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When Hashem first created the world, the Torah introduces us to elements of desolation and darkness:

 

וְהָאָרֶץ הָיְתָה תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ וְחֹשֶׁךְ עַל־פְּנֵי תְהוֹם, וְרוּחַ אֱלֹקּים מְרַחֶפֶת עַל־פְּנֵי הַמָּיִם

“The earth was unformed and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the spirit of God hovered over the surface of the waters.”

 (בראשית א:ב)

 

These primordial elements hovered above the world but never found connection with the land. The Midrash Rabbah teaches that these four expressions, tohu, bohu, choshech, and tehom, represent the four galuyot (exiles) of the Jewish people. Exile itself is an expression of middat hadin, the attribute of judgment.

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In the beginning, the Torah refers to Elohim, the Divine Name of judgment. Only later, when man is created, do we see the name י-ה-ו-ה אֱלֹקּים, uniting chesed and rachamim (mercy) with din.  As the sages explain, Hashem first intended to create the world through judgment alone but saw that it could not endure. Therefore, He joined to it the quality of mercy (Rashi on Bereishit 2:4). Judgment, so to speak, remained suspended, hovering above the waters, awaiting a time when humanity could integrate it properly. It may have been destined to come first, but rachamim (mercy) became its necessary substitute.

 

The Raven and the Dove

 

When the mabul (flood) was over, Noach was tasked with rebuilding the world. His first actions were crucial to setting the new creation on the right footing.

As the Torah says:

וַיְשַׁלַּח אֶת־הָעֹרֵב – 

“He sent out the raven.” 

(בראשית ח:ז)

 

According to the Sforno, Noach sent out the raven “לראות אם יבש האויר”,  to see whether the atmosphere had dried out after the mountaintops became visible, so that the raven could endure it.

 

But perhaps, beneath this practical act lay a deeper spiritual intention. Noach may have been attempting to restart the world through din, judgment. In fact, Rabbi Moshe Dovid Vali (1697-1777) ztz'l states, the very Hebrew word for raven, עוֹרֵב (Orev), shares a root with עֶרֶב (erev), “evening,” the time of diminishing light and judgment.

 

After witnessing the moral collapse that brought about the Flood, Noach may have thought that a stricter, more measured world was needed one governed by order, control, and consequence.

Sending out a black raven, reflected this intuitive desire for structure through judgment.

 

The color black, as the Ramak teaches in Pardes Rimonim (שער י׳), symbolizes malchut in a diminished state, when the vessel acts without the fullness of divine light:

 

העשירית היא מלכות... ובזוהר בקצת המקומות מייחס השחרות למדה זו להעדר אורה... אל תראוני שאני שחרחורת (שה״ש א:ו)

“The tenth [sefirah] is Malchut... and in some places the Zohar attributes blackness to it due to the absence of light, as it is said, ‘Do not look upon me that I am blackened.’”

 

The עוֹרֵב, raven that Noach sent forth never touched the ground, it flew “יָצֹא וָשׁוֹב”, “to and fro above the waters.” Judgment, once again, could not land; it could not find rest upon the earth. It hovered above, disconnected, just as din did in the first moments of creation. The attempt to rebuild the world through judgment was a non-starter.

 

Recognizing this, Noach then sent out the white dove, יוֹנָה לְבָנָה, the symbol of chesed and light.

Unlike the raven, the dove found a place to rest her feet upon the earth. In the words of Bereishit Rabbah (פרשה לג) and Etz Yosef, the dove represents אור וחסד, illumination and kindness.

 

The cycle of creation repeated itself: judgment first, then kindness. But this time, Hashem did not act alone. He partnered with humanity, with Noach's own choice, to create a world that could endure, a world balanced between strength and compassion.

 

Judgment Kept at Bay

 

This same symbolism later reappeared in the Beit HaMikdash. The Mishnah (Middot ד:ו) records that spikes were placed upon the roof of the Heichal, אַמָּה כָּלֵה עוֹרֵב – “a cubit-high fence, to keep the ravens away.”

 

The raven, embodiment of  דִּין, judgment, was not allowed to land upon the Mikdash. And yet, the Yonah, the dove, was accepted as a korban, an offering of peace. The Mikdash thus stood as a microcosm of the world, a space where kindness prevails and harsh judgment is transformed into gentleness and connection.

 

Eliyahu HaNavi &
the Measure of Din

 

Generations later, Eliyahu HaNavi, the prophet of fire and judgment, was sustained by ravens while hiding in the cave (מלכים א׳ י״ז). It was a perfect midah k’neged midah, a measure-for-measure response. The prophet who embodied judgment was fed by the bird that symbolized it. Rashi (on בראשית ח:ז) connects these two events:

“The raven was kept in readiness for another mission in the days of Eliyahu, when the rain was withheld, as it is said, ‘And the ravens brought him bread and meat’ (מלכים א׳ י״ז:ו).”

The raven thus becomes a thread through time, appearing whenever din dominates the world.

 

Beit Hillel to Beit Shammai

 

Eliyahu HaNavi will one day herald the coming of Moshiach. In that future era, we will ascend to a higher understanding where even din will be seen as tov, good. The sages teach that in the times of Moshiach, halachah will follow Beit Shammai, whose approach reflects refined judgment.

 

But in our present age, we live under the influence of Beit Hillel, the world of chesed. Our task is to build gently, to choose kindness, to mirror Hashem’s light in the imperfect world around us. 

 

Time Ajustment

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Salvador Dalí (1904–1989), the Spanish surrealist master of dreamlike imagery and precise technique, saw art as revelation rather than control, an unfolding mystery shaped by forces beyond the artist’s hand. His The Persistence of Memory (1931), with its melting clocks, became an icon of imagination bending reality.

 

He urged creators to act, not overthink,
reminding us:

“Have no fear of perfection...you’ll never reach it.”

 

Like creation itself, art begins with structure but finds life in the abstract. The process may start with דין (din), judgment and precision, but it must conclude with חסד (chesed), kindness and openness to explore.

 

As artists, our task is to do, not to be paralyzed by perfection. Sometimes the work shifts course, and that too is part of creation. From Hashem we learn that even the most exact design may need adjustment.

 

This is the rhythm of creation. This is the rhythm of creativity. Be open to change, and you’ll be surprised by what unfolds when you channel the attributes of Hashem. ϗ