The Torah tells us, "The Lord God formed the man of dirt from the ground and He breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living soul" (Genesis 2:7). But what does it really mean?
Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Genesis, dives deep into this verse. It begins by quoting Proverbs 29:4: "A king will uphold the land with justice [but a man of terumot destroys it]." What's the connection? Well, the midrash, or interpretive story, equates the "king" with the King of Kings, God Himself. "Will uphold the land with justice" alludes to how God created the world with the attribute of justice, as we see in Genesis 1:1: "In the beginning, God [Elohim] created." See, throughout the creation narrative, God is referred to as Elohim, which emphasizes his attribute of strict justice.
But then comes the twist: "but a man of terumot destroys it" – this, Bereshit Rabbah says, is Adam, the first man! So why is Adam called a "man of terumot"?
This is where it gets fascinating. Adam, according to Rabbi Yosei ben Ketzarta in Bereshit Rabbah 14, was the ḥalla of the completion of the world. Ḥalla, for those unfamiliar, is the portion of dough that's separated and sanctified after it's been kneaded, traditionally given to a priest to eat. Think of it as the sacred finale, the perfect finishing touch. The ḥalla is also called teruma, a portion set aside as sacred, just like it says in Numbers 15:20: "The first of your kneading basket [you shall separate as a loaf, as teruma]."
Rabbi Yosei offers a beautiful analogy: It’s like a woman mixing dough with water and then separating the ḥalla. Similarly, "a mist would rise from the earth" (Genesis 2:6), forming a dough-like mixture, and then, "The Lord God formed [man]…"
So, Adam was intended to be this sacred offering, the culmination of creation. But the proverb says "a man of terumot destroys it." The implication, though not explicitly stated here, is that Adam, by failing to live up to his potential, marred this perfect ending. He was meant to uphold the world with justice, just like the King, but… well, we know how that story goes.
This midrash isn't just a history lesson. It's a challenge. We are, in a sense, all descendants of Adam, all meant to be that sacred offering. Are we living up to our potential? Are we upholding the world with justice? Or are we, like Adam, falling short? It’s a question worth pondering, isn't it?