Parshat Bereshit5 min read

Adam Was the First Human to Die and He Pleaded for the Righteous

Adam lay dying after 930 years with no predecessor, no tradition of how to die. His final plea to God was not for himself but for those who would blame him.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Nine Hundred and Thirty Years Later
  2. No Oil of Mercy for Adam
  3. The Plea He Made Before the End
  4. The Angel Who Came With a Warning

Nine Hundred and Thirty Years Later

He had been told what would happen on the day he ate of it. God had said: on that day you shall surely die. Adam had eaten, and the day the Torah described in those terms turned out to be nine hundred and thirty years long. Now it was ending.

Nobody had done this before. Every other death in human history would be preceded by the deaths of others, observed from a distance, prepared for however imperfectly by the knowledge that it had happened to someone else first. Adam had no such preparation. He had no stories to draw on, no tradition of how to die, no predecessor who had told him what it felt like when the end arrived. He had only the garden and the warning and the nine centuries since, and now the warning was arriving in his body.

He called his sons together. "Let all my sons gather by me, so that I may see them and bless them." The gesture was the first death-bed scene in human history, and he was inventing it as he went.

No Oil of Mercy for Adam

What happened in the hours before the end survives in the Life of Adam and Eve, one of the pseudepigraphical texts preserved from around the first century CE, and in the great synthesis that Louis Ginzberg assembled in his Legends of the Jews, published between 1909 and 1938, gathering rabbinic and apocryphal traditions that had circulated in Hebrew and Aramaic for centuries before reaching print in that form. Adam was sick before he died, not just old. He lay in real pain, and the Life of Adam and Eve records that Eve and his son Seth went looking for the oil of mercy, a substance from the Garden of Eden said to bring healing. They traveled toward the Garden, toward the angel who guarded the eastern entrance. The angel heard their request and denied it. The oil of mercy was for the end of days, for the general resurrection, not for Adam's specific illness now. They returned empty-handed. Adam died without it.

The detail that strikes hardest is the one about the oil being reserved. It was not that mercy did not exist. It was that this particular mercy was allocated for a future that Adam would not see, and the mercy he needed now was not available. He lay in his tent and waited for the thing that had been promised him in the garden to arrive, and there was nothing his wife or his son could bring back from the world that would delay it.

The Plea He Made Before the End

Ginzberg's synthesis preserves a passage that catches Adam at the exact moment when the righteous in future generations became his concern. He lay dying and thought about how he would be remembered. Not with vanity. With a specific dread. The righteous people who would live and die in the centuries after him would know the story of the garden. They would know that death entered the world through his act. And they would, rationally, blame him for their deaths. Their lives cut short, their children's grief, every funeral in the history of humanity, all of it traceable back to the morning in the garden when he ate what he had been told not to eat.

"I am not concerned about the death of the wicked," Adam said to God. "But I should not like the pious to reproach me and lay the blame for their death upon me. I pray Thee, make no mention of my guilt." God, according to the legend, granted this prayer. The covenant of silence would hold. The death of the righteous would not be attributed to Adam's act in a way that would give them cause to reproach him at the resurrection.

The Angel Who Came With a Warning

The Life of Adam and Eve does not end with the denial at the garden gate. After Adam died, the angels came. They washed and wrapped his body and buried him, performing the first burial rites in human history, establishing the ritual that would be transmitted to all the generations after. Then an angel appeared to Seth and warned him: when you too are near death, do not mourn too long, because the same mourning and wasting will overtake you. The instruction was pragmatic and grim. Grief was not prohibited. Extended grief that destroyed the living would follow Adam into the earth if Seth allowed it to.

Eve's death follows Adam's in the tradition, and it is recorded with a parallel finality. She asked to be buried beside her husband. The tradition granted her that wish. The first two human graves were adjacent, in the ground of the world they had lived in together, east of the garden they had been driven from, a bowshot's distance from the place they could no longer enter.

AdamDeathEveSethAccountability
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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.

Life of Adam and Eve 45-48Apocrypha

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.

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Legends of the Jews 2:125Legends of the Jews

The story of Adam and the introduction of death into the world is central to Jewish thought. But according to some traditions, it's not quite as simple as "Adam ate the apple, therefore we die." A reader can see him as the scapegoat. The guy who messed it all up for everyone. But is that fair?

There’s a fascinating passage in Ginzberg’s Legends of the Jews that illuminates this. It suggests that Adam himself was concerned about being blamed for the death of all people, especially the righteous. According to this legend, Adam pleaded with God, saying, "I am not concerned about the death of the wicked, but I should not like the pious to reproach me and lay the blame for their death upon me. I pray Thee, make no mention of my guilt."

God, in His infinite mercy, promises to fulfill Adam’s wish. What does that mean in practice? Well, the story goes that when a person is nearing death, God appears to them. Not in some grand, theatrical way, but in a personal, intimate encounter. He instructs them to write down everything they’ve done in their life. "Thou art dying by reason of thy evil deeds," God tells them. Harsh? Perhaps. But also, an opportunity for introspection and accountability. The individual, facing their own mortality, is tasked with creating a personal ledger of their actions. It's a moment of profound self-reflection. And once the record is complete, God orders them to seal it with their own seal. This isn't just any record; it's a testament, a personal accounting that will be presented on the Day of Judgment.

This writing, this personal ledger, will be brought out on Judgment Day, revealing each person’s deeds for all to see. It’s a powerful image, isn't it? A life laid bare.

But the story doesn’t end there. As soon as life leaves a person, their soul is presented to Adam. And, as you might expect, Adam is immediately accused of causing their death. But Adam, ever the advocate for himself, refutes the charge. He essentially argues, "Hey, I committed only one sin. Is there anyone here, even the most righteous among you, who hasn't committed more than one?"

It’s a clever argument, isn’t it? A way of diffusing the blame, of pointing out the inherent imperfections of humanity. It suggests that while Adam's actions may have opened the door to mortality, our own choices and actions contribute to our individual fates.

So, what does this all mean? Perhaps it's a reminder that while we might look for someone to blame, ultimately, we are responsible for our own lives and choices. It's not just about Adam's sin; it's about our own. It’s a call to live a life of intention, knowing that our actions have consequences, and that one day, we will have to account for them. And maybe, just maybe, it's a little bit of comfort to know that even Adam, the first man, didn't want to shoulder all the blame. He, too, recognized the complexities of human existence.

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