It is fascinating that during Sheva Berachos, we bless the chassan and kallah that they should merit, “The joy of Adam and Chavah in Gan Eden.” Theirs is described as a special, unique kind of joy. But why specifically that joy?
Think about it. There was only one man and one woman in the world. No confusion, no endless “Who should I date?” questions. There was absolute clarity: this person was created for me. Hashem Himself brought them together. That’s emunah and bitachon in their purest form; the certainty that this relationship is meant to build the world.
And that’s exactly the blessing we give to every chassan and kallah. Each person is an olam katan, a world unto themselves, and when they marry, they create a new world together. But to build that world, you need bitachon, faith and trust that Hashem sent you the right person.
Of course, today it’s not so simple. There’s no barcode or sticker to confirm a match, though imagine if there were! You’d just scan and say, “Yes, this is my bashert.” It would save countless evenings of awkward conversations and Diet Cokes in hotel lounges. (Actually, one girl corrected me—it’s Diet Sprite, because you whiten your teeth before dating and don’t want them stained. Fair enough!)
So why don’t we have that same certainty Adam and Chavah had? The Ben Yehoyada (Mesechta Kiddushin) gives a brilliant parable.
There was once a wise and respected Rav of a large town who realized he was getting older and could no longer serve the community as effectively as before. Remarkably, he chose to step down and seek a smaller position. It was a rare decision, since most people have to be dragged away from their posts kicking and screaming. Like Joe DiMaggio, who retired at the height of his career, saying, “When a child pays to see me play, he deserves to see Joe DiMaggio at his best.” That kind of humility and self-awareness is rare.
This Rav announced his resignation and accepted a new position in a smaller community. When the wagon came to collect him, however, the townspeople revolted, literally. They attacked the wagon, shouting that no one could take their Rav away. The driver fled for his life. Puzzled, the Rav summoned the town leaders. “I thought you agreed I could leave,” he said. “We did,” they answered. “Then why did your people attack the wagon?” “We don’t know,” they replied innocently.
A second attempt ended the same way—another riot, another retreat. Finally, the Rav demanded a promise. “You must let the wagon enter undisturbed.” They reluctantly agreed. The wagon rolled into town amid jeers and shouts—“Thieves! You’re stealing our Rav!”—but this time, the Rav quickly packed his belongings and departed.
Before leaving, he turned to the leaders and asked, “Why did you put me through this?” They smiled and said, “Rebbe, it was our parting gift. When you arrive in your new town, they’ll be thrilled to have you. But eventually, as challenges arise, they might begin to doubt: maybe we got an old man the last town wanted to get rid of. Now they’ll remember: they had to fight hard to get you.”
The Ben Yehoyada explains. Adam and Chavah had perfect clarity. They possessed daas, the ability to see from one end of the world to the other. They knew with absolute certainty that they were meant for one another. But we don’t have that clarity. Hashem designed it that way. Because when life gets hard—and it inevitably does—we might be tempted to think, “Maybe this isn’t my bashert... maybe my parents or the shadchan made a mistake.” But Hashem wants us to remember that we worked to find our bashert, that we struggled and prayed and persevered. That effort creates depth and commitment.
So when we bless a couple with the joy of Adam and Chavah in Gan Eden, we’re not wishing them effortless perfection. We bless them with the clarity, faith, and devotion to know that they were brought together by Hashem Himself. And with that perspective, they are blessed to build their world, and by extension, to help build the entire world.
