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Abraham Entered a World Still Filled With Demons From the First Friday

Before Abraham left Ur, the world was packed with demons created on the eve of the first Sabbath, their souls made but bodies unfinished.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The World Before Abraham Arrived in It
  2. How Demons Entered the World on the First Friday
  3. Helel, the Fallen Light
  4. The Deer That Kept Getting Loose

The World Before Abraham Arrived in It

The covenant was not made into a clean world. Before Abraham was born, before the flood had cleared the earth of its first corruption, before the Garden had been sealed behind its guardian flame, the world was already structured with things that would trouble every human being across every generation that followed. They were not an accident. They were not the result of human sin. They were made.

On the first Friday evening, as the sixth day ran out and the seventh was about to begin, God worked in haste to complete what had not yet been completed. The Talmudic tradition, preserved in Pirkei Avot 5:6, names ten things created at that seam: the mouth of the earth that would swallow Korach, the mouth of Miriam's well, the mouth of Balaam's donkey, the rainbow of Noah's covenant, the manna in the wilderness, Moses' staff, the shamir worm that would cut the Temple stones without metal. And the demons.

How Demons Entered the World on the First Friday

The Ginzberg account preserves the specific mechanism. God had fashioned the souls of the demons before the Sabbath arrived, and was in the process of giving them bodies when the sun set and the Sabbath came in and the work had to stop. The souls existed, formed and conscious. The bodies did not exist, because the Sabbath had interrupted the creation before they could be completed.

Disembodied souls need to borrow form from somewhere. They enter the world sideways, through gaps and thresholds and moments of human vulnerability. They are incomplete by nature, and incompleteness drives them toward completion in any way available. The world Abraham walked into was full of them.

This is the framework for what Ginzberg reports about Abraham's journey through the world. He was not moving through neutral territory that had been populated by human beings and their ordinary dangers. He was moving through a landscape whose invisible architecture included presences that had been there since before the first Sabbath, presences that had nothing to do with him personally but were simply part of what existed between the visible surfaces of things.

Helel, the Fallen Light

2 Enoch, a text composed in the 1st century CE and preserved in Slavonic manuscripts, places a specific figure at the origin of the demonic order: Satanael, the highest of the archangels, who occupied the position closest to the Throne of Glory before his expulsion. His crime in 2 Enoch is not cosmic rebellion in the later theological sense. It is a particular kind of pride: he refused to submit to the image of God placed in human form. He was thrown from heaven. His name was shortened. He became Ha-Satan, the Accuser, who now operates as the prosecutor in the divine court, the tester of human faithfulness, the force that drives Esau's guardian angel and interferes with Isaac's blessing.

Isaiah's Helel ben Shachar, the morning star, son of the dawn (Isaiah 14:12), was read by some traditions as a name for this figure before his fall: the shining one who descended. The Satanael of 2 Enoch is not a ruler of an independent dark kingdom. He is an agent of the divine court operating in the world that Abraham entered, a force that had been assigned its position in the structure of things before Abraham's grandfather was born.

The Deer That Kept Getting Loose

When Isaac was old and wanted to bless Esau before he died, he sent Esau to hunt game for a feast. Every deer Esau caught escaped before he could bring it home. Each time he cornered one, it slipped away. The force behind these repeated escapes was Ha-Satan, working to prevent the blessing from going to Esau and forcing the blessing toward Jacob by making Esau late.

This is the world as Abraham found it and as his descendants lived in it: a world in which the outcome of a covenant blessing could be disrupted by a supernatural force running deer through the forests of Canaan. The demons and angelic adversaries were not external to the patriarchal story. They were built into the same creation that contained Abraham's promise.


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The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Legends of the Jews, I. The Creation Of The World, The First Things CreatedLegends of the Jews

Our tradition offers some pretty wild and wondrous answers!

In Legends of the Jews, that incredible compilation of rabbinic lore by Louis Ginzberg, two thousand years before our familiar cosmos sprung into being, seven incredible things were already present.

First, there was the Torah itself. Not just the words, but the very scroll, "written with black fire on white fire," resting in God’s lap.

Then came the Divine Throne, already established in the heavens above the Hayyot – those celestial, living creatures who carry God’s chariot, as described by Ezekiel.

And of course, Paradise and Hell, already prepared on God’s right and left, respectively, awaiting their future inhabitants.

Next, the Celestial Sanctuary, situated directly before God. Ginzberg tells us this wasn't just any sanctuary, but one adorned with a jewel bearing the name of the Messiah! And from this sanctuary emanated a Voice, constantly calling out: "Return, ye children of men." A powerful reminder of the possibility of repentance, even before humanity existed.

So, why these things? Why this particular order?

Well, the tradition suggests that when God decided to create the world, He consulted with the Torah. The Torah’s response? A king needs a kingdom! "O Lord," she said, "a king without an army and without courtiers and attendants hardly deserves the name of king, for none is nigh to express the homage due to him." God loved that answer. It makes perfect sense, doesn't it? Before you can have subjects, you need a framework, a structure, a purpose. This divine consultation, as Ginzberg points out, also serves as a model for earthly rulers: seek counsel before acting.

But the Torah wasn't entirely sold on the idea of humanity. She knew we’d be prone to sin, to disregarding her precepts. So, God reassures her, explaining that teshuvah (repentance) – repentance – was created long ago, offering a path back. The Temple service would provide atonement. Paradise and Hell would serve as incentive. And ultimately, the Messiah would arrive to bring complete salvation. A whole system of checks and balances, already in place.

And here's another fascinating tidbit: this world, our world, wasn't God's first attempt! According to the tradition, He created and destroyed several worlds before this one, because none pleased Him. It's a humbling thought, isn't it? That creation is a process, a series of iterations, until perfection – or at least something closer to it – is achieved.

But even this world, the one we inhabit, wouldn’t have lasted if God had stuck to pure, unadulterated justice. It was only when He combined justice with rachamim – mercy – that the world could endure. As we find in Midrash Rabbah, divine goodness is essential for existence. Without it, the forces of evil would have overwhelmed humanity.

And this goodness manifests in countless ways. Take the seasons, for example. According to Ginzberg, in Nisan (the spring equinox), the seraphim intimidate the evil spirits, preventing them from harming humans. In Tammuz (the summer solstice), the roar of the behemot (a primordial beast) frightens the wild animals, curbing their ferocity. In Tishri (the autumn equinox), the great bird ziz flaps its wings, terrifying birds of prey. And in Tevet (the winter solstice), the sea becomes restless as leviathan (another primordial sea monster) spouts water, causing the big fish to restrain their appetite. These aren't just fanciful stories; they're metaphors for the constant, subtle interventions that maintain balance in the world.

And what about the Jewish people? Well, according to this tradition, we wouldn't have survived the ages without divine protection. The archangels Michael and Gabriel are our designated guardians. When other nations accuse Israel, these angels defend us, inspiring fear in our accusers and preventing them from acting on their evil designs.

The goal is for divine goodness to reign on earth as it does in heaven. To that end, the Angels of Destruction are kept far away, while the Angels of Mercy surround God’s throne, ready to act on His behalf.

So, what does this all mean for us today? Perhaps it's a reminder that even in the face of chaos and uncertainty, there's a deeper order, a divine plan unfolding. That even before creation, the seeds of redemption were already sown. And that even in our imperfect world, goodness, mercy, and the possibility of return are always present. Perhaps the real work is recognizing them, and allowing them to guide our own actions.

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Jasher 23Book of Jasher

The familiar version gives us the ending – the angel intervenes, a ram is sacrificed, and Isaac is spared. But what about the emotional turmoil, the agonizing choices, and the sheer human drama unfolding in those moments?

Chapter 23 of the Book of Jasher, a text known for expanding on biblical narratives, offers us a deeply human look at this iconic event. Now, the Book of Jasher isn't considered part of the core Jewish canon like the Torah itself. Think of it more as a really compelling piece of historical fiction, filling in the gaps and offering a unique perspective.

The chapter opens with God's command to Abraham: "Take now thy son, thine only son whom thou lovest, even Isaac, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there for a burnt offering." Can you imagine hearing those words? The weight of that request.

Abraham, understandably, struggles. How does he tell Sarah? The verse reads, "Abraham said within himself, How shall I separate my son Isaac from Sarah his mother…?" He decides to present it as a journey for Isaac to study with Shem and Eber, hoping to soften the blow.

Sarah’s reaction is heart-wrenching. She agrees, but with the desperate plea, "…remove him not at a great distance from me, neither let him remain there too long, for my soul is bound within his soul." This isn't just a casual farewell; it's a mother's soul clinging to her child.

The details in Jasher paint a vivid picture. Sarah carefully selects a beautiful garment for Isaac, adorns him with a turban and a precious stone. It's a bittersweet act of love, knowing what might lie ahead. The emotional farewell is drawn out and agonizing. "Who knoweth if after this day I shall ever see thee again?" she cries. It’s a scene brimming with love, fear, and a mother’s intuition.

As Abraham and Isaac journey to Mount Moriah, the narrative takes an interesting turn. We learn that Ishmael and Eliezer accompany them part of the way. They begin to argue about who will inherit Abraham’s wealth after Isaac’s (presumed) sacrifice. It's a stark reminder that even in the midst of profound spiritual trials, human nature – with its petty squabbles and ambitions – persists.

But the real obstacle comes in the form of Satan. Jasher depicts Satan appearing first to Abraham, then to Isaac, trying to dissuade them from their mission. He uses logic, appeals to emotion, and even transforms himself into a raging brook, attempting to physically stop them. This reminds us of the constant struggle between good and evil, the yetzer hatov (the good inclination) and the yetzer hara – the good and evil inclinations – that, Jewish tradition tells us, wage war within each of us.

Despite Satan’s efforts, Abraham and Isaac persevere. When Isaac asks, "…where then is the lamb that is to be the burnt offering before the Lord?", Abraham’s response is both heartbreaking and resolute: "The Lord has made choice of thee my son, to be a perfect burnt offering instead of the lamb."

Isaac’s reaction is equally striking. He accepts his fate with "joy and cheerfulness of heart," declaring himself blessed to be chosen for this ultimate sacrifice. This isn't blind obedience, but a profound act of faith.

The scene on the mountain is intense. Isaac asks his father to bind him securely, fearing he might flinch and invalidate the offering. He even instructs Abraham to bring his ashes to Sarah, but cautions against telling her the news near water or a high place, lest she be overwhelmed with grief. It's a poignant reminder of his love for his mother and his concern for her well-being.

As Abraham raises the knife, the angels plead for mercy. And then, the familiar intervention occurs. God calls out, "Lay not thine hand upon the lad… for now I know that thou fearest God." A ram appears, caught in a thicket, and is offered in Isaac’s place.

But the story doesn't end there. Satan, ever the trickster, rushes to Sarah, falsely telling her that Isaac was sacrificed. The shock and grief are too much for her; the text says, "…her joy was so exceedingly violent on account of her son, that her soul went out through joy; she died and was gathered to her people."

It's a tragic end to Sarah’s story, highlighting the immense emotional toll of this entire ordeal. When Abraham and Isaac return home, they find Sarah has died. The chapter concludes with their profound grief and mourning.

So, what are we to make of this expanded version of the Akeidah, the Binding of Isaac? It’s a story about faith, obedience, and the ultimate test of devotion. But it's also a story about human relationships, parental love, and the enduring power of grief. The Book of Jasher gives us a richer, more emotionally resonant understanding of this foundational narrative, reminding us that even in the most sacred of stories, the human element remains powerfully present.

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Legends of the Jews 6:56Legends of the Jews

See, Isaac, nearing his end (or so he thought), wanted to bestow his blessing upon his elder son, Esau. All Esau had to do was hunt some game and prepare a tasty meal. Simple enough. Not quite. As Legends of the Jews tells it, God, in his infinite wisdom (and perhaps nudged along by Rebekah, who favored Jacob), decided to throw a wrench into Esau's plans. And that wrench? None other than Satan himself.

Esau, the skilled hunter, finally manages to catch a deer. He binds it securely, confident he's on his way to fulfilling his father's request. But as he chases after more game, Satan swoops in and… poof! The deer is gone. Free as a bird.

Esau, understandably frustrated, tracks down another deer. He captures it, ties it up even tighter this time, and resumes his hunt. But guess what? Satan strikes again! The deer vanishes into thin air. It’s like a cosmic game of hide-and-seek, with Esau as the perpetually frustrated seeker.

Ginzberg's retelling emphasizes the repetitive nature of this divine interference. Again and again, Esau captures, binds, and loses his prey. It must have been infuriating! You can almost picture him throwing his hands up in the air, yelling at the heavens.

But why all the trouble? What was the point of this celestial cat-and-mouse game?

Simple: to buy time. While Esau was busy wrestling with disappearing deer courtesy of Satan, Jacob, aided by his mother Rebekah's cunning plan, was able to step in and receive Isaac's blessing in Esau's stead.

So, the next time you face seemingly insurmountable obstacles, remember Esau and his disappearing deer. Sometimes, the universe has other plans. Sometimes, those plans involve a little divine (or devilish) intervention. And sometimes, all you can do is laugh (or maybe cry a little) and wonder what on earth is going on.

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2 Enoch 292 Enoch

One figure looms large in this discussion: Satanael. In the ancient text of 2 Enoch, this was the name of the highest angel, and the story surrounding him is… complicated, especially when we look at it through a Jewish lens.

Initially, Satanael wasn't the embodiment of evil readers often imagine. According to some traditions, he was the highest archangel, "the seal of perfection, full of wisdom and flawless in beauty," as Arthur Green translates in Tree of Souls. He lived on God's holy mountain, amidst stones of fire. (Ezekiel 28:11-19), while not naming this angel directly, paints a similar picture of a being of incredible beauty and power.

So what happened? He fell.

The story, pieced together from various sources, tells us that Satanael, along with legions of angels, attempted to set himself up as equal to God. He declared, "I will climb to the sky; higher than the stars of God will I set my throne." A defiant statement. God's response? He hurled Satanael and his followers from the heights into a bottomless abyss. As 2 Enoch recounts, God Himself said, "I hurled him out of the heights, together with his angels."

Now, here's where things get interesting. The myth of Satanael's fall has roots in older stories, like the ancient Canaanite myth of Athtar, who tried to usurp Ba'al's throne but ended up ruling the underworld instead. But in Jewish tradition, the story is… fragmented. We find hints in (Isaiah 14:12) and 2 Enoch, but not a complete narrative.

Why is that? Well, one reason might be that the story never took center stage in rabbinic thought. Some versions of 2 Enoch identify Satanael with the angel Satanel, but in mainstream Jewish tradition, Satan is often portrayed as the yetzer hara (the evil inclination), a heavenly prosecutor, a tempter who, surprisingly, often works with God. He's not necessarily a rebel cast out of heaven.

There’s a clear distinction between Satan, the Tempter, and Satanael, the rebel. Over time, the Satanael story largely disappeared from the midrash, the body of Jewish stories and interpretations of the Bible. We're left to reconstruct it from fragments – like the passages in Isaiah and Ezekiel, which some scholars believe allude to the myth through allegory, as seen in the address to the King of Tyre.

Isaiah recounts the myth powerfully: "How are you fallen from heaven, O Shining One, son of Dawn! How are you felled to earth, O vanquisher of nations! Once you thought in your heart, I will climb to the sky; Higher than the stars of God I will set my throne… Instead, you are brought down to Sheol, to the bottom of the pit." It's a dramatic downfall, a stark reminder of the consequences of hubris.

The name is often connected to the imagery of the morning star in (Isaiah 14:12), where the prophet calls the King of Babylon "Satanael" (shining one, son of dawn). It appears brilliantly, dominating the sky, and then fades away. This mirrors Satanael's trajectory: a shining star who rose high only to fall.

By placing the rebellion on the second day of Creation, the story emphasizes that this was a purely heavenly conflict, before humanity even existed. This was a battle of wills, of divine authority, played out on a cosmic scale.

So, what does this all mean? The story of Satanael's fall, though somewhat sidelined in Jewish tradition, still holds a potent message. It's a tale of ambition, of the dangers of pride, and the ultimate triumph of divine order. It reminds us that even the brightest stars can fall, and that true light comes from embracing humility and recognizing our place in the grand scheme of things. What do you think?

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