Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Genesis, delves into this very idea, exploring how God’s mercy permeates everything.
The verse from Psalms 145:9, “The Lord is good to all, and His mercy is upon all His works,” serves as the springboard for a fascinating discussion. Rabbi Levi sees this as a direct connection: God is good because everything is His creation, His maasav. Rabbi Shmuel takes it a step further, arguing that mercy is simply God's inherent attribute, His very nature. It’s who He is.
But here's where it gets really interesting. Rabbi Yehoshua of Sikhnin, in the name of Rabbi Levi, suggests that God imparts some of this mercy to us, His creations. We become partners in this divine attribute, tasked with practicing compassion among ourselves. What happens when we fall short?
Rabbi Tanhuma and Rabbi Abba bar Avin, quoting Rabbi Aha, offer a powerful insight. Imagine a drought, a time of scarcity and hardship. In such times, people naturally develop compassion for one another. And, they suggest, this very human compassion stirs divine mercy in return, bringing forth the life-giving rain.
This idea is beautifully illustrated in a story about Rabbi Tanhuma himself. During a severe drought, the community implored him to decree a fast. He did so, not just once, but three times – and still, no rain. Rabbi Tanhuma then urges the people to fill themselves with mercy for one another, believing that this will, in turn, invoke God’s mercy. As they distributed charity, they noticed a man giving money to his former wife. Now, Jewish law at the time frowned upon such interactions. But when questioned, the man explained he saw her distress and was moved to compassion. At that moment, Rabbi Tanhuma, witnessing this act of unexpected kindness, turned to the heavens and pleaded, “Master of the universe, if this man, who has no obligation to support her, saw her in distress and became filled with compassion for her, then regarding You, of whom it is written: ‘Gracious and merciful,’ and us, who are the descendants of Your beloved ones… all the more so that You should become filled with compassion for us.” And then, the rain came.
It’s a potent reminder that our actions can ripple outwards, influencing not only our immediate surroundings but even the divine response.
But what about when we don't show compassion? The text offers another poignant story, this time about Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi, often simply referred to as "Our Rabbi," a central figure in Jewish history and the compiler of the Mishnah.
He was once absorbed in Torah study when a calf, destined for slaughter, passed by, lowing in distress. Rabbi, unmoved, simply said, "What can I do? It was for this purpose that you were created." Shortly after, Rabbi was afflicted with terrible toothaches for thirteen years. Interestingly, during those thirteen years, no woman in the land of Israel miscarried or suffered during childbirth. Rabbi Yosei bar Avin suggests that Rabbi's suffering served as atonement for others. Later, when Rabbi saw his daughter about to kill a small creature, he stopped her, reminding her that “His mercy is upon all His works.” According to the text, Rabbi Yehuda came to believe that his suffering was a direct result of his earlier callousness towards the calf.
It's a powerful lesson about the interconnectedness of all living things and the importance of extending compassion even when it's difficult.
The text then veers into a seemingly unrelated anecdote about Rabbi's humility and his interactions with Rabbi Hiyya the Great, a prominent scholar. It highlights the importance of showing deference to those deserving of respect, even when one holds a higher position. It also underscores the value of Torah study and the lengths to which scholars would go to preserve and transmit Jewish knowledge. It's fascinating how these seemingly disparate stories are woven together, each contributing to the larger theme of compassion and its impact on the world.
Finally, Bereshit Rabbah offers a contrasting perspective: Rabbi Shmuel bar Nahmani observes that the wicked can transform God's attribute of mercy into strict justice, while the righteous can soften God's attribute of justice into mercy. He illustrates this point by contrasting how God is referred to in different situations. When describing acts of wickedness, the text uses the name "Lord" (associated with mercy) in contexts of regret and destruction. Conversely, when describing acts of righteousness, the text uses the name "Elohim" (associated with justice) in contexts of remembrance and covenant. Noah is remembered, the text suggests, not just because he was righteous, but because of his compassion for the animals in the ark.
So, what are we left with? Bereshit Rabbah 33 paints a compelling picture of a world shaped by compassion, both human and divine. It reminds us that we have the power to influence the flow of mercy in the world, either by embracing it or by turning away from it. It's a call to action, urging us to cultivate compassion in our own lives and to recognize its transformative potential.