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Babel Was Built With Bricks That Cost More Than People

The builders of Babel invented fire-baked bricks and wept for each one that fell. Before a single stone was laid, Mastema's demons were already at work.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Invention Before the Tower
  2. The Corruption Running Alongside the Construction
  3. What They Valued More Than Life
  4. Nimrod's Voice Above the Plain

The Invention Before the Tower

The Tower of Babel did not begin with arrogance. It began with a discovery. Somewhere in the fourth week of a jubilee year, in the land of Shinar, men found that if you shaped clay into bricks and fired them in flame, they came out hard as stone. They found that bitumen, the black tar seeping up from the earth and from the fountains of water in the land of Shinar, could cement those bricks together in a way that mud alone could not. They had solved a construction problem. They were, in the narrow technical sense, brilliant.

The land of Shinar had no natural quarries. Every other civilization that wanted to build in stone had to find stone first. These men manufactured their building material through fire. The bricks served them for stone and the clay with which they cemented them together was asphalt from the sea and the fountains of the land of Shinar. An invention from nothing. A technology that turned the earth's most common material into a building block hard enough to reach the sky.

The Corruption Running Alongside the Construction

But before the first course of bricks was laid, something else was already underway. In the third week of this jubilee, unclean demons began to lead astray the children of the sons of Noah. The Book of Jubilees is precise about the timing. The demonic corruption did not follow the tower as a punishment for its ambition. It preceded the tower. Mastema's forces were already at work in the minds of the builders before anyone had stacked a single fire-hardened brick on top of another.

This is the detail that the Torah's spare account does not contain. Genesis describes a people with one language who said, come, let us build a city and a tower with its top in the heavens. Jubilees says the thought itself was planted. The pride that gathered the builders on the plain of Shinar was not organic. It was cultivated by the spirits that Mastema had bargained God into keeping active among human beings after the flood.

What They Valued More Than Life

The tower that rose from those innovations was not a small project. The Book of Jubilees preserves a detail that staggers the imagination: the climb from the base to the top of the tower took a full year. A brick dropped from the summit took a full year to reach the ground. When a brick fell, the builders wept. When a worker fell, they did not stop to mourn.

That ratio is the sin. Not the ambition to reach heaven. Not the pride of engineering. The sin was the value placed on the product over the person, the brick over the man, the building over the human life that the building required. They grieved for falling bricks. They did not grieve for falling workers. The tower was not a monument to human achievement. It was a monument to the order of priorities that Mastema's corruption had installed in the builders' minds before the construction began.

Nimrod's Voice Above the Plain

Nimrod drove the project. He stood before his people on the plain of Shinar and offered them the logic of the tower in plain language: come, let us build, for when the flood comes again, our tower will be above the water. Not pride in reaching God. Fear of losing again what the flood had taken. The tower was a defense against heaven's violence, a structure tall enough to survive whatever God might send next.

The logic was wrong and it was also terrified and also it was Mastema's work running through Nimrod's mouth. The response to the flood was not to trust the covenant God had made with the rainbow. The response was to build out of the reach of future judgment. This is what the corruption produced: not merely a tall building but a theology of self-protection, a declaration that human engineering could substitute for divine mercy.

BabelTowerNimrodJubileesDemonsBrickShinarMastema
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From the tradition

Sources

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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.

Book of Jubilees 10:31Book of Jubilees

They're not messing around. The verse reads, "they began to build, and in the fourth week they made brick with fire, and the bricks served them for stone, and the clay with which they cemented them together was asphalt which cometh out of the sea, and out of the fountains of water in the land of Shinar." Shinar, of course, is the biblical name for the region of Mesopotamia, what readers often think of as the cradle of civilization.

What's so striking here is the ingenuity, the resourcefulness. They're not just slapping mud together; they're crafting bricks with fire, using asphalt as mortar – practically inventing concrete! It speaks to a kind of collective ambition, a unified purpose driving them forward. There’s a real sense of technological advancement, a kind of ancient industrial revolution underway.

Progress, it seems, has a shadow.

"And in the third week of this jubilee," the text continues, "the unclean demons began to lead astray the children of the sons of Noah; and to make to err and destroy them."

Unclean demons, you say? What are they doing in the narrative? Well, When humanity is unified, when they're reaching for the sky, what could be more disruptive than sowing seeds of discord? The Book of Jubilees suggests that these "unclean demons" are actively working to undermine humanity's potential, to lead them astray. It's a classic theme, isn't it? The idea that with great power comes great temptation, that ambition can be corrupted.

And then comes a pivotal moment, a divine observation: "And the Lord our God said unto us: 'Behold, they are one people, and (this) they begin to do, and now nothing will be withholden from them.'" "Nothing will be withholden from them." It’s a powerful statement, laden with both promise and a sense of foreboding. It acknowledges the incredible potential of a united humanity, but it also hints at the dangers that lie ahead. It's as if the divine is recognizing the awesome power humanity possesses when they work together.

But is that power inherently good? Or is it a double-edged sword?

The passage leaves us hanging, doesn't it? It raises questions about the nature of progress, the role of temptation, and the ultimate destiny of humankind. It's a reminder that even in our most ambitious endeavors, we must be mindful of the forces that seek to divide and corrupt us. And maybe, just maybe, it's a call to consider what we are building, and what kind of world we are creating, brick by fiery brick.

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Book of Jubilees 10:14Book of Jubilees

Here, we get a glimpse into a celestial negotiation, a cosmic bargain struck about the fate of humanity. It's a negotiation that hinges on a character you might not know so well: Mastêmâ.

Who is Mastêmâ? He's described as the "chief of the spirits," and in this passage from Jubilees 10, he approaches the Creator with a request. It’s not exactly a humble request, either. He essentially asks for a workforce, a retinue of spirits to carry out his will.

Why?

The Mastêmâ says these spirits are essential. He argues that without them, he won't be able to "execute the power of my will on the sons of men." In other words, he needs these spirits to tempt, to corrupt, and to lead humanity astray. He claims "these are for corruption and leading astray before my judgment, for great is the wickedness of the sons of men." Sounds like he's blaming humanity for his own need to tempt them, doesn't it? The text implies a cosmic system where temptation, the yetzer hara (the "evil inclination"), is not just a random occurrence but an active force, managed and deployed. What are we to make of it?

So, what's the divine response? Does God grant Mastêmâ’s wish completely?

No. There's a compromise. God decrees that only a tenth of the spirits will remain with Mastêmâ, while the other nine-tenths are cast down "into the place of condemnation." It's a fascinating image, isn't it? A celestial bureaucracy, haggling over percentages of demonic influence.

But even with only a tenth, Mastêmâ still has power. He still has the ability to influence humanity. It raises some serious questions. Does this absolve us of responsibility for our actions? Are we merely puppets dancing to the tune of demonic influence? Jewish tradition generally argues against that. We are endowed with free will, the ability to choose good over evil, even when the whispers of temptation are loud.

Perhaps the story of Mastêmâ and the spirits is not meant to be taken literally. Perhaps it's a metaphor for the internal struggles we all face, the constant battle between our higher and lower selves. Maybe the "spirits" are simply the negative thoughts and impulses that we must learn to control.

Whatever the interpretation, this passage from the Book of Jubilees offers a powerful glimpse into the complex and often unsettling world of Jewish angelology and demonology. It reminds us that the struggle between good and evil is not just an external battle, but an internal one as well. And it's a battle that, ultimately, we have the power to win.

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Legends of the Jews 4:100Legends of the Jews

Years blurring into decades, every thought, every action geared toward one monumental goal. That’s the story of the Tower of Babel, but not just the part The familiar version gives us about God scattering the people. This is about the human cost, the sheer, unwavering, almost terrifying devotion of its builders.

The tower, according to the legends, took many, many years to construct. It grew so tall, so impossibly high, that it took a full year just to climb to the top. Can you picture that? A year-long ascent! It really puts the scale of the endeavor into perspective, doesn’t it?

The Zohar, that foundational text of Jewish mysticism, and Ginzberg, in his masterful retelling in Legends of the Jews, paints a grim picture of the builders’ priorities. A single brick, baked in the sun and destined for the tower, became more valuable than a human life. If a worker fell from the dizzying heights, plunging to their death, no one cared. No one mourned. But if a brick fell? Oh, that was a tragedy. Tears would flow, because replacing that single brick would take another year.

It’s a chilling illustration of misplaced values, isn’t it? The ambition to reach the heavens had completely warped their sense of humanity.

And it gets worse.

According to the Midrash Rabbah, their obsession was so complete that even the miracle of childbirth was secondary to the task at hand. When a woman in the brickyards went into labor, she wasn't allowed to stop working. She would mold bricks as she gave birth, then tie the newborn child to her body with a sheet, and just keep on molding. Unbelievable. This wasn't just about building a tower. It was about a collective madness, a single-minded pursuit that sacrificed everything – even the most basic human decencies – at the altar of ambition.

What does this story tell us about ourselves? About our own ambitions? About the things we value, and the price we're willing to pay to achieve them? Are we so focused on our goals that we lose sight of the human element, the very thing that makes life worth living? Food for thought, isn't it?

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Legends of the Jews 4:99Legends of the Jews

Forget the pyramids;

It all goes back to Nimrod. Remember him? The mighty hunter, the king who, according to tradition, was the first to really consolidate power after the Flood? Well, his ambition wasn't exactly… modest. The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), specifically Midrash Rabbah, paints a picture of a ruler whose arrogance knew no bounds.

That arrogance, that hubris, found its ultimate expression in one colossal, heaven-scraping project: the Tower of Babel.

It wasn't just Nimrod's idea,. He had counselors, advisors whispering in his ear, planting the seed of this audacious undertaking. And, as Ginzberg retells it in Legends of the Jews, the execution was… well, let’s just say it was a massive undertaking, involving a workforce of six hundred thousand people in the land of Shinar. Think of the logistics! The organization! The sheer will to build something so… provocative.

But what was the point? What drove this enormous effort? Was it just about reaching for the sky?

According to the texts, it was much darker than that. It was, at its core, an act of rebellion against God. Ginzberg explains that there weren't just builders; there were rebels, and they were divided into factions, each with their own wicked agenda.

Can you imagine the scene? The Zohar tells us of three distinct groups, each motivated by their own brand of defiance. One group, brazen and defiant, wanted to "ascend into the heavens and wage warfare with Him." They literally wanted to take on God in battle! The sheer audacity of that statement is breathtaking.

Then there was a second party. Their goal wasn't outright war, but something perhaps even more insidious. They wanted to "ascend into the heavens, set up our idols, and pay worship unto them there." They aimed to replace the Divine with their own creations, to usurp God's place in the cosmos.

And finally, the third group, perhaps the most chilling of all. They wanted to "ascend into the heavens, and ruin them with our bows and spears." A calculated destruction, a desire to dismantle the very fabric of the heavens.

So, the Tower of Babel wasn't just a building project. It was a statement. A rebellion. A many-sided assault on the very idea of God. It makes you wonder, doesn't it? What drives humanity to such heights of ambition, and to such depths of rebellion? And what happens when we try to reach too far?

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