From Tohu Vavohu to Tikvah: The Creative Act of Hope

In the beginning, the universe was tohu vavohu—chaos, collapse, an unraveling void. The Torah’s opening verses (Bereishit 1:1-2) paint a picture of profound disorder, a swirling darkness before creation takes shape. It is an image not only of cosmic origins but of something deeply human. We, too, know moments of tohu vavohu—when grief weighs heavy, when the world feels shattered, when the future is unclear. What does our tradition offer us in those moments? How do we respond to the formless void?

I am writing from a rabbinic conference in Chicago where 400 Reform rabbis have come together to learn, pray, connect, and find comfort in community. Much of our conversations have centered on the state of affairs in the world, particularly in the U.S. and Israel. We have sat in deep dialogue about chaos and despair, hope and resilience. The enormity of our world’s brokenness is palpable, yet, again and again, we return to the question: How do we move forward? What does it mean to cultivate hope—not as naïveté, but as a radical act of faith and creativity?

Rabbi Paul Kipnes captures this tension in his poem From Tohu VaVohu to Tikvah:

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In the beginning—before beginnings had breath—there was tohu vavohu,not just chaos,but collapse.Not just void,but the violenceof everythingcoming undone.

And the darkness—it was devastating.Dense, drowning,a weight so completeit unstitched the soul.A darknesswhere nothing moved,and even memorywas 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 weightof waiting.

We know that place.We’ve sat in its silent space.We’ve prayed in the rubblewith mouths full of ash.Through nightswhen the stars would not flash,and morningsthat failed to rise –In lightless hoursbeneath heavy skies.

Still, somein the long line of our peoplehave dared—not to dream,but to imaginesomething 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 choseto shape a futurefrom the ashes.

Not of stone,but of story.Not of sacrifice,but of study.Not of certainty,but of courageto begin againwithout knowingwhat would come.

This is not hopeas sunlight.Not hopeas anthem.This is the trembling traceof a pathdrawn in dust—a whisper thatthere might bea way forwardeven when forwardis 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 momentwhen imaginationdares to rise.

And maybe,just maybe,that toois a kind ofTikvah.

The power of this poem is in its honesty. There is no rush toward resolution, no easy assurance that light will instantly break through. Instead, there is a hovering, a waiting, a slow recognition that hope is not the absence of darkness but the courage to imagine beyond it.

Even before creation unfolds, the Torah tells us that the Divine spirit hovers over the face of the deep (Bereshit 1:2). It does not yet create, nor is light called forth. It simply bears witness. This is where hope begins—not in denying the chaos but in acknowledging it, in listening for the breath, the break, the possibility of something new.

Our ancestors have always known this kind of hope. Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai (1st century CE), standing amidst the destruction of the Second Temple, did not ask for what was but for what might be made anew. He dared to imagine a Judaism not of stone but of story, not of sacrifice but of study. His hope was an act of creativity, a refusal to let devastation be the final word.

So, too, must we cultivate hope as an act of creation. This is not a passive waiting but a conscious shaping of the future. It is not forcing the light, but holding space for transformation.

What hope do you see around you—in your home, your neighborhood, the DJC? What hope do you dare to imagine, and what work must we do, together, to bring that hope to life? May we all have the courage to sit in the tohu, to listen for tikvah, and to participate in the sacred work of bringing new light into being.

And maybe,just maybe,that toois a kind ofTikvah.

RIG

Please let me know what you think about today’s offering: rabbiglickman@djctoronto.com. I look forward to the conversation.