From Tohu VaVohu to Tikvah

In the beginning—

before beginnings had breath—

there was tohu vavohu,

not just chaos,

but collapse.

Not just void,

but the violence

of everything

coming undone.

And the darkness—

it was devastating.

Dense, drowning,

a weight so complete

it unstitched the soul.

A darkness

where nothing moved,

and even memory

was too frightened to speak.

And the hovering—

yes, God hovered—

but in the hovering,

hope hadn’t happened.

No light.

No language.

Only the breathless weight

of waiting.

We know that place.

We’ve sat in its silent space.

We’ve prayed in the rubble

with mouths full of ash.

Through nights

when the stars would not flash,

and mornings

that failed to rise –

In lightless hours

beneath heavy skies.

Still, some

in the long line of our people

have dared—

not to dream,

but to imagine

something other than despair.

One, long ago,

let the holy fall,

let the center collapse,

and asked not for what was,

but for what might be made anew.

Ben Zakkai saw what could not be saved,

and still chose

to shape a future

from the ashes.

Not of stone,

but of story.

Not of sacrifice

,but of study.

Not of certainty,

but of courage

to begin again

without knowing

what would come.

This is not hope

as sunlight.

Not hope

as anthem.

This is the trembling trace

of a path

drawn in dust—

a whisper that

there might be

a way forward

even when forward

is still formless.

So we sit.

In the tohu.

In the devastation.

Not rushing resurrection.

Not forcing the light.

But listening—

for the breath,

for the break,

for the moment

when imagination

dares to rise.

And maybe,

just maybe,

that too

is a kind of

Tikvah.