"In The Beginning"
...in a surprising move by the first editors, there are actually two Creation stories!
Genesis 1:1-2:4a, 2:4b-25
September 20, 2026
Todd R. Wright
Welcome to the first of 4 Sundays focused on the Pentateuch, the first 5 books of the Bible!
The planning group struggled on which four passages to choose because Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy represent a full 20% of the chapters in the Old Testament, contain a multitude of important themes and figures, and cover a massive span of time!
But the first choice was obvious. As Maria sings in the Sound of Music,
“Let's start at the very beginning
A very good place to start
When you read, you begin with … A-B-C
When you sing, you begin with … do-re-mi”
Genesis 1 kicks off the whole story with the words, “In the beginning …”
But in a surprising move by the first editors, there are actually two Creation stories!
The first is structured and orderly and over the course of six days God creates everything – the heavens and the earth – from a watery, windy chaos, before resting on the seventh.
The God described there crackles with power, like a king giving orders; creates by simply speaking things into existence; makes humanity in God’s image; and pronounces everything, “good!”
The second account is like a close-up: more focused on the creation of people than the cosmos, more focused on the garden than the stars; more focused on relationships than power.
The God described in those verses is more like a craftsman, physically forming man from dust and breath, planting a garden, and fashioning every animal and bird. And like an artist, revises and adapts as necessary. Realizing that no animal was sufficient, God made a woman – bone of the man’s bone and flesh of his flesh, a true and worthy partner.
How can we understand having two – is it a sign of confusion, or sloppiness, or falseness?
Scholars say “it is likely that separate authors with distinct theological views and agendas wrote these [two accounts]. The differences reflect the unique way each author conceptualizes the deity.”
If we were reading in Hebrew, we would notice that the first account calls God “Elohim”, the generic word for God; the second calls God, YHWH, the specific name God gives Moses in Exodus.
Names matter. Scholars say the first is a priestly account – and it does sound more like religious poetry or a structured liturgy. The second, using YHWH, the closely-guarded name of God, is more personal – God does not just speak things into existence, God speaks directly to Adam and Eve.
But enough of describing and distinguishing. Let’s take a moment to consider how beginning the Pentateuch like this sets the course for the rest of the story and molds our worship.
First, every creation account makes claims … about the Creator, about creation, and about humanity. And these claims provoke a unique kind of response.
Those who crafted the Pentateuch’s creation accounts were responding to their neighbors’ stories. As summed up by one scholar:
“Myths on how the universe began were a dime a dozen in the ancient world: the Egyptians had their story about the sun god Ra and his creating of all life. The Babylonians had their grand epic, Enuma Elish, in which the goddess Tiamet is responsible for birthing many gods, out of whose warfare eventually the earth was born. The universe is filled with gods in most such tales, and some of [them] could be identified with certain portions of this world: so some people worshiped the sun, others bowed down before trees, some sought to honor the spirits of the rivers, while others adored the god of the mountain.”
But the God of Genesis is not bound to one thing or one place.
Israel was invited to worship a God who created it all … and literally put the sun in its place!
Second, we cannot ignore that we are both made in the image of God and made from the dust of the earth.
Peter Choi has thought a lot about this. He writes:
“I have always found the contrasts between the two narratives to be fertile homiletical ground. We’re from the dust of the earth, but we’re also bearers of God’s image. One teaches humility; the other evokes glory. Or so I have often expounded. This approach has the effect of widening the gap between dust and glory, between humanity and divinity. We see heaven and earth as opposites that have little to do with each other.
[And yet,] an altogether different reading of the dust of the ground is possible. Yes, there is something ordinary and humble about the ground underneath our feet. But soil is a mixture of air, water, minerals, and dead and living microorganisms. These ingredients interact in extraordinary ways, making soil one of our planet’s most dynamic and vital natural resources.”
He asks, “What if being dust is our glory? What if to be dust is a coextension of being [made in the image of God]?”
What if we need these two accounts to remind us that we are both?
What if we can only truly worship our creator if we are as humble as dust of the earth and as sure of our glory and worth to God as the golden stars of heaven?
Third, these accounts assert that we are created for something.
We are called from the start to be stewards of creation, to till and keep it!
Wendell Berry, the farmer, and writer, and lover of place who died in August, wrote what sounds, to my ears, like a reflection on our texts through a series of questions:
“How long does it take to make the woods? As long as it takes to make the world.
The woods is present as the world is, the presence of all its past, and of all its time to come.
It is always finished, it is always being made,
the act of its making forever greater than the act of its destruction.
It is a part of eternity, for its end and beginning belong to the end and beginning of all things,
the beginning lost in the end, the end in the beginning.
What is the way to the woods, how do you go there?
By climbing up through the six days’ field,
kept in all the body’s years, the body’s sorrow, weariness, and joy.
By passing through the narrow gate on the far side of that field
where the pasture grass of the body’s life gives way to the high, original standing of the trees.
By coming into the shadow, the shadow of the grace of the strait way’s ending,
the shadow of the mercy of light.
Why must the gate be narrow?
Because you cannot pass beyond it burdened.
To come into the woods you must leave behind
the six days’ world, all of it, all of its plans and hopes.
You must come without weapon or tool, alone, expecting nothing, remembering nothing,
into the ease of sight, the brotherhood of eye and leaf.”
He then challenged his listeners in another poem:
“Come into the life of the body, the one body granted to you in all the history of time.
Come into the body’s economy, its daily work, and its replenishment at mealtimes and at night.
Come into the body’s thanksgiving, when it knows and acknowledges itself a living soul.
Come into the dance of the community, joined in a circle, hand in hand,
the dance of the eternal love of women and men for one another
and of neighbors and friends for one another.”
Isn’t he right? Isn’t he wise? Isn’t that what we have been created for?
To enjoy that gift of life, that rest, that love, that community?
That is how our scriptures begin. That is how we begin. Amen,
From “The Two Creations I Genesis” by David Bokovoy, 1/23/20
From Scoot Hoezee’s reflections on the text for cepreaching.org, 6/4/23
Here and following, from “Dust and Glory”, in the Christian Century, 2/24/25
From ““The Mad Farmer, Flying the Flag of Rough Branch, Secedes From the Union”, see https://thevalueofsparrows.wordpress.com/2017/07/22/poetry-the-mad-farmer-flying-the-flag-of-rough-branch-secedes-from-the-union-by-wendell-berry/
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