6 min read

Adam Fell Through Seven Earths and Job Landed on the Ash Heap

Most people picture one world under one sky. Ginzberg's Legends maps seven, and the saddest people in Jewish memory keep landing on the lowest one.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The cellar of the world
  2. Seven floors of a dark building
  3. The generations that earned the descent
  4. Job arrived at the bottom without doing what Adam did
  5. The staircase at the bottom of the building

The cellar of the world

When God expelled Adam from Eden, Adam did not land on the green ground we walk on. He fell to the Erez, the bottom floor, the lowest of seven earths stacked beneath the one sky we think we share. Darkness. A void. A fiery sword turning above him. Total silence except for the sound of his own breathing, which in this place he had no right to be doing.

He sat there in penance until he was allowed to climb one floor up, to the Adamah, where a thin reflected starlight let him see his own hands again. That is where Cain, Abel, and Seth were born. Not in our world. One floor below it.

After Cain killed Abel, he was thrown back down to the Erez. He repented. God let him climb to the third earth, the Arka, and gave it to his children. The Cainites farm there in dim sun. Some are giants. Some are dwarfs. Some have two heads. The rabbis said this is why they cannot decide whether to be pious or wicked: they argue with themselves and never finish.

Seven floors of a dark building

The architecture that Louis Ginzberg assembled from rabbinic sources in his Legends of the Jews is specific. Seven earths, each with its own character, each lit by a different quality of light, each populated by creatures that correspond to the moral weight of the souls assigned there.

The floor we inhabit, the fourth earth, is the one called Tevel, and it is the only floor with both sea and land, the only floor with tides. This is significant. The other floors are static. Tevel moves. The floor we live on is the one that changes, which is either a privilege or a warning, depending on how the tides are read.

Above Tevel sit three more earths, each brighter, each lighter, each closer to the light that comes from above rather than the reflected light that reaches down. The highest floor, the one directly below heaven, is where the righteous wait for what comes next.

The generations that earned the descent

Ginzberg's map of who lived on which floor follows the logic of merit. The generation of Enosh, who first used divine names as idolatrous titles, was assigned a lower floor. The generation of the Flood was stripped of the full sun and given a diminished light as they waited for judgment. The generation of the Tower of Babel, who tried to climb up through the levels by force, was scattered across the middle floors, each fragment of the original community now too far from the others to finish the project they had started.

The architecture is punitive in a precise way. You do not fall out of the world entirely. You fall one floor, or two floors, to a place where the light is dimmer and the company is worse. The world does not end for the wicked generations. It narrows.

Job arrived at the bottom without doing what Adam did

This is where the map becomes strange and painful. Job did not earn the bottom. He arrived at the ash heap not because of anything he had done but because the heavenly prosecutor had made a wager and God had accepted it.

Ginzberg's telling of Job's suffering, set inside the same cosmic architecture as the map of the seven earths, presents a man whose suffering is maximally unjust within a system that the rabbis insisted was in the end just. Job fell through conditions that the seven-floor structure says are reserved for the condemned. He sat in the place of outcasts, scraping his sores with a potsherd, surrounded by silence that felt like abandonment.

The architecture of the seven earths does not explain Job. It frames him. He ended up in the place you land when heaven has expelled you, and heaven had not expelled him. He had been placed there as a test, which means the system that the floors represent could be violated from above as well as from below. The floors were not a pure meritocracy. They were subject to divine purposes that did not always correspond to human categories of justice.

The staircase at the bottom of the building

The seven earths are not a cosmology for its own sake. They are a spatial representation of a theological conviction: that there is always more below than it appears, and always more above than can currently be seen, and that where a soul lands in any given moment is not always the whole story of where it belongs.

Adam repented from the bottom floor and was allowed to climb. Cain repented and climbed. Job suffered from the bottom floor without deserving it and was eventually restored, climbing back not by repentance but by the same divine will that had placed him there in the first place.

The rabbis who built this map were not trying to explain the problem of evil. They were trying to give it a shape. A shape you could inhabit. A shape that included a staircase going up, even from the very bottom of the building.

JobNoahGinzbergSeven EarthsWicked Generations
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From the tradition

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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, III. The Ten Generations, The Inhabitants Of The Seven EarthsLegends of the Jews

Legends of the Jews (Ginzberg) turns to The Inhabitants Of The Seven Earths.

Our journey begins with Adam. When he was cast out of Paradise, he didn't land on the familiar ground we walk on. Instead, he found himself on the Erez, the lowest of the seven earths. Imagine a place of utter darkness, devoid of light, a complete void. Terrifying. Especially with the ever-turning sword, a fiery guardian, looming nearby. No wonder Adam was terrified!

After doing penance, Adam ascended to the second earth, the Adamah. Here, a faint light exists, reflected from its own sky and ghostly stars. This realm is home to the phantom-like beings born from the union of Adam and spirits. These are creatures of perpetual sadness, unfamiliar with joy. Driven by some inner restlessness, they sometimes venture to our earth, where they transform into evil spirits before returning to their own realm to till the unyielding ground. It’s here, on the Adamah, that Cain, Abel, and Seth were born.

The story doesn't end there. After the tragic murder of Abel, Cain was banished back to the Erez, that dark and frightening lowest earth. But after repenting, God allowed him to ascend once more, this time to the third earth, the Arka. This earth receives a little light from the sun, and it was given to the descendants of Cain, the Cainites, as their permanent home. They till the land and plant trees, but, like the Adamah, it yields no wheat or any of the seven species blessed to grow in the land of Israel.

The Cainites themselves are quite a sight! Some are giants, others dwarfs. And some… some have two heads! Imagine the internal conflict! According to the legends, their dual-headed nature makes them indecisive, prone to shifting between piety and wickedness in a moment.

Next, we encounter the Ge, the fourth earth. This is where the generation of the Tower of Babel and their descendants were banished. As we learn in Midrash Rabbah, their proximity to Gehenna (hell) and its fires was deemed a fitting punishment. But don't think of them as just suffering. The inhabitants of the Ge are incredibly skilled in the arts and sciences, living in a land overflowing with wealth. But there's a catch: they’re also tricksters. Should someone from our earth visit, they'll shower them with gifts, then lead them to the fifth earth, the Neshiah.

And what's so bad about the Neshiah? Well, it's inhabited by dwarfs.. without noses! They breathe through two holes instead. More importantly, as the name Neshiah ("forgetting") suggests, they have no memory. Everything is instantly forgotten. Like the Arka, the Ge and the Neshiah have trees, but no wheat or the seven species.

The sixth earth is the Ziah, a land of handsome men living in palaces, overflowing with wealth. However, the name Ziah means "drought," and that's their curse: a lack of water. Vegetation is sparse, and their tree-growing efforts are largely unsuccessful. Driven by thirst, they seek out springs, hoping to sneak through to our earth and satisfy their craving for our food. Despite this hardship, they are said to be remarkably steadfast in their faith, more so than any other group of people.

Finally, we arrive at the seventh earth, the Tebel, the earth we know, inhabited by humans. According to the legends, Adam eventually made his way here, passing through the Arka, the Ge, the Neshiah, and the Ziah, after Seth was born.

So, what does this all mean? Is it a literal depiction of different worlds, or a metaphorical representation of different states of being? Perhaps it's a way of understanding the complexities of human nature, the constant struggle between good and evil, memory and forgetfulness, abundance and lack. Each "earth" represents a different facet of our existence, a different challenge we face. And maybe, just maybe, it reminds us that even when we feel lost in the darkness of the Erez, there's always the potential to ascend, to find light and meaning, and ultimately, to find our way home to the Tebel.

Full source
Legends of the Jews, V. Abraham, The Wicked GenerationsLegends of the Jews

The sages tell us that there were ten generations between Noah and Abraham. Ten generations! And the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) emphasizes that this long span shows us just how incredibly patient God is. (Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews). Because, frankly, these generations really tested that patience.

The tradition says pretty much everyone was provoking God’s wrath. It wasn’t exactly a golden age. But God waited. God waited for Abraham, who the tradition says would ultimately receive the reward for all of them. In fact, some say the entire world was created for Abraham's sake! kind of pressure!

There’s even a prophecy connected to Abraham's birth. His ancestor Reu, upon the birth of his own son Serug, is said to have declared that in the fourth generation from Serug would come someone who would "set his dwelling over the highest," someone "perfect and spotless," the "father of nations," whose covenant would be everlasting.

Before Abraham arrived, things were… well, rough. The descendants of Noah were going downhill fast. They were fighting, killing, even eating blood (yikes!). They started building fortified cities, setting up kings, and generally making war on each other. The world was descending into violence and enslavement.

And it wasn't just the physical world that was suffering. Spiritually, things were even worse. They were creating idols – molten images – and worshipping them. Ginzberg tells us that evil spirits, led by someone named Mastema, were leading them astray into sin and uncleanness.

It got so bad that Reu named his son Serug because all of mankind had turned aside to sin. And, sadly, Serug himself followed the trend, worshipping idols too. When Serug had a son, Nahor, he taught him the ways of the Chaldeans – soothsaying and magic.

The negativity kept snowballing. When Nahor eventually had a son, Mastema (remember him?) sent ravens and other birds to ruin the earth, stealing the seeds before people could even plant them. Imagine that! You sow your field, and before you can cover the seeds, flocks of birds descend and snatch them away. Talk about demoralizing.

Because of this plague of birds, Nahor named his son Terah, signifying the devastation and destitution they caused.

You can almost feel the weight of these generations, can't you? The growing darkness, the slide into chaos. It makes Abraham's eventual arrival all the more significant. It makes you wonder: what if he hadn't come along? What if that spark of faith, of righteousness, had been extinguished? It’s a sobering thought, a reminder that even in the darkest times, hope – and a single individual – can make all the difference.

Full source
Legends of the Jews, II. The Sons Of Jacob, Job's SufferingLegends of the Jews

The story of Job, as amplified in Jewish legend, takes us to some truly harrowing depths. We know the basic outline from the Book of Job in the Bible, but the aggadah, the body of Jewish storytelling, really fleshes out the details in ways that are both terrifying and, ultimately, inspiring.

In Ginzberg's retelling in, Legends of the Jews, Satan wasn't content with simply taking away Job's possessions. He went all out. Part of Job's cattle was burnt, and the rest was stolen, a devastating blow made even worse by the fact that those who had once benefited from Job's generosity were now among his tormentors.

The attacks didn't stop there. One particularly striking detail involves Lilith, the queen of Sheba. Yes, that Lilith! She lived far from Job's home – Ginzberg tells us it took her and her army three years to travel to him. She slaughtered Job's men and seized his oxen and asses, leaving only one wounded survivor to deliver the dreadful news before collapsing dead.

Then came the Chaldeans, who made off with Job's sheep. Job initially considered fighting back, but when he learned that fire from heaven had destroyed some of his property, he resigned himself, saying, "If the heavens turn against me, I can do nothing."

Dissatisfied with these results, Satan took things to an even more personal level. He disguised himself as the king of Persia and besieged Job's city, telling the inhabitants that Job had hoarded all the world's goods and even torn down their god's temple (quite the accusation!). He incited them to pillage Job's house. At first, they hesitated, fearing retribution from Job's children. So, in a truly devastating move, Satan pulled down the very house where Job's children were gathered, killing them all. Only then did the people sack Job's house.

Seeing that neither material loss nor the death of his children had broken Job's spirit, Satan returned to God and requested permission to attack Job's body itself. God granted this request, but with one crucial limitation: Satan could not touch Job's soul.

And here's where things get really intense.

The Zohar tells us that Satan was, in a way, worse off than Job. He was like a slave ordered to break the pitcher but not spill the wine. He unleashed a terrible storm upon Job's house. Then, he struck Job with a horrific case of leprosy "from the sole of his foot unto his crown." Job was forced to leave the city and sit on an ash heap, covered in oozing boils. He used a potsherd – a broken piece of pottery – to scrape himself, trying to relieve the unbearable itching. His body was infested with vermin, and even then, he refused to let them leave, saying, "Remain on the place whither thou wast sent, until God assigns another unto thee."

Even Job's wife, who had once been his partner and support, was struggling under the weight of their misfortune. She became a water-carrier, and when her master discovered she was sharing her bread with Job, he fired her. Desperate to feed her husband, she cut off her hair and sold it for bread. But the bread merchant was none other than Satan himself, testing her. He taunted her, saying, "Hadst thou not deserved this great misery of thine, it had not come upon thee." This was too much for her to bear. She urged Job to curse God and die, hoping to end their suffering.

But Job, recognizing Satan's influence, rebuked her. He saw through the deception, turning to the tempter and asking, "Why dost thou not meet me frankly? Give up thy underhand ways, thou wretch." At that, Satan appeared before Job, admitted defeat, and vanished in shame.

What are we to make of all this? The story of Job, especially as embellished by the aggadah, is a powerful exploration of faith, suffering, and the limits of evil. It shows us the incredible lengths to which evil will go to break the human spirit. But it also shows the incredible strength and resilience that can be found even in the face of unimaginable hardship. Job's story reminds us that even when everything seems lost, even when we are at our lowest point, the choice to remain steadfast in our faith is always ours.

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Legends of the Jews 3:4Legends of the Jews

The familiar picture has them simply entering our world, but some traditions paint a far more complex picture. According to certain Jewish legends, the world as we know it, Tebel, is just one of seven distinct earths.

When Adam was expelled, he first found himself in Erez, the lowest of these seven earths. Imagine a place of utter darkness, "without a ray of light, and utterly void," as Ginzberg recounts in Legends of the Jews. It was a terrifying place, especially with the ever-turning sword, a symbol of divine judgment, constantly looming.

After Adam did penance, the story continues, God led him to the second earth, Adamah. This place had a faint light, reflected from its own sky and phantom-like stars. But Can you imagine such a thing? These beings are perpetually sad, joy unknown to them. Legend says they sometimes travel to our earth, where they become evil spirits, only to return home later, repentant. They till the ground, but nothing of value grows there. Adamah is also where Cain, Abel, and Seth were born.

What happened to Cain after the murder of Abel? He was banished back to the dark Erez, the very place that had frightened Adam. Eventually, repenting in that terrible darkness, he was allowed to ascend to the third earth, Arka. Arka, we’re told, receives some light from the sun and was given to the Cainites as their permanent domain. They farm and plant trees, but like the inhabitants of Adamah, they can’t grow wheat or other essential crops. The inhabitants of Arka are particularly strange: some are giants, others dwarfs, and some even have two heads! This leads to constant internal conflict, a reflection of their divided nature. One moment they might be pious, the next inclined towards evil.

Moving upwards, we arrive at Ge, the fourth earth. This is where the generation of the Tower of Babel and their descendants reside. As the legends tell it, God banished them there because Ge is close to Gehenna – often translated as hell – and its fiery flames. The inhabitants of Ge are incredibly skilled in the arts and sciences, living in a wealthy and prosperous land. However, there's a catch. If someone from our earth visits Ge, they are given a precious gift, but then tricked into going to Neshiah, the fifth earth, where they completely forget their origin and home.

Neshiah itself is a peculiar place, inhabited by nose-less dwarfs who breathe through holes! Even stranger, they have no memory, forgetting everything immediately after it happens. That's why their earth is called Neshiah, meaning "forgetting." Like Arka and Ge, Neshiah has trees, but it also lacks the essential crops.

The sixth earth is called Ziah, meaning "drought". This is home to handsome, wealthy men who live in palatial residences, but they suffer from a severe lack of water. Vegetation is sparse, and their attempts at growing trees don’t go well. Desperate for water, they sometimes try to sneak through springs to our earth to satisfy their hunger for our food. Despite this hardship, the people of Ziah are said to be steadfast in their faith, more so than any other group of humans.

Finally, after the birth of Seth, Adam was transported from Adamah, past Arka, Ge, Neshiah, and Ziah, all the way up to Tebel, the seventh earth – the earth inhabited by humans as we know them.

What are we to make of this elaborate cosmology? It's a far cry from a simple story of exile. Perhaps it’s a way of understanding the different aspects of human nature, the struggles, the forgetfulness, the striving, and the potential for both good and evil. Or perhaps it’s a reminder that our world, the one we take for granted, is just one layer in a much grander, more mysterious reality. Whatever the interpretation, these legends offer a fascinating glimpse into the tradition of Jewish folklore.

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