Apocrypha Reader

(Genesis 6:4) mentions the Nefilim. That word, Nefilim, generally understood to mean “giants.” But who were they, really? And where did they come from? The Torah just kind of drops that in there, doesn't it? "The Nefilim were on the earth in those days. And also afterward, when the sons of God went to the daughters of humans and had children by them. These were the heroes of old, men of renown."

Well, Jewish tradition has a lot to say about it, filling in the gaps with some truly wild stories.

One particularly striking account tells us that the "Sons of God" – often interpreted as Watchers – took wives from among the daughters of men. And these unions… well, they didn’t produce ordinary children. These women gave birth to giants. Really big giants. Now, an "ell" is an old measurement, but whatever it was, it’s clear – these guys were HUGE.

Hungry. Very, very hungry.

The story goes that these giants quickly devoured all the resources of humanity. : imagine trying to feed beings that size. It wouldn’t take long to strip the world bare. And when the humans couldn't sustain them any longer? The giants turned on them, devouring people, too. It gets worse. They began sinning against every living creature – birds, beasts, reptiles, fish. They devoured each other, drank blood. You can imagine the scene… it wasn't pretty.

The earth itself cried out against this lawlessness. The air was thick with the stench of rotting carcasses.

One particularly gruesome detail involves Shemhazai, a Watcher, who supposedly fathered two sons, Hiwa and Hiya. According to the tale, these two alone consumed a thousand oxen, a thousand camels, and a thousand horses every single day. Can you even imagine the logistics of that?

It’s no wonder, then, that God decided to cleanse the earth with the Flood.

But where did these giants come from, really? Why were they so…awful?

Some say these giants, born of spirit and flesh, are the evil spirits that still roam the earth today, relentlessly pursuing us. Others offer a slightly different take. According to this version, the angels transformed themselves, taking the shape of men, and appeared to the women while they were with their husbands. The women, bewitched by these angelic forms, lusted after them. As a result, they gave birth to giants. It’s a fascinating idea – that even the thought of infidelity could have such monstrous consequences. The Testament of Reuben gives us this version.

And while most accounts attribute the birth of the Nefilim to these unions, the Zohar, that foundational text of Kabbalah, offers a different, darker origin. The Zohar tells us that Samael (the angel of death), often identified as the angel of death, copulated with Eve, "injecting her with slime," and from that union came Cain, whose very essence was different from other humans. The Nefilim, then, issued from the seed of Cain.

These myths – and they are myths, stories meant to teach us something profound – also provide a potential origin for the giants that the Israelites encountered in the Land of Israel, as described in (Numbers 13:31-33).

What are we to make of all this? Maybe it's about the dangers of unchecked power, or the consequences of straying from our moral compass. Maybe it's about the dark side of desire. Or maybe, just maybe, it's a reminder that even the smallest seed of corruption can grow into something truly monstrous. And that's a thought worth pondering, isn't it?

We don't often get to hear Adam's side of the story directly. But Jewish tradition, in its beautiful, layered way, offers us glimpses. One fascinating account, preserved in Howard Schwartz's anthologies of Jewish folklore, paints a poignant scene: Adam, on his deathbed, sharing his memories of the Fall with his son, Seth.

That moment. The weight of ages, the burden of choice, all condensed into a father's final confession.

"After your mother and I were created," Adam begins, "God placed us in Paradise." Simple enough. But think about the enormity of that statement. Placed in Paradise.

Adam continues, "We were permitted to eat from every tree in the garden, except for one, the Tree of Knowledge that grew in the center of the garden. We were forbidden to eat of its fruit." That one little rule. The one boundary. The one test.

The stakes couldn’t be higher. And then, a curious detail emerges. "Now God gave a part of Paradise to me and a part to your mother," Adam recounts. "He gave me the trees in the eastern and northern parts of the garden, and your mother received the trees of the southern and western parts." A division of labor, perhaps? Or a hint at different perspectives, different ways of relating to the bounty around them? It makes you wonder.

And the story continues, “So too did God give us two angels to guard us.”

Two angels! Adam and Eve weren't alone. They had divine protection, guidance...and yet, the story unfolds as we know it did.

What does this deathbed confession of Adam tell us? It's more than just a retelling of a familiar story. It’s a reminder of the human condition. Of freedom, responsibility, and the enduring power of choice. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of hope, passed down from father to son, even in the face of loss.

The very first family facing the ultimate crisis. Adam, the first man, is nearing his end. Can you even fathom the weight of that moment? The realization that mortality, this thing they barely understood, was about to claim their father, their husband.

In this moment of despair, as Louis Ginzberg recounts in Legends of the Jews, Adam calls out to Eve and their son Seth. He asks them to begin a desperate quest. A quest not for gold or power, but for something far more precious: mercy.

He instructs them to go alone – just the two of them – and prostrate themselves before God. Their mission? To beg God to send an angel to the Tree of Mercy in the Garden of Eden. A fascinating concept, isn't it? This Tree of Mercy. We're so familiar with the Tree of Knowledge, the source of so much trouble, but here’s another tree, one offering solace.

What were they hoping to find there? Adam believed that an angel guarding this tree held the key to easing his suffering. Perhaps he envisioned a miraculous cure, a last-minute reprieve from the inevitable.

Now, different traditions paint slightly different pictures. Some speak of the Oil of Mercy, or the Oil of Life – a substance with the power to heal not just Adam, but all of humanity. As we read in Lawrence Kushner's River of Light, this oil is a symbol of divine compassion, a balm for the soul’s deepest wounds.

The story continues with Seth and Eve undertaking this arduous journey. Think about their emotions! Grief, hope, fear – all intertwined as they make their way back to the paradise they could no longer enter freely.

Did they succeed? Well, that's a story for another time. But the very fact that they undertook this quest speaks volumes. It reveals a deep-seated belief in the power of repentance, the possibility of divine intervention, and the enduring hope for healing, even in the face of death.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it? What "Oil of Mercy" are we seeking in our own lives? What "Tree of Mercy" do we need to approach with humility and hope? The story of Adam, Eve, and Seth reminds us that even in our darkest moments, the possibility of compassion and healing remains. Perhaps, like them, we simply need to ask.

Apocrypha turns to Adam Cries Out as the First Human to Face Death.

Well, Jewish tradition has a lot to say about the death of Adam, the first human. And it's not just a simple passing; it's a cosmic event, filled with angels, regrets, and a whole lot of divine intervention.

Adam is lying in his tent, and he knows. He knows the end is near. According to Louis Ginzberg's Legends of the Jews, Adam, realizing his time was up, cries out with a mighty voice. “Let all my sons gather by me," he pleads, "so that I may see them and bless.” (Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews, 1:10). Can you imagine the scene? The weight of millennia on his shoulders, the knowledge that he was the beginning?

His son Seth, ever dutiful, hurries to gather the family. But here’s where things get interesting. Seth isn't alone. With him are not just his siblings, but also… an entourage. According to the Tree of Souls, Seth and his mother, Eve, are on a quest to plead for mercy. (Schwartz, Tree of Souls, 9:7).

They venture to the Gate of Paradise, desperate for a cure for Adam. Think of it as the ultimate doctor's visit. They beg for oil from the Tree of Mercy, hoping it will heal him. But an angel appears – some say it's the archangel Michael himself – and delivers a somber message: their plea is denied. Now is the time for Adam to go.

But why? Why deny Adam, the first man, a longer life? The angel explains that this is God's decree, a necessary part of the cosmic order. It's a harsh reality, a reminder that even paradise has its limits.

When Seth and Eve return, grief hangs heavy in the air. Adam prepares for his final moments, surrounded by his children. The Zohar, a central text of Kabbalah, paints a vivid picture of Adam's death. The sun begins to dim. The earth trembles. Even the celestial realms feel the impact of his passing.

According to tradition, God then sends angels to prepare Adam for burial. They wash and anoint his body, a ritual that becomes the basis for Jewish burial practices. It's a poignant moment, a divine act of compassion for the man who walked in the Garden of Eden.

And where is Adam buried? Tradition places his grave in the Cave of Machpelah in Hebron, alongside Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob, and Leah. This cave, purchased by Abraham as a burial plot, becomes a significant site in Jewish history, linking the first man to the patriarchs and matriarchs of the Jewish people. (Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews, 1:10).

The death of Adam, as depicted in Jewish tradition, is more than just the end of a life. It's a powerful reminder of our mortality, the consequences of our choices, and the enduring presence of God's compassion, even in the face of death. It's a story that invites us to contemplate our own lives, our own legacies, and the eternal questions that have haunted humanity since the very beginning.

So, next time you think about death, remember Adam. Remember the angels, the pleas for mercy, and the solemn acceptance of God's will. It's a story that stays with you, long after the last word is spoken.