Dear TBZ Community,
At the end of last week’s Torah portion, Bereishit, we encounter a description of a world that has lost its way:
וַיַּרְא יְהֹוָה כִּי רַבָּה רָעַת הָאָדָם בָּאָרֶץ וְכׇל־יֵצֶר מַחְשְׁבֹת לִבּוֹ רַק רַע כׇּל־הַיּוֹם
Adonai saw how great was human wickedness on earth—how every plan devised by the human mind was nothing but evil all the time (Genesis 6:5).
This verse appears in the very same Torah portion that begins with the creation of the world. So quickly, within just a few chapters, God’s view of humanity changes from wonder to heartbreak.
At creation, we read:
וַיַּרְא אֱלֹהִים אֶת־כׇּל־אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה וְהִנֵּה־טוֹב מְאֹד
And God saw all that had been made, and found it very good (Genesis 1:31).
But only a few chapters later:
וַיִּנָּחֶם יְהֹוָה כִּי־עָשָׂה אֶת־הָאָדָם בָּאָרֶץ וַיִּתְעַצֵּב אֶל־לִבּוֹ
And Adonai regretted having made humankind on earth, and was saddened to the heart (Genesis 6:6).
It is a devastating image: God, looking upon creation and seeing only corruption and violence. It is not just disappointment, it is grief. God regrets having made humanity.
And yet, in the midst of this divine despair, something shifts. God sees one person:
וְנֹחַ מָצָא חֵן בְּעֵינֵי יְהֹוָה
But Noah found favor in the eyes of Adonai (Genesis 6:8).
In the midst of sorrow, God perceives one human being. The possibility of redemption begins not with perfection, but with perception – with the capacity to see and to be moved by what we see.
The Torah does not present Noah as a hero or a prophet. In fact, the praise he receives is ambiguous:
אִישׁ צַדִּיק תָּמִים הָיָה בְּדֹרֹתָיו
A righteous man, blameless in his generation (Genesis 6:9)
The rabbis wonder: was he truly righteous, or only in comparison to a generation steeped in wickedness? Noah does not protest the destruction of others, as Abraham later will. And after the flood we see him broken, drunk, exposed, humiliated. His story is not one of heroism, but perhaps of survival and of quiet endurance.
And yet, the Torah adds one more phrase:
אֶת־הָאֱלֹהִים הִתְהַלֶּךְ־נֹחַ
Noah walked with God (Genesis 6:9)
This simple statement reveals something profound. It describes a relationship, perhaps even partnership. Noah walks with God. He has not abandoned the Divine, even in a world overcome by violence.
In God’s eyes, this flawed, limited human being is enough to save the world. Why? Because Noah still walks with God. Because he maintains connection, presence, and faith when so much around him has been lost.
Our tradition teaches that the world was created from one human being to remind us of the infinite worth of every single life. Many of us know the teaching from the Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5:
לְפִיכָךְ נִבְרָא אָדָם יְחִידִי, לְלַמֶּדְךָ, שֶׁכָּל הַמְאַבֵּד נֶפֶשׁ אַחַת מִיִּשְׂרָאֵל, מַעֲלֶה עָלָיו הַכָּתוּב כְּאִלּוּ אִבֵּד עוֹלָם מָלֵא. וְכָל הַמְקַיֵּם נֶפֶשׁ אַחַת מִיִּשְׂרָאֵל, מַעֲלֶה עָלָיו הַכָּתוּב כְּאִלּוּ קִיֵּם עוֹלָם מָלֵא
Whoever destroys a single soul is as if they destroyed an entire world; and whoever saves a single soul, it is as if they saved an entire world.
Even when God doubts the human project, even when the world seems irredeemable, Noah embodies the potential still alive in humanity: the potential to care, to protect, to preserve life. God understands that saving Noah’s life and his family’s means saving all of humanity. In that act, God teaches us that same lesson.
When God instructs Noah to build the ark, the Torah offers many specific details. One, in particular, draws my attention:
צֹהַר תַּעֲשֶׂה לַתֵּבָה
Make an opening for daylight in the ark (Genesis 6:16)
Why would they need a window? Wouldn’t it be safer to close themselves inside, sealed off from the destruction outside, waiting in darkness for the storm to pass?
I love this image. The ark is a place of protection, but it is not meant to be sealed in darkness. There must be a window, an opening to see both the danger around them and the light that might emerge beyond.
This, perhaps, is a metaphor for our own lives. We, too, are trying to survive in a world that feels flooded with pain, violence, and fear. We ride the waves in our own arks, structures that, we hope, keep us safe. But like Noah, we must remember to build windows, to stay open to the pain outside, to stay connected, alert, alive.
The windows are both our capacity to see and to feel, to not grow numb, and our capacity to hope. Through them, light and possibility can still enter.
Like Noah, we cannot stop the storm on our own, but perhaps we can preserve some measure of tenderness, some spark of light, some faith in the human possibility to begin again.
This week, Rabbi Arthur Waskow (a gadol hador, a giant of our generation) left this world. As Jay Michelson wrote in his beautiful obituary, Reb Arthur transformed how Jews understand themselves and their religion’s relationship to political engagement. He was a prophetic voice for justice, peace, and the renewal of Jewish life.
In an essay called “The Parables of Flood, Ark, Rainbow,” Rabbi Waskow reflected on this very story:
“Finally, the biggest lesson of all: The need for profound change. The story of the Flood recounts that even God must change at a time of great crisis. The story begins when God, seeing that the human imagination was drawn toward evil, determined to destroy all life, except for one human family led by Noah, and one pair of every species. God rained death on every being except those who took refuge with Noah on the Ark.
“One solar year later, the waters subsided so that these refugees could emerge. And then God, though explicitly asserting once again that the human imagination is drawn toward evil, took an almost opposite tack: God promised that the cycles of life must never be destroyed again, insisted that new rules of behavior must govern human action in the future, and gave the Rainbow as a sign of this covenant.”
This week’s parashah (Torah portion) teaches that even in the midst of terrible turmoil, neither we as human beings nor God can give up. That is the covenant: a continued trust and hope that transformation is possible, even when it seems almost impossible.
Perhaps this is the ultimate message of Noah: that it is never too late for transformation. That even from the deepest regret, new covenants can emerge. That a single act of seeing, of favor, of noticing the light in another can still save a world.
So I think of Noah not as a perfect man, but as one who carried potential.
And I think of us, each holding our own small measure of humanity, trying to stay human in the midst of it all.
May we, too, build our arks not to shut ourselves off, but to shelter what is sacred. And may we always remember to build a window.
May this Shabbat bring renewal and blessing.
May we find strength, courage, and patience, and open our hearts with generosity.
May this Shabbat bring moments of stillness, clarity, and connection.
May we reach for one another gently, lovingly.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rav Claudia