Parshas Bereishis 5783
Everyone gets a trophy! Well, almost everyone.
The words “ki tov—It was good,” are repeated so frequently throughout the creation narrative that it appears at first glance as though every feature of the created world receives Hashem’s stamp of approval. Upon closer inspection, though, there is one glaring omission.
On the second day of creation, when Hashem sets the firmament to divide between the lower and upper waters, the words “ki tov” are not used. Rashi explains that this is because, in truth, the work was not yet done. Hashem considers the firmament to be in its fully proper ad completed state only once Day Three arrives, when the lower waters are gathered together to form seas and oceans. Once this is achieved, the term ki tov appears. It is stated twice in the description of the events of Day Three—once in reference to all that was newly created on that day, and once as a final seal of approval on the firmament, whose creation began the day before but was only completed on the third day.
This is all to say that Hashem uses the term ki tov more selectively than we may have first realized. Which begs the question, why is Day Three worthy of a “ki tov” at all?
.וַיֹּאמֶר אֱלֹקים תַּדְשֵׁא הָאָרֶץ דֶּשֶׁא עֵשֶׂב מַזְרִיעַ זֶרַע עֵץ פְּרִי עֹשֶׂה פְּרִי לְמִינוֹ אֲשֶׁר זַרְעוֹ־בוֹ עַל־הָאָרֶץ וַיְהִי־כֵן
בראשית א:יא
And Hashem said, “Let the earth sprout vegetation: seed-bearing plants, trees of fruit that bear fruit of its kind with the seed in it, upon the earth.” And it was so.
Bereishis 1:11
Rashi comments that the term “eitz pri,” “trees of fruit,” used in this pasuk is precise. Hashem called for trees to be brought forth from earth that would not only produce fruit, but would taste like fruit themselves, trees whose bark would be no less delicious than the fruit that would ultimately hang from its branches. Yet the earth did not do so. In the next pasuk, when the trees that were actually brought forth are described, the term used is “eitz oseh pri—trees producing fruit.” The trees yielded fruit, but did not taste like fruit themselves. The earth fell down on its job.
Hashem’s response? “Ki tov!” Which is difficult to swallow. If every day of creation gets stamped with a glowing “ki tov” without discernment, then why does Day Two get left behind? And if a “ki tov” is to be withheld when undeserved, why does Day Three receive the accolade, despite the obvious shortcomings?
Perhaps the difference between the two lies in who has come up short. When Hashem considers the firmament of the second day of creation, He is assessing His own work, not that of another. And so He exercises greater scrutiny. There is no “ki tov” awarded when Hashem knows full well that He can and will do better, when the as-yet imperfect creation can still be perfected.
But the failure of producing trees with delicious bark is not Hashem’s own. It was the earth that fell short, that didn’t fully comply with the orders given. It is here that Hashem is less demanding, less insistent that “ki tov” be uttered only once things are absolutely perfect. While the flaw is recorded, the deviation from Hashem’s initial command can be clearly identified, the misstep doesn’t stand in the way of Hashem’s stamp of approval and acceptance. Day Three is still, “ki tov,” errors and all.
In an address given in Yeshivat Har Etzion during the month of Elul many years ago, the late Rav Yehuda Amital noted that human beings possess a remarkable capacity both for scrutiny and for acceptance. Scrutiny tends to be directed towards the other—other individuals, groups, or organizations—that we disagree with or are unimpressed by. Acceptance, on the other hand, is directed towards ourselves. When we fall short, it’s justified. When we stumble, we rationalize. When we commit errors, they are isolated examples, unreflective of the bigger picture of who we really are. To grow as people, though, we must flip the script—to scrutinize our own behavior a bit more and be more demanding of ourselves, while extending the courtesy of understanding towards others whose imperfections we so readily notice.
“Ki tov” is a flipping of that script. Hashem holds Himself to a higher standard, as it were, compared to the creations that do His bidding. He cannot abide a premature “ki tov” when there is yet more He demands of Himself. The earth, on the other hand, even after a major folly, does receive Hashem’s imprimatur. It is “ki tov,” the flaw notwithstanding.
What would we look like if we were a bit slower to hang the badge of “ki tov” on our own lapels? What would the world look like if we placed it a bit more easily on those around us?