A recent discussion in our Shabbat morning minyan opened with the question: Why does the Torah begin with the letter bet, the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet? Wouldn't it have been more fitting for the Torah &endash; which begins in the beginning, with the creation of the world &endash; to start with the very first letter of the alphabet, the aleph?

This is an old and somewhat fanciful rabbinic question. But one thought-provoking answer that I had never considered before emerged in our discussion. Perhaps, suggested one member of the minyan, the bet is a hint of things to come in the book of Genesis. Perhaps the very question itself &endash; why the bet rather than the aleph, why the second letter rather than the first &endash; is a way of calling our attention to the struggle that will dominate the entire book of Genesis, the struggle between the first-born and second-born child (Abel and Cain, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, and so on throughout the narrative). The book of Genesis, after all, can be seen as a sustained reflection on sibling rivalry, a deeply troubling account of a family that we understand to be our own, in which the animosity among brothers is dangerous, the jealousy life-threatening and sometimes fatal.

Jealousy appears to be built into human experience from the very beginning. The early chapters of Genesis teach us that jealousy is most powerful and potentially lethal when it is most intimate, closest to home. Cain, the first murderer, is motivated not by a cold hatred of the "other," but by a burning jealousy of his own brother. Yet, who is to blame for Cain's furious depression when Abel's sacrifice is preferred over his own? Clearly, Cain is and must be held responsible for his action. "Where is Abel your brother?" demands God, emphasizing Cain's personal accountability. But the text also leaves us wondering: If God is the parent in this scenario, couldn't He have found a way to honor and accept the offerings of both brothers? Why did one have to be favored over the other?

Isn't the parent responsible for creating an environment in which affection and approval are in abundance, one in which love is not a scarce commodity? I think about this question now as daughter, sister, and mother awaiting the birth of my second child, and realize that somewhere along the line, my own answer has shifted from an emphatic "Yes!" to a more cautious, "Yes, but . . ."

Yes, I believe that parents can and should create an environment in which children do not feel that they have to compete for a limited pool of love and approval. If anything, I see more and more how profoundly every child needs to feel loved, appreciated, and known by his or her parents. How else do we learn to become lovers, appreciators, knowers of others? What's more, the view of love as a finite reservoir, in danger of being depleted if distributed too generously, seems not only tragic, but false to me. Our capacity to love can surely dry up, but not from overuse.

So, why do I say, "Yes, but . . ."? Because, at the same time, I do not think it is possible for parents to protect their children completely from feelings of jealousy and competition. It is a mistake&endash;a dangerous one&endash;to think that we can eliminate jealousy from the repertoire of human emotions.

Cain's name, after all, is related to the Hebrew root k-n-h, meaning "to acquire, to own." One way to understand the story is as a reminder that jealousy has its origins in a sense of connection and ownership. Jealousy is part of any close relationship. It is tied to the capacity for betrayal and hurt that is encountered any time we love, any time we see ourselves as having a special claim on another person. The very relationships that make us vulnerable to each other also make us responsible for each other.

When God asks Cain, "Where is Abel your brother?" Cain's reply, "Am I my brother's keeper?" is not only an evasion of moral responsibility. It is, paradoxically, a denial of any feeling of connection to his brother. Perhaps this is why Cain's punishment is banishment: "You shall become a ceaseless wanderer on earth." In other words, God says to Cain, "From now on, you shall have a claim on no one, and no one shall have a claim on you. You, whose name means ownership, have shown that you cannot be trusted with the responsibilities of ownership. You will no longer experience jealousy, for you will no longer know human intimacy and connection."

We are told much later in the Torah that God is a "jealous" God &endash; el kana. Even God cannot experience connection without vulnerability, ownership without jealousy, intimacy without the risk of betrayal. Perhaps in revealing this capacity for vulnerability &endash; this capacity to be hurt by us &endash; God teaches a lesson that all parents must teach their children: to live in relationship is to understand that we are never absolutely powerful or absolutely powerless. We each have the capacity both to hurt and to be hurt. We do the greatest damage to others when we deny either one of these truths about ourselves.

Rabbi Sharon Cohen Anisfeld is Associate Rabbi of Yale Hillel.