In stately prose the Torah in its opening chapter describes the unfolding of the universe, the effortless creation of a single creative Force. Repeatedly we read, “And G‑dWho is the “us”? said, Let there be … and there was … and G‑d saw that it was good” – until we come to the creation of humankind. Suddenly the whole tone of the narrative changes:

And G‑d said, “Let us make man in our image, according to our likeness, and let them rule over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of heaven, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every moving thing that moves upon the earth.”

So G‑d created man in His image,

In the image of G‑d He created him,

Male and female He created them. (Gen. 1: 26-27)

The problems are obvious. First, why the preface, “Let us make…”? In no other case does G‑d verbally reflect on what He is about to create before He creates it. Second, who is the “us”? At that time there was no “us.” There was only G‑d.

There are many answers, but here I want to focus only on one given by the Talmud. It is quite extraordinary. The “us” refers to the angels with whom G‑d consulted. He did so because He was faced with a fateful dilemma. By creating Homo sapiens, G‑d was making the one being other than Himself capable of destroying life on earth. Read Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs and Steel or Collapse and you will discover how destructive humans have been wherever they have set foot, creating environmental damage and human devastation on a massive scale. We are still doing so. This is how the Talmud describes what happened before G‑d created humankind:

When the Holy One, blessed be He, came to create man, He created a group of ministering angels and asked them, “Do you agree that we should make man in our image?” They replied, “Sovereign of the Universe, what will be his deeds?”

G‑d showed them the history of mankind. The angels replied, “What is man that You are mindful of him?” [in other words, let man not be created].

G‑d destroyed the angels.

He created a second group, and asked them the same question, and they gave the same answer. G‑d destroyed them.

He created a third group of angels, and they replied, “Sovereign of the Universe, the first and second group of angels told You not to create man, and it did not avail them. You did not listen. What then can we say but this: The universe is Yours. Do with it as You wish.”

Then G‑d created man.

When it came to the generation of the Flood, and then to the generation of the builders of Babel, the angels said to G‑d, “Were not the first angels right? See how great is the corruption of mankind.”

Then G‑d replied (Isaiah 46:4), “Even to old age I will not change, and even to grey hair, I will still be patient.” (Sanhedrin 38b)

This goes to the core of the dilemma even G‑d could not escape. Were He not to create humanity there would be no-one in the universe capable of understanding that he or she wasWithout us it would be as if G‑d created billions of robots created and that G‑d exists. Only with the birth of humanity did the universe become self-conscious. Without us, it would be as if G‑d had created billions of robots mindlessly doing what they been programmed to do for all eternity. So, even though by creating humans G‑d was putting the entire future of creation at risk, G‑d went ahead and made humankind.

This is radical theology indeed. The Talmud is telling us is that the existence of humankind can only be explained by the fact that G‑d had faith in man. As the Sifre explains the phrase in Moses’ song, “the G‑d of faith” – this means, “the G‑d who had faith in the universe and created it.”1 The real religious mystery, according to Judaism, is not our faith in G‑d. It is G‑d’s faith in us.

This is the extraordinary idea that shines through the entire Tanakh. G‑d invests his hopes for the universe in this strange, refractory, cantankerous, ungrateful and sometimes degenerate creature called Homo sapiens, part dust of the earth, part breath of G‑d, whose behavior disappoints and sometimes appalls him. Yet He never gives up.

He tries with Adam, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Joshua, a string of judges and kings. He tries with women also, and here succeeds much better. They are more faithful, less violent, less obsessed with power. But He refuses to give up on men. He has His most passionate relationship with the prophets. They understand Him and become bearers of His word. Yet most of the prophets end up as disappointed with people as G‑d is.

The real subject of the Torah is not our faith in G‑d, which is often faltering, but His unfailing faith in us. The Torah is not man’s book of G‑d. It is G‑d’s book of man. He spends a mere 34 verses describing His own creation of the universe, but more than 500 verses describing the Israelites’ creation of a tiny, temporary, portable building called the Mishkan, the Sanctuary. G‑d never stops believing in us, loving us, and hoping for the best from us. There are moments when He almost despairs. Our parsha says so.

The L‑rd saw how great the wickedness of the human race had become on the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil all the time. The L‑rd regretted that he had made human beings on the earth, and He was grieved to His very core.

But Noah, good, innocent, upright, consoles Him. For the sake of one good man G‑d was prepared to begin again.

Of course, all of this is a matter of faith – as is all belief in the thoughts and feelings of persons other than myself. Do I really know whether those closest to me – my marriage partner, my children, my companions, my friends – love me or have faith in me, or is that just wishful thinking on my part? Atheists sometimes think that belief in G‑d is irrational while belief in other people is rational. That is simply not so. The proof is the failure of the man who, at the dawn of the Enlightenment, sought to put philosophy on a rational basis: Rene Descartes. Descartes famously said, Cogito ergo sum, “I think, therefore I am.” All he was sure of was his own existence. For anything else – the existence of physical objects, let alone other minds – even he had to invoke G‑d.

I for one do not have enough faith to be an atheist.2 To be an atheist you have to have faith, either in humankind as a whole, or in yourself. How anyone can have faith in humankind after the Holocaust defies all reason. The single most calculated, sustained crime of man against man happened not in some benighted third world country but in the heart of a Europe that had given birth to Kant and Hegel, Bach and Beethoven, Goethe and Schiller. Civilization utterly failed to civilize. Humanism did not make men humane.

When I first stood at Auschwitz-Birkenau the question that haunted me was not, “Where was G‑d?” G‑d was in the command, “You shall not murder.” G‑d was in the words, “You shall not oppress the stranger.” G‑d was saying to humanity, “Your brother’s blood is crying to Me from theG‑d does not save us from ourselves ground.” G‑d did not stop the first humans eating forbidden fruit. He did not stop Cain committing murder. He did not stop the Egyptians enslaving the Israelites. G‑d does not save us from ourselves. That, according to the Talmud, is why creating man was such a risk that the angels advised against it. The question that haunts me after the Holocaust, as it does today in this new age of chaos, is “Where is man?”

As for believing only in yourself, that is hubris. Every serious thinker since the dawn of history has known that this ends in nemesis.

There are only two serious possibilities to be entertained by serious minds. Either the one put forward by the Torah that we are here because a Force greater than the universe wanted us to be, or the alternative: that the universe exists because of a random fluctuation in the quantum field, and we are here because of a mindless sequence of genetic mutations blindly sifted by natural selection. Either there is or is not meaning to the human condition. The first possibility yields Isaiah, the second, Sophocles, Aeschylus and Greek tragedy. The Greece of antiquity died. The Israel of Abraham and Moses still lives.

I respect those who choose Greek tragedy over Jewish hope. But those who choose Judaism have made space in their minds for the most life-changing idea of all: Whether or not we have faith in G‑d, G‑d has faith in us.

There may be times in our lives – certainly there have been in mine – when the sun disappears and we enter the cloud of black despair. King David knew these feelings well. They areWe may lose heart; G‑d never will theme of several Psalms. People can be brutal to one another. There are some who, having suffered pain themselves, find relief in inflicting it on others. You can lose faith in humanity, or in yourself, or both. At such times, the knowledge that G‑d has faith in us is transformative, redemptive. As David said in Psalm 27:

Even were my father or mother to forsake me,

The L‑rd would still receive me. (Ps. 27: 10)

We may lose heart; G‑d never will. We may despair; G‑d will give us hope. G‑d believes in us even if we don’t believe in ourselves. We may sin and disappoint and come short again and again, but G‑d never ceases to forgive us when we fail and lift us when we fall.

Have faith in G‑d’s faith in us and you will find the path from darkness to light.