What Is the First Word in the Bible? You Might Be Wrong

Let’s play a trivia game. What is the first word in the Bible?

It sounds easy, doesn’t it? For most of my life, I would have put money on the answer. It’s “In.” Obviously. “In the beginning…” It’s one of the most famous phrases on the planet, an opening line that has shaped history and art for thousands of years. We all know it. We’ve heard it in hushed chapels and booming cathedrals. It feels as solid as stone.

But what if I told you the answer isn’t that simple? What if the first word isn’t “In” at all?

This isn’t some clever word game. The truth is waiting in the ancient Hebrew text, locked inside a single, powerful, and surprisingly tricky word. When you unpack it, you don’t just find the real first word; you find a completely different way to look at the entire story of creation. It’s a journey that pulls us away from the comfortable certainty of our English Bibles and into the deeper, richer, and sometimes messier world of the original language. It’s a mystery where the very first word is the first clue.

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Key Takeaways

• The first word in the original Hebrew Bible is Bereshit (בְּרֵאשִׁית). It’s far more complex than the simple English word “In.”
• Bereshit is a single Hebrew word that acts like a whole phrase, meaning something closer to “In the beginning of…” This structure grammatically links it to the action that comes next.
• This grammar means Genesis 1:1 can be read as a dependent clause (“When God began to create…”) instead of a standalone sentence (“In the beginning, God created…”).
• This alternative reading suggests a story about God bringing order to a pre-existing chaos, not creating everything from absolute nothing.
• Understanding this one word shows us that translation is always an act of interpretation, a powerful choice that has shaped theology for centuries.

So, You’re Sure You Know the First Word?

I have this crystal-clear memory from Sunday school. I was maybe seven or eight, sitting on a scratchy carpet square. Our teacher, a sweet woman with a felt board, asked the class, “Who can tell me the very first word in the entire Bible?”

My hand shot up. I practically yelled it out.

“In!”

She smiled, and I beamed. I knew the answer. It was simple. It was right. For the next two decades, I never gave it a second thought. The Bible started with “In.” Case closed.

That comfortable little fact didn’t survive my first semester of college Hebrew. Sitting under the buzz of fluorescent lights in a stuffy classroom, my world got turned upside down. I met the original text of Genesis for the first time. And I learned that the simple, two-letter word I was so proud of was just the shadow of something much bigger. The real first word was something else entirely—something wilder and more wonderful than I could have imagined.

What Does the Original Hebrew Actually Say?

To find the real first word, you have to go past the English translations. You have to look at a text written in a different alphabet, flowing from right to left. And there it is, the very first word in the book of Genesis: Bereshit (בְּרֵאשִׁית).

That’s the word. One word. Bereshit.

At first glance, it seems simple enough to break down. It has two parts. The prefix Be- is a preposition. It does, in fact, mean “in,” “at,” or “with.” My seven-year-old self wasn’t totally wrong. The second part, reshit, is a noun that means “beginning,” “start,” or even “first fruits.”

Put them together. “In” + “beginning.” You get “in the beginning.” Easy, right?

Not so fast. Hebrew grammar throws us a curveball here called the “construct state.” This is where everything changes. The construct state links two nouns together, creating a relationship. Think of phrases like “king of Israel” or “word of God.” A word in the construct state is grammatically dependent on whatever comes after it. It can’t stand on its own. It has an invisible “of” attached, tethering it to the next word.

And Bereshit is in the construct state.

This means it doesn’t just mean “In the beginning.” It means “In the beginning of…”

It’s an unfinished thought. The very first word of the Bible is a grammatical cliffhanger, leaning forward and waiting for the rest of the sentence to catch up.

Why Doesn’t ‘In’ Tell the Whole Story?

Starting with “In,” English translations make a neat, tidy choice. They snip the connection, separating the preposition (“In”) from the noun (“the beginning”). This creates a powerful, standalone declaration. It’s strong. It’s memorable.

But it loses the essential connection of the Hebrew. It smooths over a grammatical wrinkle that might just be the whole point.

The original Bereshit insists that the “beginning” isn’t some abstract point in time. It is fundamentally tied to the action that defines it: God’s act of creating. The beginning is the creating. You can’t separate them. The grammar mirrors the theology. This is a subtle shift, but a profound one. The first word isn’t just setting a time and place; it’s launching an action and tying itself to it.

Could the First Sentence Be an Introduction?

This grammatical hook in Bereshit throws open the door to a radical new way of reading the Bible’s opening line. Most of us grew up hearing Genesis 1:1 as a complete sentence. A cosmic headline.

Reading #1 (The Traditional View): “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.”

This presents verse 1 as a summary of everything. First, God creates it all. Then, verse 2 zooms in on the chaotic, unformed earth.

But because Bereshit is grammatically incomplete, many scholars argue it isn’t a standalone sentence at all. It’s a dependent clause. It’s the wind-up before the pitch.

Reading #2 (The Alternative View): “When God began to create the heavens and the earth—the earth being unformed and void…”

See the difference? It’s huge. In this reading, verse 1 is just the introduction. The main story kicks off in verse 2, not with a grand act of creation, but with the state of the world when God got to work: a dark, watery, chaotic mess.

So What? Why Does This Distinction Matter?

This might feel like splitting hairs, but the theological stakes are massive. The traditional reading (“In the beginning, God created…”) is the bedrock for the doctrine of creatio ex nihilo—creation out of nothing. It suggests that before this moment, there was nothing. Then, poof. God spoke, and the universe appeared.

The second reading, however, paints a different scene. “When God began to create…” suggests that God’s first act wasn’t making something from nothing, but bringing order to a pre-existing chaos. We are dropped right into the action, where “darkness was over the surface of the deep.” In this version, God isn’t a magician. He’s a divine architect and artist, pushing back the darkness to build a world.

I’ll never forget the day my professor drew this on the whiteboard. He showed us how Bereshit literally hooked verse 1 to verse 2. It wasn’t a statement; it was the start of a flow. In that moment, the Bible felt less like a set of stone tablets and more like a living, breathing story. It wasn’t a static photo of creation; it was a movie, and the opening shot was of a wild, untamed world. This perspective is common in modern Jewish translations, like the JPS Tanakh. You can explore this interpretation more through resources at academic sites like the Society of Biblical Literature.

How Did We Get ‘In the Beginning,’ Then?

If the Hebrew is so tricky, why do nearly all Christian Bibles use the straightforward “In the beginning”? The answer is a story of translation.

Centuries before Christ, Jewish scholars in Egypt translated the Hebrew scriptures into Greek. This version, the Septuagint, became the Bible for early Christians. They translated Bereshit as En archē—”In the beginning.” Later, in the 4th century, Jerome’s Latin translation, the Vulgate, did the same with In principio.

These two legendary translations set the stage. For over a thousand years, they were the Bible for the Western world. When English translators like William Tyndale and the King James committee came along, they followed that powerful tradition. The phrase “In the beginning” was already woven into the fabric of the church.

Is It All Just a Judgment Call?

Pretty much. And that’s not a knock on translators. Their work is incredibly difficult. Translation is never just about swapping words. It’s an art of interpretation and balance.

For Genesis 1:1, they have to weigh:

• Grammar: How close can we get to the original Hebrew structure?
• Theology: How does our choice fit with centuries of church doctrine?
• Beauty: How can we make this sound powerful and clear in English?

Choosing “In the beginning” is a valid decision. It favors clarity, power, and theological tradition. It gives us a strong, unforgettable opening that has anchored people’s faith for generations. But to get that clarity, it has to sacrifice some of the nuance of the original Hebrew. It’s a good answer, but it’s not the only answer.

Are There Other Secrets in the Word?

The fun doesn’t stop with grammar. The root word reshit is a treasure chest all on its own. While it usually means “beginning,” it has another important meaning in the Old Testament: “the first fruits.”

In ancient Israel, the “first fruits” were a special offering to God. Farmers brought the very first and very best of their harvest to the temple. It was an act of trust, a way of saying that God was the source of all good things. Reshit wasn’t just about what came first; it was about what was best.

So what if a whisper of that meaning is hiding in Genesis 1:1?

This idea opens up some beautiful poetic possibilities. Maybe the opening line is something like, “With His very best, God created…” or “As a first-fruit offering, God created…” This would reframe creation itself as a magnificent gift, the very best of God’s wisdom and power, offered up to start His relationship with the world.

Could This Really Change How We See Creation?

It adds a deep layer of purpose. If creation is a “first fruit,” then it’s not just a thing that happened. It’s an intentional act of love. God isn’t just setting a stage; He’s planting a garden with His best seeds. He is giving a gift.

This shifts the whole focus from how God created to why He created. The universe becomes more than just a fact; it becomes an expression of God’s generous character. The very first word, then, would not only tell us when the story started, but reveal the heart of its author from the opening line.

Does This Kind of Discovery Weaken Faith?

For some, digging under the surface of a beloved verse can feel dangerous, like you’re pulling a loose thread that might unravel everything. But it doesn’t have to be that way at all.

For me, discovering the depth of Bereshit didn’t weaken my faith. It made it stronger. It replaced a flat, black-and-white picture with a living, breathing, 3D world. It showed me that the Bible wasn’t a simple instruction manual. It was a work of art, more clever, complex, and beautiful than I had ever known.

Knowing that smart people can debate the meaning of the very first word isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of depth. It’s an invitation to stay curious, to ask questions, and to never stop exploring. It’s a reminder that our journey of understanding is never really over.

So, what is the first word in the Bible? The simple answer is Bereshit. But the real answer is that the first word is an invitation—a doorway into a story far richer and more wonderful than a simple “In” could ever hold.

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