Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

Biblical commentators love to portray Noah as a man who truly loved God for saving his family, even though the rest of the world perished. However, one could argue that Noah is not motivated by love, but by fear—and for good reason.

8:20 וַיִּבֶן נֹחַ מִזְבֵּחַ  – Then Noah built an altar — Without delay, Noah immediately builds an altar after reaching dry-land. The Torah did not disclose what may have been the motivation behind Noah’s sacrifice.

Noah does not offer a sin offering, nor does he sacrifice a thanksgiving offering as one might expect. At this point, let us ask a relevant question: What is the psychology that prompts the desire to offer a sacrifice? The giving of a gift, even between human beings, is not a purely external transaction; at the same time it establishes a personal relationship between giver and recipient.  Giving a gift creates a bond of friendship, which on some psychological level bounds the person receiving the gift to the giver.

Gift giving may be based on a desire to “buy” the affection of another. Anthropology teaches that archaic man often offered sacrifices as a bribe to the gods for personal enrichment or to placate the gods so they would not harm the worshiper.

While Noah may have felt compelled to offer thanksgiving for his miraculous deliverance from danger, it is also possible that Noah chose to “bribe” God because of his anxiety. Would God someday unleash another disaster to destroy the world and his future descendants?

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Birth and Rebirth Through Genesis: A Timeless Theological Conversation — Vol. 2 Genesis 4-11.

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The imagery of sin “lurking at the door,” (Genesis 4:7) has puzzled commentaries since ancient times. Modern biblical scholarship approaches the text differently from traditional exegetes, but no less Midrashically. The Hebrew word for “crouching,” רֹבֵץ (röbëtz), is the same as an ancient Babylonian word referring to an evil demon named Rabisu, which awaits its prey along the roadside or at the door of a building (ANET 103c).[1] Sin may thus be pictured here as a demon, waiting to devour Cain like a wild animal attacking its prey; it desires to have him. The older JPS version of Genesis translated the verse much the same way: “Sin is the demon at the door.” E. Fox similarly renders this passage as: “at the entrance is sin, a crouching-demon toward you his lust—but you can rule over him.”^[2]

If it is true that the verb רֹבֵץ  is indeed related to the Akkadian mythical demon named rabisu, then the following neo-Midrashic interpretation may apply: Cain failed to grasp God’s words properly. God referred to “the demon within him,” who was his real enemy, but Cain instead perceived that his brother was the real “demon” standing at the door waiting to trip him up. Thus, getting rid of his brother would finally vanquish his personal demon. One of the perennial messages of the Cain and Abel story now becomes clear: When a man demonizes his own brother, he ceases to be brother and becomes the “Other”—an enemy who must be vanquished at all costs.

Another extrapolation is possible. Resentment and anger remain embedded in the individual’s psyche until these negative emotions are consciously confronted, released and discarded. The Torah thus teaches us that every person must recognize the inner conflicts that rage within one’s soul; these unconscious forces are capable of becoming demonic influences. In Jungian terms, the Shadow can be a potent ally once its presence is confronted in an honest and straightforward way. However, if a person denies this presence, these dark emotions (psychologically characterized as one’s “inner demons”) may surface unexpectedly and may powerfully overwhelm one’s judgement.

R. Hirsch takes issue with the idea that sin is “lurking” as though it wishes to pounce upon its innocent prey. Quite the contrary! The verb רֹבֵץ   invariably connotes “the most peaceful, undisturbed resting, with no incitement to attack or molest. . . . Therefore, “Aptly, is חַטָּאת ‘sin,’ appeal to the senses, here given the masculine gender רֹבֵץ  .[3] Its power is not to be underestimated. It has the power to master you, but it remains quietly behind your door.”[4]

Hirsch’s insight is theologically and sound and it has a strong basis in numerous rabbinic texts concerning free will. Sinfulness (or perhaps more specifically— human evil and malevolence) has a power and a presence only if we invite it into our lives.  Sinfulness becomes a personal reality whenever we give in to the path of least resistance. When this occurs, the feeling of guilt gradually becomes non-existent. Although its negative influence is incremental and steady, giving in to evil’s temptation produces a state of psychological and spiritual enslavement in its unwitting victims. One Sage likened the evil inclination to a spider-web: if a person continues to yield to temptation, that “spider-thread” becomes like cart ropes; as it is said “Woe to those who tug at guilt with cords of vanity, and at sin as if it were with a cart rope!” (Isa. 5:18).[5]

Another rabbinic source likened the overall process of sin to a slow seduction, which ultimately enslaves its master: “The evil prompting is at first like a wayfarer who comes to the door of a house and, finding that there is no one to stop him goes into the house and becomes a guest. Finding that there is still no one to stop it; the unwanted presence of evil takes liberties and acts as if it were the master.”[6] The more aware we are of it, the more we become conscious of our guilt. On the other hand, the more oblivious we are of our evil, the more unconscious we are of its effects. This same theological point will become even more obvious in the story of Pharaoh and his famous “heart condition”; after misusing his freedom, he loses his capacity to be an autonomous person. In the end Pharaoh becomes like an addict, a slave of his compulsion.

Notes: Continue Reading

4:4 וְהֶבֶל הֵבִיא גַם־הוּא מִבְּכֹרוֹת צֹאנוֹ וּמֵחֶלְבֵהֶן  – and Abel for his part brought of the firstlings of his flock, their fat portions— Robert Alter writes that the biblical narrator uses several techniques to convey meaning, e.g., statements by the anonymous narrator, by God, by heroes or heroines, by verbal clues, by juxtaposition of material, by characterization, and by effects of actions.^[1]

In contrast to the Scripture’s silence with regard to Cain’s sacrifice, the biblical narrator lavishes considerable detail on the quality of Abel’s offering. First of all, he offers his “firstlings,” which the Torah would later view comes from the best of one’s flock.^[2] Second, he offered the animals’ fattest parts, i.e., he sacrificed his choicest animals.^[3] In other words, Abel didn’t just offer the firstborn of his flock; he also offered even the very best of his flock—even if the animals weren’t necessarily the firstborn. Third, the verse intimates a clever pun in the words: וְהֶבֶל הֵבִיא גַם־הוּא (wühe’bel hëbî´ gam-hû´) — “he also brought himself.” A literal translation of the text indicates that Abel realizes that the true sacrifice reflects the inner person and the heart of the person offering it. Philo of Alexandria adds some of the most profound comments on the nature of sacrifice that touches on the true meaning of worship:

• God does not necessarily derive pleasure even if someone brings hecatombs to his altar. God possesses all things and does not require anything. Instead, he delights in minds which love God, and in men who practice holiness, from whom he gladly receives cakes and barley, and the cheapest things, as if they were the most valuable in preference to such which are most costly. Even when they bring nothing else, they still bring themselves … by doing so, they are offering the most excellent of all sacrifices that honoring God, as their Benefactor and Savior with hymns and thanksgivings. Some honor God by the organs of voice, while others honor God without the agency of the tongue or mouth. These worshipers make their exclamations and invocations with their soul alone. They realize that the ear of the Deity hears them.[4]

Various Hasidic writers homiletically note that Cain’s offering is motivated by his ego: Cain feels convinced that his sacrifice would be gladly accepted because it was he who was doing the offering. In contrast, Abel felt grateful for God’s many blessings, and that everything that he had amassed was because of God’s generosity. Without fanfare and with a genuine spirit of humility, Abel saw his offering as an opportunity to express his personal gratitude to God. To his credit, Abel succeeds in detaching his ego from the act of sacrifice, whereas Cain does not. Kahil Gibran expresses an identical thought: “You give but little when you give of your possessions; it is when you give of yourself that you truly give.”

Maimonides takes a different approach and views Abel’s sacrifice as a paradigm for all kinds of charitable giving. Every sacrifice must be given as an act of love and devotion; indeed, the absence of these qualities invalidates and cheapens the religious experience. Without the cultivation of the giving spirit, no virtue is possible. Although this is not a strict requirement in the legalistic sense, nevertheless anyone aspiring to become closer to God must go beyond mere perfunctory worship. Abel’s sacrifice functions as a paradigm for all types of voluntary charitable giving:

• Every sacrifice must be given as an act of love and devotion; indeed, the absence of these qualities invalidates and cheapens the religious experience. Without the cultivation of the giving spirit, no virtue is possible. Although this is not a strict requirement in the legalistic sense, nevertheless the one who is truly concerned about becoming close to God must go beyond mere perfunctory worship.

• Anyone wishing to become personally worthy of merit should overcome the urge toward selfishness and make it a point to offer one’s best and finest, so that his offering will be most exemplary. The Torah says: “and Abel for his part brought of the firstlings of his flock, their fat portions” (Gen. 4:4). The same rule ought to apply to every conceivable offering. Give your offering only from the finest and best. The house of prayer that you build must be nicer than your personal dwelling. The same principle ought to apply to other areas of your ethical life. Feed the poor with only the finest foods that are on your table. When clothing the naked, give him from the very finest of  your wardrobes. Always give from the very best of all your possessions, for the Torah states, “All fat belongs to the Lord” (Lev. 3:16).[5]

For Maimonides, the main issue raised in the story of Cain and Abel story is not so much about the quality of the sacrifice; it is also about the personal dimension each person brings with the offering. Cain and Abel represent the difference between selfless worship and selfish worship. Cain’s sacrifice reveals how even spiritual worship can degenerate into an act that is self-serving and perfunctory. Toward the end of Maimonides’ life, he focuses on the importance of love in sacrifice. Cain’s sacrifice fails because he is miserly in his giving; he withholds his best from God. He further elaborates:  Continue Reading

One 16^th century rabbinic scholar, Rabbi Eliezer Ashkenazi, exhibited integrity transcending the parochial world he inhabited, and called upon his readers to show an independence of thought that challenged the theological correctness of his era.  His prescription for honesty and intellectual truthfulness can certainly apply to our own generation as well:

• Neither should we be concerned about the logic of others—even if they preceded us—preventing our own individual investigation. Much to the contrary, just as [our forbearers] did not wish to indiscriminately accept the truth from those who preceded them, and that which they did not choose [to accept] they rejected, so it is fitting for us to do. Only on the basis of gathering many different opinions will the truth be tested. . . . Do not be dismayed by the names of the great personalities when you find them in disagreement with your beliefs; you must investigate and interpret, because for this purpose were you created, and wisdom was granted you from Above, and this will benefit you.[1]

From R. Ashkenazi’s opinion, one may surmise that the truth can always stand up to scrutiny. All the various approaches concerning the origin and redaction of the Pentateuch have much value and wisdom to impart. Early rabbinic exegetes deserve considerable credit for pointing out many textual anomalies that require clarification. Granted, many of the Midrashic answers given may not be grounded in a realistic understanding of the text, but the questions they raise regarding the text’s meaning are important. Conflicting interpretations—especially in a dialogical setting—frequently draw attention to nuances and ideas that one participant or interpreter may have overlooked or failed to take adequately into account. Conflicting interpretations also expand the text and force each participant to re-articulate earlier stated ideas that take into account the criticisms of the other side. In the midst of a discussion, one party may see truth in an oppositional point of view.

The need to occasionally acknowledge interpretive fallibility is an essential feature if one is to arrive at a truth. The absence of consensus is not a negative thing per se—in fact, quite the opposite. Contrary to Aristotle’s law of non-contradiction;[2] namely, “a thing and its opposite cannot both be true,”[3] rabbinic wisdom believes that truth is best served when contrarian interpretations challenge one another.[4] Truth is frequently discovered through a process of adversity and contradiction. Regardless how a person interprets a classical text like the Bible—or for that matter any great work of literature—there will always be somebody else who will interpret it differently. Disagreement is something that is not only endemic—it is inevitable. Whenever a new idea or approach is introduced, attention is drawn to aspects of a text that one might have overlooked or failed to take adequately into account. Arguments—whether they happen to be contrarian or supportive—force a person to modify an earlier stance. By the same token, one person’s ideas may have an equally powerful influence on someone else. While interpretation typically refines the next interpretation, controversy remains our constant companion.

How should one respond to this conundrum? If unanimity is really the goal, what incentive would there be for new interpretive ideas? Conversely, dissent is not necessarily indicative of a communications breakdown. Oftentimes a consensus of a people may be predicated upon an error (e.g., Ptolemy’s geo-centric view of the universe is but one obvious example). The desire to create a stable consensus can threaten to immobilize a person(s) or a society in error.

Dissent can be beneficial, and often leads to new discoveries and ideas. Moreover, dissent ensures that there will be some sort of accountability on the part of the originator. This would explain why peer review is a necessary process whenever new articles on any subject are introduced. A community of readers and interpreters create a network that produces alternative viewpoints worthy of reflective consideration. Differences of insight do not necessarily mean disagreement on the core issues of a story or discussion. Throughout Jewish and Christian exegetical traditions, rarely has there been a stable consensus. If this was the case in ancient times, why should it be any different today? The focus of scholarly dissent may change over time, but the fact of disagreement does not go away; indeed it is a necessary part of the learning process.

Every biblical commentary (to a greater or lesser extent) offers varying responses, often to the same question; at times they pose different questions and may also argue as to which questions ought to serve as the focal point of a discussion. The purpose of their commentaries is not to create a monologue with the reader but to stimulate a living dialogue for both the reader and his community. In light of this, we can boldly say that questioning the great interpreters of the past need not undermine faith; on the contrary, it has the potential of strengthening it. Conversely, the fear of new ideas in many ways undermines faith in the Divine message of the Torah. Perhaps one of the greatest gifts of the Socratic and Talmudic milieu to the Western world is the need to question everything that is believed to be the “truth.” The fluid nature of Judaic theology demonstrates a historical resiliency that has the innate ability to maintain its structural and spiritual integrity against any wave of modernity or textual criticism.

While Birth and Rebirth through Genesis: A Timeless Theological Conversation is primarily a theological exposition of biblical themes that are scattered throughout the chapters of Genesis, the title implies that it is also an exegetical work, intended to honor the nature of the peshat (the contextual meaning of the text)[5] with its rich history of intertexuality. The text is a nexus where ideas and thoughts of the past converge with the present and future. The exegetical component is extremely important, for good exegesis can provide a solid contextual basis for eisegetical insight and wisdom.

[1] Cited from Alan Dershowitz’s The Genesis of Justice (New York: Time Warner, 2000), 18-19.  Continue Reading

With rare theological insight, Sigmund Freud (1856–1939) was among the first of modern thinkers to suggest that infancy, in a sense, represents a re-dramatization of the Fall from the Paradise story. At the infant’s earliest stage of psychological development, the infant experiences an “oceanic oneness.” As the baby nurses from its mother’s breast, it does not distinguish between itself and the world, but rather the world is an extension of itself, “in which the infantile ego is sufficient unto itself.”^[1] The infant’s world, however, is only temporary. All parents—sooner or later—will impose restrictions, eventually severing the infant’s continuous pursuit of carefree indulgence and desire toward pleasure. As the child matures, s/he develops a sense of self-identity. Soon, the child realizes the impossibility of its former existence. For all practical purposes, paradise has been lost.

C. G. Jung and Erich Neumann add that the Paradise parable points to a preconscious stage of infancy in which the ego’s center of human consciousness has not yet been activated.^[2]  Neumann refers to the bond of mother and child as “existence in unitary reality” that embraces both mother and child. Neumann believes that at this stage of the child’s evolving consciousness, the image of the mother is not perceived as a separate and independent entity. The mother is seen as an extension of the child’s body and consciousness. There is no subject, object, ego, or self; the infant has no individual experience or perceptions, except for the one experience with the mother—one of total connectedness.^[3]

While the child is within the womb, the unborn enjoys the bliss and serenity that may be compared to Paradise. According to Neumann, Adam was like an infant in the womb waiting to be psychologically born. Had he not “sinned,” Adam would never have experienced pain or pleasure as we know these experiences; one would be the same as the other. He would have existed in a neutral state, a condition without desire, and a state of being that would embrace the opposites. It could, indeed, be called a state of Paradise or what Joseph Campbell (1904–87) referred to as “bliss.” In speaking of the birth trauma as an archetype of transformation, Campbell states:

• In the imagery of mythology and religion this birth (or more often rebirth) theme is extremely prominent; in fact, every threshold passage—not only this from the darkness of the womb to the light of the sun, but also those from childhood to adult life and from the light of the world to whatever mystery of darkness may lie beyond the portal of death—is comparable to a birth and has been ritually represented, practically everywhere, through an imagery of re-entry into the womb.[4]

The “re-entry into the womb” is what may be identified as a psychological return to the function of intuition, whether it is immediately after birth or in any later experience of transformation. It is a way of returning to the mother while in the world, rather than in the womb, which was the original experience. This particular experience is one of the recurring themes of Genesis as is evident in the Akedah of Isaac, and the individuation of Jacob and Joseph. Each crisis they experience becomes a crucible for change and spiritual transformation.

• Mircea Eliade’s View of the Fall: The Emerging Contours of Profane Existence

Mircea Eliade also expands the Paradise story in a way that goes far beyond anything Freud, Jung, and Neumann propose. He asserts that it would be wrong to assume that “religious man” existed only in an infantile state of being; Adam was created with intelligence to manage and take care of the Garden. Archaic man believed he contributed to the maintenance of the cosmos. All his interactions with the inanimate, vegetative, and animal worlds made a cosmic difference. The secular man, who lives in a purely profane mode of existence, lives only for himself and society. “For him, the cosmos does not properly constitute a cosmos—that is, a living and articulated unity.”^[5]

Eliade asserts that the Paradise story characterizes a reality in which Heaven and Earth exist in perfect harmony; it is a place where man could communicate with all of nature. Primordial man lived with a closeness that was full of spontaneity and freedom. He did not see himself as distinct from nature; within his being he embraced all the forces of nature of which he considered himself to be a part. However, as a result of the Fall, primordial man’s super-consciousness receded into a state of unconsciousness. Adam becomes more of a terrestrial being than a spiritual being—out of touch with his ultimate sense of reality, alienated from God, nature, his wife, and finally, himself.

Memory of the Fall exists in myths of all peoples around the world. Every civilization and culture has regarded the human condition as if it were under a spell of unnatural limitations and separateness. All religions try to correct this through   dreams of Utopia and Messianism. Even secular humans yearn to reconnect with the world as their ancestors did. Retreats into the country and mountains away from the urban jungles reflect the deeply rooted yearning of moderns to rediscover the cosmic unity that pervades human existence, albeit unrealistic if not impossible to achieve. With respect to the modern secular consciousness, Eliade writes that a new type of “Fall” has occurred in our world—one where human beings are even more disconnected from the depths of their own beings than ever before:

• From the Christian point of view, it could also be said that nonreligion is equivalent to a new “Fall” of man—in other words, that nonreligious man has lost the capacity to live religion consciously, and hence to understand and assume it; but that, in his deepest being, he still retains a memory of it, as, after the “Fall,” his ancestor, the primordial man, retained intelligence enough to enable him to rediscover the traces of God that are still visible in the world. After the first “Fall,” the religious sense descended to the level of the “divided consciousness;” now, after the second, it has fallen even further, into the depths of the unconscious, it has been “forgotten.” ^[6]

Continue Reading

The biblical story of Creation is often criticized for endorsing an attitude that promotes the exploitation of the environment. During the 1960’s and throughout the next decade, biblical scholars of all different stripes have claimed that Genesis 1:28 is   largely responsible for many of the ecological problems currently facing our planet: the extinction of numerous species, ongoing deforestation, and potentially dangerous global climate changes are just a few of the controversial issues. Some intellectuals continue to criticize the “Judaeo-Christian” tradition (conveniently, but incorrectly conflating these two different faiths) as being “anti-Nature” and by extension, even “anti-female,” since man’s domination of woman is viewed within the context of man’s domination over nature (Gen. 3:17).

Mythologist and philosopher Joseph Campbell, as well as his admirers, contend that patriarchal religions tend to be violent and out of control. In contrast, the female goddess religions, regarded as paragons of civility, are characterized as violence-free, and evoking an aura of peacefulnes. Campbell further asserts that the Eastern religious perspective of nature is infinitely more advanced and spiritual than views proposed by the West. In one book, Campbell nostalgically recollects a conversation he once shared with the popular Buddhist apologist and missionary, D. T. Suzuki:

• I remember a vivid talk by the Japanese Zen philosopher Dr. Daisetz T. Suzuki, which opened with an unforgettable contrast of the Occidental and Oriental understandings of the God-man-nature mystery. Commenting first on the Biblical view of the state of man following the Fall in Eden, “Man,” he observed, “is against God, and Man, and Nature, are against each other. God’s own likeness, (Man), God’s own creation (Nature) and God himself—all three are at war. [1]

Similar attitudes are also expressed by the 20^th century historian of medieval history, Lynn White, Jr., who also blames humanity’s ecological woes on the old biblical notion of dominion. White believes that this Scriptural passage entitles and empowers people with the right to utilize the natural world however they see fit. Furthermore, he alleges that Genesis 1:26-28 teaches that man has a right to dominate, subdue, and control nature with no regard for the welfare of the environment. [2]

White believes that primitive and Eastern religions show more sensitivity toward the welfare of the environment than Christianity, and in much the same way are better sources for environmental ethics. Unlike the ancient Oriental and Greco-Roman religions, or Native American Indian faiths that venerate animals, trees, rivers, and mountains in the belief that all entities are endowed with guardian spirits which need to be placated—biblical religion was very different. White asserts that once Judaism and Christianity overcame primitive animism, these religions made it possible to exploit nature with an attitude of indifference toward all natural objects. As a solution White suggests:

• Since the roots of our trouble are so largely religious, the remedy must also be essentially religious, whether we call it that or not. We must rethink and re-feel our nature and destiny. The profoundly religious, but heretical, sense of the primitive Franciscans for the spiritual autonomy of all parts of nature may point out a direction. I propose Francis as the patron saint for ecologists.[3]

The models of Franciscan and Dominican stewardship that the Catholic Church promotes are indeed excellent models, as White wisely recommends. However, White’s analysis makes a number of unproven assumptions that are suspect and questionable. When speaking about Judaism’s ethos, reference must also be made to the entire corpus of religious beliefs—especially those found in classical rabbinic texts, which contain some of the most detailed expositions of stewardship found in the ancient world.

As a case in point, theologian Louis Jacobs presents a clear summary of how Judaism follows a philosophy that is “eco-sensitive”:

• Waste-disposal, for instance, was a major concern in rabbinic times. Care was to be taken, the Rabbis urged, that bits of broken glass should not be scattered on public land where they could cause injury. Saintly men, the Talmud (Bava Kama 30a) remarks, would bury their broken glassware deep down in their own fields. Other rubbish could be deposited on public land, but only during the winter months when, in any event, the roads were a morass of mud because of the rains. In the Mishnah (Bava Batra 2), rabbinic concern for a peaceful and clean environment was given expression in definite laws. . . . Carcasses, graves, and tanneries must be kept at a distance of at least 50 cubits from the city. A tannery must not be set up in such a way that the prevailing winds waft the unpleasant odor to the town. A prohibition known as bal tashḥit, ‘do not destroy’ is based by the Rabbis on the biblical injunction not to destroy fruit-bearing trees (Deuteronomy 20:19), but it is extended by them to include wasting anything that can be used for the benefit of mankind. For instance, while it was the custom to rend the garments on hearing of the death of a near relative), to tear too much or too many garments violates this rule (Bava Kama 91b). Maimonides formulates this as: “It is not only forbidden to destroy fruit-bearing trees but whoever breaks vessels, tears clothes, demolishes a building, stops up a fountain or wastes food, in a destructive way, offends against the law of “thou shalt not destroy”. Maimonides’ qualification, “in a destructive way” is intended to convey the thought that if, say, a fruit-bearing tree is causing damage to other trees, it may be cut down since then the act is constructive. A Midrashic homily has it that the reason why the wood used for the Tabernacle in the wilderness was not from fruit-bearing trees, was to teach human beings that when they build their own homes they should use wood from other than fruit-bearing trees.[4]

The gaps in Lynn White’s critique of the Judeo-Christian faiths are alarming and his article is a good example of someone who utilizes a straw man for making what is truly a specious and one-sided argument. One of the best responses to the allegation these men raise can be found in a seminal work, written by a man who is often described as the “father of environmentalism,” René Dubos (1901-1981). Dubos offers a number of pointed criticisms aimed at White’s article and to D. T. Suzuki (whom he credits with originating this polemic back in the 1950’s).

• In my opinion, the theory that the Judeo-Christian attitudes are responsible for the development of technology and for the ecological crisis is at best a historical half-truth. Erosion of the land, destruction of animal and plant species, excessive exploitation of natural resources, and ecological disasters are not peculiar to the Judeo-Christian tradition and to scientific technology. At all times, and all over the world, man’s thoughtless interventions in nature have had a variety of disastrous consequences or at least have changed profoundly the complexion of nature  . . .[5]

Dubos also shows how even Oriental societies treated the environment with recklessness and indifference. He notes that China was ahead of the West in science and technology which in turn caused massive ecological damage to their region. The barren hills of central and northern China were once heavily forested. Dubos added that human ecological problems were not just limited to the Occidental countries, but were also felt throughout other communities in Asia as well.

• Even the Buddhists contributed largely to the deforestation of Asia in order to build their temples; it has been estimated that in some areas they have been responsible for more than half of the timber consumption. The Chinese attitude of respect for nature probably arose, in fact, as a response to the damage done in antiquity. . . . In Japan also, the beautifully artificial gardens and oddly shaped pined trees could hardly be regarded as direct expressions of nature; they constitute rather a symbolic interpretation of an intellectual attitude towards scenery. Wildlife has been so severely reduced in modern Japan that sparrows are the only kind of birds remaining of the dozens of species that used to pass through Tokyo a century ago.[6]

Many of the ecological problems occurred when early Neolithic man struggled mightily for survival, and killed any animal that posed a threat to his existence. In ancient Egypt, the Pharaohs and their Assyrian neighbors killed large numbers of wild animals just for the pleasure of the sport as is well-documented on many ancient drawings. Even in the farthest regions of the world such as Australia, the native Aborigines’ penchant for setting off fires contributed toward its semi-arid climate.  If anything, Dubos notes that “the Judeo-Christian peoples were probably the first to develop a pervasive concern for land management and an ethic for nature.”[7]

Dubos, of course, is referring to the institutions such as the sabbatical year and the Jubilee Year that treat the earth similar to that of a sentient being, which is entitled to the benefits of “rest” and cessation from human hands (Exod. 23:11; Lev. 25:4; 25:49). It is remarkable that each ecological-based precept exerts profound sociological ramifications for the entire faith community as well. During the Sabbatical year, debts are cancelled (Deut. 15:1–9); the Jubilee Year provides release for Hebrews who had become servants through poverty (Lev. 25:39–41, 54). During these festivals the poor are free to eat the produce from all of the fields (Exod. 23:11; Lev. 25:6–7, 12). Likewise, the Torah aims at curtailing human violence against the environment—notably during a time of war (Deut. 20:19-20); as well as the laws restricting the co-mingling of different seeds when sowing a field (Deut. 22:9-11), and the law against mixing meat and milk together. (Exod. 23:19). Continue Reading

Stephen Hawking in the beginning of his book, “A Brief History of Time,” relates a story he believes originated with the scientist-philosopher Bertrand Russell, who once fielded an interesting question asked by an elderly woman after finishing a lecture he gave on astronomy:

“He described how the earth orbits around the sun and how the sun, in turn, orbits around the center of a vast collection of stars called our galaxy. At the end of the lecture, a little old lady at the back of the room got up and said: “What you have told us is rubbish. The world is really a flat plate supported on the back of a giant tortoise.” The scientist gave a superior smile before replying, “What is the tortoise standing on.” “You’re very clever, young man, very clever,” said the old lady. “But it’s turtles all the way down!”[1]

The woman’s question was actually based on the ancient Hindu myth where the world was once thought to rest on the backs of four elephants, which in turn stand on the shell of a turtle!  Bertrand Russell  in his book, “Why I am not a Christian,” writes: “It is exactly of the same nature as the Hindu’s view, that the world rested upon an elephant and the elephant rested upon a tortoise; and when they said, “How about the tortoise?” the Indian said, “Suppose we change the subject . . .” And who says philosophers don’t have a good sense of humor?

Are today’s physicists arriving at a similar conclusion?

The prospect of discovering of the Higgs-Boson particle, better known as the “God Particle,” by scientists working at the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) in Bern, Switzerland has created much excitement in the news. The elusive Higgs-Boson particle is one of the fundamental building blocks of matter. Give credit to the Nobel Prize winning scientist Leon Lederman, for coming up with a better name than the “Higgs boson.” “God Particle” is certainly pretty enticing to the imagination. I plan to read his 2006 best seller, “The God Particle: If the Universe Is the Answer, What Is the Question?” over the few weeks. Besides being smart, Lederman also knows how to sell books.

I find the conversations between scientists and theologians quite exciting. The physics of the this newest discovery are complicated. Besides, I never had aspirations to become a physicist. But from what little I have tried to conceptually glean, I can say that the existence of particles invisibly existing apart from mass is breathtaking. Ordinarily, one might think that items endowed with mass tend to be perceived as more “real,” than things that are bereft of mass, but such an assumption is now scientifically unwarranted. The Higgs boson is regarded as a “fundamental” particle; one of the vital building blocks that make up our universe. Physicists think it is the last missing piece in the leading theory of particle physics which describes how particles and forces interact.

All of this sounds pretty mystical to me; science can be as esoteric as any text of the Kabbalah. Actually, many of the Jewish mystics have candidly referred to God as the “Holy Nothing,” because God is not an object one can physically point to. Both Maimonides and the philosopher Alfred Ayers would probably agree about the “nonsense,” concerning God–because God is beyond our senses. One wonders what will these physicists discover next? Will they someday discover that the God Particle is in itself made up of something even more ethereal and abstract? Has the God Particle always existed? How will this discovery impact the way we look at the universe and at ourselves? Here is another more perplexing question: Are we the first species in the universe to even notice that the God Particle exists? If we are, then what does this say about the nature of human consciousness and its possible uniqueness in the universe? If we are not the only entities in the universe, can some older extraterrestrial race of beings kindly explain, “What the heck is going on?” Maybe one of them can write a book called, “The God Particle for Idiots,” which I would certainly rush to buy despite the title.

On NPR Radio, I found the comments of the atheist scientist to be especially enlightening. He marveled at the intellectual achievement of these men as a triumph for rational thought and not religion. The atheist scientist makes a valid point. I would just ask a simple question, “Is it not amazing that the human mind and the Logos (to borrow the famous term from the pre-Socratic philosopher, Heraclitus) of the universe both communicate (so to speak) through the language of mathematics?” For a theistic person like me, this reality has profound religious implications.

British theologian Keith Ward offers a perspective that is important to our discussion. “The cosmos not only springs from a Supreme Consciousness: it is destined to produce beings that will relate in knowledge and in cooperative action to that Consciousness. . . . The cosmos must be such that it will produce beings of awareness, intention, a sense of transcendence, and the possibility of conscious union with God.”[2]

Ward’s interpretation adds new meaning to the passage, “From my flesh I see God” (Job 19:26). By contemplatively gazing into the inner processes of the human mind, we may come to the novel recognition that we perceive only the outer manifestation and presence of a deeper hidden reality that can be seen in such scientific epiphanies as the God Particle. This commingling of the human and cosmic consciousness (as evidenced through the language of mathematics) illustrates that our minds correspond to a Universal Mind that has made the universe wonderfully comprehensible to our puny brains. Indeed, this innate sharing and purposeful commingling of the human and Divine Consciousness constitute from the religious perspective, one of the greatest miracles of all Creation.

In the words of the prophet, we find a most relevant passage to our discussion about the God Particle, “Lift up your eyes on high and see: Who has created these?” (Isaiah 40:26).[3]  When the ancient biblical writers beheld the awe-inspiring complexity of the universe, they probably wondered: Why is there something rather than nothing? Why is there an order manifested in the cosmos? How did it get there when it did not have to be there? Who gave it when it did not have to be given? Why am I even capable of conceptually expressing this immense mystery? More specifically, why do I even exist? Philosopher Martin Heidegger rightly observed that this is the most basic question of philosophy.[4] Although Einstein did not believe in an anthropomorphic deity that is taught by most of the Western religions, he did come to realize that God is an artist of sorts–a God of Mystery–much more grand than the human mind can possibly fathom:

• The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed. It was the experience of mystery–even if mixed with fear—that engendered religion. A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, our perceptions of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty, which only in their most primitive forms are accessible to our  minds—it is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute true religiosity; in this sense, and in this alone, I am a deeply religious man.[5]

Physicist Harold Schilling offers a deeply profound understanding of the term “mystery” that is reminiscent of contemplative silence. By the term mystery, Schilling explains:

• [I]t does not mean an unsolved puzzle or a gap in our knowledge. Rather, the notion of mystery refers to something that is inherently unknowable and inexplicable. No amount of knowledge can ever diminish or eliminate the sense of mystery. On the contrary, our desire to grasp the nature of the cosmic mystery is only intensified as our knowledge of it expands with each scientific discovery. In religious terms, the sense of mystery we experience when gazing at the heavens is the source of all wonder, and is the bedrock of true worship and devotion.”[6]

Perhaps Schilling’s perceptive point is something that both theistic and atheistic minded people can all agree upon. Creation spirituality revolves around the kind of existential question that point toward these ultimate issues and concerns. Indeed, for most people, the beauty of science is probably better conveyed through the imagery of poetry and religion than it is through the discursive idiom of mathematics. Continue Reading

Biblical writers regarded the Divine Word as a cosmic force reverberating throughout the created order. According to Psalms 33:6, the Word of God animates the cosmos:  בִּדְבַר יְהוָה שָׁמַיִם נַעֲשׂוּ “By the Word of the LORD the heavens were made.”  To the Hebraic (as well as the Semitic) imagination, words are powerful—it is the stuff reality is made of. In Biblical Hebrew, among its various nuances, דָּבַר (dabhar) connotes a “thing” (Exod. 35:1); or a “promise” (Deut. 15:6); and a “decree” (Jer. 51:12) or “affair” or “history” (1 Kgs. 14:12).[1] In each of these examples, דָּבַר connotes something substantive and real. Everything that exists in the world is viewed as a manifestation of the Word of God that animates it.

Primal cultures regarded the word as an instrument of power; in fact the power of the word was considered to be the ultimate weapon—a fact that is especially evident in the pericope about King Balak of Moab and Balaam (Num. 22:6ff). In this narrative Balak hires the soothsayer Balaam of Pethor to curse the Israelites who are approaching his land.

Like other ancients, Balaam believes in the power that suffuses the spoken word to change and alter physical reality. With Balaam’s assistance, Balak believes that he can help him avoid certain defeat, and advise him how to defeat the Israelites (Num. 22:6). Similarly, this theme is also present in the beginning of Genesis 12:2-3, where God verbally blesses Abram with the power to convey a blessing or curse at his discretion. Another illustration occurs when Jacob asks for the name of his mysterious assailant; he refuses to grant Jacob that knowledge—since to know the name of an angelic being or deity is to have mastery over it (Gen. 32:30). The word resonates with power and presence . . .

It is tragic that our appreciation of the spoken word pales in comparison to how the ancients enshrined it in their mythologies and cultures. As a result, the word in contemporary society tends to be devalued. There are many practical reasons for this phenomenon. Since the invention of the printing press, the world has become more literate than at any other time of recorded history. Along with the proliferation of literacy, the word has become increasingly more secularized due to advances made by technology. Cell phones, radio/TV, the Internet, and all other forms of electronic digital media and telecommunication devices have inundated civilization with a continuous stream of words—wherever and whenever—twenty-four hours a day.

Spiritual impact stemming from this inundation of verbiage renders the Divine Word fleeting and banal; this may in part help explain why many people find it difficult to hear the Divine Voice in our daily lives. Amidst our busy schedules, and the pressures of everyday existence, it is essential for us to create the space inside our hearts to search our thoughts and examine our potential for spiritual awakening. Oftentimes our thoughts get tangled with false perceptions and other cognitive distortions. To avoid this state, we must bring silence to the mind and senses. The peacefulness of stillness or silence allows for the possibility of spiritual awakening flowing from the higher regions of consciousness.

To discover the mystery of our being, we must sometimes withdraw (a kind of reverse “tsimtsum”; see Excursus 11) from the outer world and create a space for God to enter and embrace our inner world. This is exactly what the prophet Elijah did, who found God in “the stillness of being” (2 Kgs. 2: 1-2, 6-14). In this sacred space, we can safely listen, wonder, question, and dialogue about our place in the cosmos. Continue Reading

To decipher the symbolic and mythic significance of the serpent, one must understand its role as personifying the trickster archetype. According to Jung, the trickster archetype is invariably associated with wisdom and the beginnings of spiritual endeavor. Sometimes, as is the case with Genesis 3, it represents the first obstruction to true self-knowledge.[1] Traditionally, there are four aspects of the trickster’s identity that include: the divine, the profane, the human, and the animal. Its powers in many myths seem to be more of a supernatural order, and as such, tricksters possess the uncanny ability of frustrating the Supreme Being’s creative plans. From a literary perspective, the present text suggests that the Creator is not present or is possibly a silent observer. In light of this dramatic staging, the trickster always lives up to its potential for creating mischief—often to its own detriment.

By many mythic depictions, the trickster has an enormous capacity for lust and sensuality, as well as a hearty appetite for the forbidden (which would explain why in many Midrashic traditions, the serpent had sexual relations with Eve). In many tales of its exploits, the trickster’s deception consists of feigning ignorance, while laying a trap for its adversary worthy of a hunter. Quite often, the trickster is the unwitting victim of his own complicated plots. Although it is an intelligent being, it usually does not think of the consequences of its behavior. Throughout human history, the trickster parodies the norms of society; their expertise is to evoke paradox, self-reflection, unpredictability, and alternate visions of reality. As a contrarian spirit, the trickster lives to break down a society’s taboos, although they are certainly capable of creating mischief. In the final analysis, they are catalysts of change.

True to the trickster archetype, the serpent in Eden blurs the boundaries between the categories of animal, human, and divine. Although the Torah describes the primordial serpent as an animal, it differs from its fellow creatures in that it possesses the ability to speak and reason. In addition, it has an esoteric grasp of knowledge that makes it more akin to God and the angels. The serpent’s mysterious personality leaves the reader wondering what its motivation might have been. Like other such myths, the pay-off for the trickster is both a gain and a loss for which humans pay the price (this pattern also occurs in the Greek myth of Prometheus, who steals the celestial fire of the gods to give it to the mortals). Frequently, it is the trickster who pays the price for his deceit.

In many cultures throughout the world, the serpent acts as the instrument and catalyst of change. Ancient Mesopotamian and Oriental literature associates the serpent with the destructive forces of chaos that threaten to unravel the fabric of creation.[2] When the serpent was untamed, it symbolized destruction and evil; when it was conquered and subdued, it assumed the role of a protector.[3] In other mythic traditions, serpents symbolize esoteric wisdom, as portrayed in Genesis 3, The Epic of Gilgamesh, and Buddha and the Boda Tree.  For the unwary desert traveler, serpents were frequently associated with danger and death.[4] The ancients utilized snakes in many of their oracular magical rites; the serpent’s ability to rejuvenate itself by shedding its skin gave rise to the widely held belief that the serpent was immortal, as seen in The Epic of Gilgamesh, which dates back to about 2700 B.C.E. However, based on the appearance of serpents crafted onto numerous cultic objects dating back as early as the 6^th millennium B.C.E., some recent archeological discoveries indicate that the python was worshiped in African caves dating back 70,000 years ago—30,000 years earlier than the oldest previously known human rites.[5]

To decipher the symbolic and mythic significance of the serpent, one must understand its role as a personification of the trickster archetype.  According to Jung, the trickster archetype is invariably associated with wisdom and the beginnings of spiritual endeavor. Sometimes, as is the case of the Genesis 3, it represents the first obstacle to true self-knowledge. [6] The serpent also epitomizes masculine potency and sexuality—a notion that Sigmund Freud would later heartily endorse. Across the cultural divide, mythic depictions of the serpent reveal a creature endowed with a mysterious knowledge, power, and wisdom. In Greek mythology, “being licked” by a serpent’s tongue was considered a good omen; it meant that the gods would bless a person with supernatural gifts such as prophecy or extraordinary strength. Snakes were also associated with Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, and later in the Middle Ages with Prudentia, the personification of prudence or practical wisdom. Then again, there is the well-known saying of Jesus: “Be wise as serpents” (Mt. 10:16).

The primordial serpent’s role as trickster in this narrative raises many questions that remain unanswered by the biblical narrator. Why does the serpent resent humankind? Why would it want to deprive God’s choice creation of the gifts of immortality? Was its intention sincere, or did it have ulterior motives? What did the serpent stand to gain by Adam’s disobedience? Exegetes propose several plausible answers. The serpent may have been motivated by envy.

If this early exegetical insight is accurate, one could argue that the serpent projects onto Eve its own inner and unresolved conflict with the Divine, and by doing so, the serpent triangulates the couple into a personal struggle with God. When triggered, a psychological defense mechanism may cause a person to project certain objectionable traits, feelings, desires, or motivations onto another person as a means of protecting the walls of one’s ego.

It logically follows that when the serpent asserts that YHWH is “jealous” of His foremost creation obtaining this esoteric knowledge of good and evil, the serpent’s accusation actually reveals more about its own jealousy and its contempt toward the Creator.[7] Josephus explains that the serpent grew jealous of the happiness Adam and his wife enjoyed by virtue of obeying the Divine commandments. The serpent realized that “these gifts would be lost if it could persuade the woman to taste of the tree of wisdom.”[8] Another variant of this idea is explored centuries later in Milton’s Paradise Lost. Milton writes that after a failed coup d’état against Heaven, Satan is expelled and later enters into the body of the serpent in order to estrange Adam and Eve from their Maker.[9] Ultimately, both stories of the Edenic “Fall”—as depicted in Genesis and in Paradise Lost—can be attributed to failure to live in accordance with the hierarchy that YHWH established for all of His Creation.

Some of the early Christian exegetes offer a number of possible motivations. John of Damascus (ca. 650-750) argues that the serpent did not wish to be under Adam’s dominion. Ambrose (ca. 333-397) makes a similar point: the serpent did not like the human couple’s special standing in the world of Paradise. Some Jewish mystics propose that the serpent acted out of jealousy for it sensed its existence was only temporary. It knew that God intended for Adam and Eve to live forever.  By means of a cleverly laid trap,[10] it hoped to “even the playing field,” thus making them mortal, like itself.[11]

There is one answer the early exegetes did not consider—the serpent wished to appropriate for itself the very blessing that it had thought to deny the first couple—the gift of immortality. By diverting their attention away from the Tree of Life, and persuading them to eat from the Tree of Knowledge, the serpent hoped that it alone would eat of the Tree of Life and live forever. The Epic of Gilgamesh definitely resonates with this latter interpretation and provides the key to answering many of the questions thus far raised in the Genesis story. In this ancient tale about the origin of death, a serpent steals a magic plant from Gilgamesh that would have given him immortality, while he was bathing in a nearby pool. Although the story does not say that the serpent ate the coveted plant, the narrator implies that it did. However, in the Edenic narrative, the serpent does not achieve its goal. Unlike the Gilgamesh serpent, which disappears with the coveted prize, the serpent of Genesis suffers a talionic fate, and becomes the “most cursed of creatures.”[12] Continue Reading