearing the waters speak. But when a person dies, an even larger movement happens. A soul that was woven into a body and into the world tears free of both. The cedar-splitting sound is the measure of how tightly the two had been joined.

The World Was Made for a Man Not But Born

Genesis says the heavens and earth were created behibare'am, when they were created. The letters of that word rearrange into be'Avraham, for Abraham. The rabbis heard the world already tilting toward its own purpose from the moment of creation. Before Abraham was born, before his father Terah had left Ur, the world was already being made for the man who would answer when God called.

That is not a small claim. The sun moving through its daily arc, the waters speaking to each other, the souls of every generation departing with their world-crossing sound: all of it exists in a world prepared in advance for a particular kind of person. A person who would hear a call and go.

It Is Not Good to Be Alone

God looked at Adam and said: it is not good for the man to be alone. The midrash holds this beside the three world-crossing sounds. The soul that departs makes that vast noise because it was made for connection. A person joined to another person, joined to community, joined to Torah, is not easily separated. The sound of the separation is proportional to the depth of the joining.

The man who stood alone in the garden before Eve was made stood in an incomplete condition. The world was made for Abraham, who argued for strangers, who walked with others, who made covenants with neighbors and with God. The three sounds are all sounds of relation: the sun bound to its path, the waters bound to their cycle, the soul bound to the body it inhabited.

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

Bereshit Rabbah 6:7Bereshit Rabbah

Our Sages pondered this very idea. Rabbi Levi, in Bereshit Rabbah 6, shares a profound thought: There are three things whose sound, whose impact, travels the entire world, and yet we, creatures in the middle of it all, often don't fully grasp their magnitude. What are these things?

First, he says, is the day. it first appears the sun glides gracefully across the sky. Smooth and serene. But Rabbi Yehuda offers a different image. He compares the sun's journey to a saw relentlessly sawing through wood! Can you The sheer force and energy involved, a constant, powerful action happening right above us. We see the light, feel the warmth, but rarely contemplate the cosmic effort behind it all.

Next, Rabbi Levi mentions the rains. Where does this idea come from? He references (Psalms 42:8): “Depths call out to depths in the sound [of your waterways].” Think of a torrential downpour. It’s more than just water falling from the sky. It's a conversation between the heavens and the earth, a powerful exchange of energy that reverberates across the landscape. The Psalmist captures this feeling in the image of the depths calling to one another. But do we always truly hear it?

Finally, and perhaps most poignantly, Rabbi Levi speaks of the soul at the moment it leaves the body. This one hit me. There’s a story attached to this, a story that brings it home.

Rabbi Shmuel, the brother of Rabbi Pinḥas ben Rabbi Ḥama, was dying in Tzippori. His colleagues were there, sitting with him, offering comfort, perhaps confronting their own feelings of loss. As it sometimes happens in difficult moments, something humorous arose, and they began to laugh.

But Rabbi Pinḥas, the dying man’s brother, was deeply affected. He rebuked them, saying, "How the soul of the brother of that man [the soul of my brother] is hewing cedars and hewing trees… and you are sitting and laughing and are oblivious to it!" He knew, he felt, the enormity of what was happening, the monumental transition his brother was undergoing. The image of “hewing cedars and hewing trees” – a powerful metaphor for the soul's final struggle and release – juxtaposed with the mundane laughter of his colleagues… It’s a stark reminder of how easily we can miss the truly significant events unfolding around us.

This story, found in Bereshit Rabbah, really stays with you, doesn't it? It's a reminder to pay attention, to be present, to recognize the profound events – both joyful and sorrowful – that shape our lives and the lives of those around us. Are we truly listening to the world around us? Are we seeing the immense in the everyday?

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Bereshit Rabbah 12:9Bereshit Rabbah

In Bereshit Rabbah, one of our most beloved collections of Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) – stories that expand upon the Hebrew Bible – we find a fascinating perspective. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korḥa offers a striking interpretation of the word behibare’am, "when they were created," in the creation narrative. He connects it to Abraham, suggesting that the world was created because of Abraham.

behibare’am and be’Avraham are spelled with the same letters in Hebrew. It's a clever little play on words. But it's more than just a linguistic trick. Rabbi Azarya expands on this, quoting (Nehemiah 9:6): "You alone are the Lord; You made [the heavens, the heaven of heavens, and all their host, the earth and everything that is on it, the seas] and everything that is in them." All this effort, all this creation, was undertaken for what purpose? Nehemiah continues, "You are the Lord, the God who chose Abram, and took him out of Ur of the Chaldeans, and set his name as Abraham" (Nehemiah 9:7).

The entire cosmos, according to this view, was created with Abraham in mind.

Wait, there's more! Rabbi Yudan offers a beautiful analogy from (Psalm 104:18). It doesn't say, "the ibex are in the high mountains," but rather, "the high mountains are for the ibex." Why were those towering peaks created? For the ibex!

The ibex, is a vulnerable creature, constantly threatened by predators. But when it needs to drink, something amazing happens. According to Rabbi Yudan, the Holy One, blessed be He, instills a "manic spirit" within it. It shakes its horns wildly, creating a racket that scares away the wild beasts. It's like the ibex gets a divine boost of courage and strength precisely when it needs it most.

And it doesn't stop there. "The crag is a shelter for the hyrax" (Psalms 104:18). The hyrax, a small, furry creature, finds refuge under the crag from birds of prey circling above. It's protected.

The Midrash asks a powerful rhetorical question: If the Holy One, blessed be He, took such care in creating the world for these seemingly insignificant creatures, providing them with protection and strength, wouldn't He do even more for the sake of Abraham?

It's a profound thought. That even the smallest details of creation – the high mountains for the ibex, the crag for the hyrax – point to a larger purpose. A purpose that culminates in the emergence of a figure like Abraham, whose actions and faith would shape the course of history. The world, in this understanding, isn't just a random collection of stuff. It’s infused with intention, with care, with a divine plan that unfolds through the lives of individuals like you and me. It makes you wonder what we are being created for.

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Bereshit Rabbah 17:1Bereshit Rabbah

In fact, our sages wondered about that very thing way back in the book of Genesis!

We find it in (Genesis 2:18): "The Lord God said: It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make a helper for him alongside him." But what does it really mean? The rabbis of the Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations of Genesis, explore this seemingly simple verse and uncover a fascinating layer of meaning.

The Bereshit Rabbah connects this verse to a grander concept: the ten divine utterances with which God created the world. You know, those famous "God said.." moments from the first chapter of Genesis. "God said, let there be light!" "God said, let there be a firmament!" Each one a building block of creation.

In Avot, 5:1, the world was created with ten divine utterances. The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) then goes on to list them: "In the beginning [God created the heavens and the earth]" (Genesis 1:1), even though the words “God said” aren’t explicitly written there, it's understood that God's command was the force behind creation, as we see in (Psalms 33:6). And then: “the wind of God hovered [over the surface of the water]" (Genesis 1:2). Again, the Midrash interprets ruaḥ – usually translated as "spirit" – as "wind." Similar to the first utterance, even though the words “God said” aren’t written, it was through God’s command that the wind came about.

Then come the more familiar ones: "God said: Let there be light" (Genesis 1:3); "God said: Let there be a firmament" (Genesis 1:6); "God said: Let the water be gathered" (Genesis 1:9); "God said: Let the earth sprout [grass]" (Genesis 1:11); "God said: Let there be lights" (Genesis 1:14); "God said: Let the water swarm" (Genesis 1:20); "God said: Let the earth produce" (Genesis 1:24); and finally, "God said: Let us make man" (Genesis 1:26).

But here’s where it gets interesting. Menahem bar Yosei actually removes "The wind of God hovered" from the list and replaces it with "The Lord God said: It is not good that the man should be." for a second. Why? Well, perhaps he felt that the statement about man's solitude was significant enough to warrant its own place among the foundational acts of creation.

However, Rabbi Yaakov ben Kurshai disagrees! He believes a special utterance was indeed devoted specifically to the wind and maintains the original count of ten utterances.

So, what are we to make of this debate? Is it just a numbers game? I don't think so. It highlights the profound importance the rabbis placed on the creation of companionship. The very foundation of the world, the very act of bringing order from chaos, was, in a way, incomplete until there was someone to share it with. Until there was connection.

Perhaps that feeling of something missing isn't just a personal one, but a reflection of the very structure of creation itself. We are, after all, created to connect, to build relationships, to find our "helper alongside us." And maybe, just maybe, that connection is as vital to the world as light, firmament, and the very wind itself.

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Bereshit Rabbah 51:3Bereshit Rabbah

Ever catch a whiff of sulfur and feel a little. uneasy? There's a reason for that, according to ancient Jewish wisdom. It all circles back to the idea of divine justice and the consequences of our actions. to what Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Genesis, has to say about it.

The verse That word, paḥim, is fascinating because it can mean both "coals" and "traps." So, right away, we get this image of the wicked being caught in a fiery, inescapable situation.

Why brimstone? Why does that smell unsettle us so deeply? It’s because our souls instinctively know that brimstone is associated with future judgment. It's tied to the idea that "fire and brimstone. will be their lot [menat kosam]." Menat kosam – their allotted cup.

Rabbi Yishmael bar Naḥman, quoting Rabbi Yonatan, offers a vivid analogy: it's like a cup of herbal drink you crave after a hot bath. You savor every last drop. In the same way, the wicked will be forced to drink their "cup" of punishment to the very end. There's no escaping it, no leaving any bitterness behind.

Now, here’s where it gets interesting. Rabbi Ḥanina [ben Pazi] makes a bold statement: "Nothing bad ever descends from on High."! Does that mean God only sends good things?

Someone immediately raises an objection: What about the verse that says, "Fire and hail, snow and vapor"? (Psalms 148:8). Aren’t those destructive forces? Rabbi Ḥanina responds that it’s the "storm wind" that "performs His word" (Psalms 148:8). In other words, when these elements first come from heaven, they're not inherently harmful. It's the storm wind, the force that shapes and directs them, that makes them destructive. It’s a fascinating perspective: the potential for destruction exists, but it's how that potential is used that matters.

However, Rabbi Shimon ben Lakish offers a different viewpoint. He points to (Deuteronomy 28:12), "The Lord will open for you His storehouse of goodness." The implication? If there’s a storehouse of goodness, there must be other storehouses too – storehouses that contain things other than goodness. Oof.

Then, there’s a subtle point about the phrase "From the Lord from the heavens." Why repeat the source? The text suggests it's "like something hurled by a mighty man." It's not just coming from heaven, it’s being sent with force and intention.

So, what are we left with? A complex picture of divine justice. Is it inherently good, only turned destructive by external forces? Or does God have storehouses of both good and, well, not-so-good, which are unleashed upon the world? Maybe the truth lies somewhere in between. Perhaps the "brimstone and fire" aren't just punishments, but also warnings, reminders of the consequences of our choices, and calls to return to the path of righteousness. And maybe, just maybe, that unsettling sulfur smell is a little nudge from the universe, urging us to choose wisely.

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Midrash Shmuel 9:3Midrash Shmuel

Rabbi Levi said: The Holy One, blessed be He, knows the wonders that He performs for His creatures, but His creatures do not know the wonders that He performs with them. It was taught: Three things, their sound goes from one end of the world to the other, and the creatures are in between and do not perceive it. And these are they: the day, the rains, and the soul at the hour when it departs [from the body]. The day, from where? Rabbi Yehuda bar Rabbi Ilai said: You suppose that this day glides smoothly along with the firmament; but rather it saws into the firmament like this saw. And the rains, from where? Rabbi Levi said: "Deep calls to deep at the sound of Your channels" (Psalms 42:8). The soul, from where? Rabbi Shmuel, the brother of Rabbi Pinchas bar Chama, was in Sikhnin, and the companions went up to visit him. A word came (was spoken) and they laughed. He said: The sound of the soul of that man's brother (i.e., my own soul) is breaking cedars and uprooting trees, and you sit here and do not know.

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