Parshat Bereshit5 min read

Eden Was a School for the Divided Human Soul

Philo reads Eden as wisdom planted in the soul, the Tree of Life as the central virtue, and Adam's loneliness as the necessary start of the body's education.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Trees Were Questions Planted Inside the Mind
  2. The Formed Adam Needed Practice
  3. The Tree of Life Stood for the Highest Good
  4. Adam Was Alone Because Loneliness Was the First Lesson
  5. The Serpent Spoke Because Pleasure Has a Voice

The Trees Were Questions Planted Inside the Mind

Paradise can mean a garden. Philo of Alexandria refused to leave it there. He said the word symbolically means wisdom planted in the rational soul. The trees of Eden were not wood and bark and fruit. They were the virtues and their relationships: piety, moderation, justice, courage, and at the center of everything, the wisdom from which all the others grew.

Adam placed in this garden was not placed outside himself. He was placed in the inside of himself, in the space where mind met the first principles of how to live. The command to tend and guard the garden was the command to tend and guard the faculties of rational life. A person who lets wisdom go untended, who does not water the virtues by practicing them, who allows weeds to grow among the first principles, is violating the original command more thoroughly than one who eats forbidden fruit.

The Formed Adam Needed Practice

Philo noticed a problem in Genesis. There seemed to be two human beings: the human made in the image of God in chapter one, and the human formed from the dust of the ground in chapter two. He resolved it philosophically. The image-of-God human was the incorporeal ideal, the mind of humanity before it was embodied. The dust-formed Adam was the actual mixed creature: body and soul together, earth and heaven in tension.

The dust-formed Adam needed education. He was put in the garden because he had to practice toward the image he was created to embody. Paradise was not a reward for having achieved wisdom. It was the curriculum for learning it. The human being was placed in the garden the way a student is placed in a school: not because the student has already mastered the material but because the material is there and the student is ready to begin.

The Tree of Life Stood for the Highest Good

Among the trees of the garden, the Tree of Life stood at the center. Philo read this tree as a symbol of the central virtue: piety toward God, the root from which all other virtues grew. The Tree of Knowledge stood at the center too, but in a different sense: it represented the distinction between good and evil, the moral discernment that the soul needs before it can cross the world without destroying itself.

The command not to eat from the Tree of Knowledge was not arbitrary. A soul that has not yet developed moral discipline cannot handle the full knowledge of good and evil without being overwhelmed by it. The prohibition was not a test of obedience for its own sake. It was a protective boundary around the kind of knowledge that requires preparation to hold. Eat before you are ready, Philo implied, and the knowledge does not educate you. It floods you.

Adam Was Alone Because Loneliness Was the First Lesson

Before Eve was created, Adam was alone in the garden with the animals and the trees and God's presence and no human company. Philo asked why, and his answer was careful. Adam was alone because solitude is the natural state of the soul when it is most fully itself. Virtue is practiced alone before it is practiced in relationship. Self-mastery is the first curriculum. Social virtue comes after.

The creation of Eve was not a correction of an error. God had said it was not good for the human to be alone, and that not-goodness was real: a human being cannot complete its development in solitude. But the sequence mattered. Solitude first, then companionship. The soul that has not learned to inhabit itself has nothing to bring to the other person. Adam was alone long enough to begin to know what he was before he was given someone to be with.

The Serpent Spoke Because Pleasure Has a Voice

Philo asked whether the serpent really talked. His answer was double. Literally, perhaps a snake opened its mouth and formed words. Philosophically, the serpent was pleasure speaking in the only language the body understands: desire presenting itself as wisdom. The serpent did not argue poorly. It said: you will not die, you will become like God, knowing good and evil. Each of these was a version of something true.

Pleasure does not present itself as destruction. It presents itself as elevation. The serpent's speech was the first temptation because it was structured as a promise of knowledge rather than a solicitation of appetite. Eve was not tempted to become worse than she was. She was tempted to become better faster than the garden's curriculum allowed. Philo found this the most dangerous form of temptation: the one that wears the clothing of legitimate aspiration.

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The Midrash of Philo 8:2The Midrash of Philo

Philo, the 1st-century Jewish philosopher from Alexandria, offers a fascinating perspective in his writings, specifically here in The Midrash of Philo. He suggests that paradise isn't just a physical location, but a symbol.

Philo argues that the word "paradise," taken literally, simply describes a garden filled with trees. But taken symbolically, it represents wisdom, both divine and human. It's about grasping the underlying reasons for things, understanding the causes of things. after creating the world, it makes sense that a way of contemplating it would be established. That humans could look at the world and everything in it, and through that, arrive at a true appreciation for the Creator.

How can we truly understand the Creator without wisdom? Philo beautifully suggests that the Creator planted the very essence of wisdom within the mind, within our rational souls, just like planting trees in a garden. Our minds become the Garden of Eden.

What about the Tree of Life, standing prominently in the middle of the garden? Philo sees this as representing the knowledge of not only creation, but also of the “greater and supreme cause of the universe.” If we can genuinely understand that cause, Philo implies, we will be truly blessed, truly happy, and even immortal. That's a powerful idea!

Philo goes on to connect this concept to the creation of human wisdom, which, he says, happened after the creation of the world, just as the Garden of Eden was planted afterward. It's almost like the universe needed to be in place first, a stage set for wisdom to blossom. He draws a parallel with the creation of music, of a "chorus of musicians" whose purpose is to praise the Creator and His works.

He even evokes Plato, who spoke of the Creator as the “first and greatest of causes” and the world as the “most beautiful of all creatures.” It's a beautiful image, and it all ties back to this central idea: that the Garden of Eden isn't just a place, but a state of mind, a journey toward wisdom and understanding.

So, the next time you think of the Garden of Eden, maybe picture it not just as a physical space, but as the potential for wisdom and understanding that resides within each of us. What if the real paradise is the one we cultivate within our own minds?

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The Midrash of Philo 8:18The Midrash of Philo

(Genesis 2:15). But not the man created in God’s image? It’s a question that has puzzled thinkers for centuries. What’s the deal?

Some folks, taking a rather literal view, suggest that Paradise must have been a physical garden. They figured that since the first, created man was a being of the senses, it was only natural he’d be placed in a sensory place. That the man created "in God's image," being more intellectual and less tangible, already had the whole incorporeal world as his domain. Makes a kind of logical sense. But is it that simple?

Philo, the great Jewish philosopher of Alexandria, writing millennia ago, offers a different take. He saw Paradise not just as a garden, but as a symbol of chochma, of wisdom itself. Adam, the man formed from dust, is a blend of soul and body. He’s got work to do, a path of learning and discipline to follow. He’s got to strive, according to philosophical principles, to find happiness. He has to earn it.

The man made in God’s image? Ah, that's different. That being, being already closer to the Divine, needs nothing. He is self-taught, self-sufficient. He is his own master, possessing inherent wisdom. He already is the wisdom that Adam, in the garden, is seeking.

So, perhaps, the garden isn’t a reward, but a classroom. A place of growth. A place for the being of soul and body to become more like the image of God.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it? Are we all, in a way, in our own personal gardens, striving to reach that state of self-sufficiency, of inherent wisdom, of being truly in God's image? And what does that striving look like in our own lives?

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The Midrash of Philo 9:6The Midrash of Philo

That iconic image from the Garden of Eden, planted right in the middle of Paradise (Genesis 2:9). What exactly was it? And why was it so important?

Well, people have been pondering that question for millennia. Some took a very literal approach. If there were plants that brought death, they reasoned, surely there must be plants that granted life – even immortality! They figured, since some plants are clearly harmful, others must be beneficial, bringing health and vitality. But identifying which ones? That was the tricky part. After all, as the wise have pointed out, even the process of being born, of generation, is the first step toward decay.

Maybe, just maybe, we're meant to understand this whole thing allegorically.

Some ancient thinkers believed the Tree of Life was connected to the earth itself. The earth, after all, produces everything we need to survive, from grains to fruits to sustain all living creatures. And where is it placed? In the center. And what is in the center? The Earth! So it is the source of life.

Others looked to the cosmos. Perhaps, they suggested, the Tree of Life represents the center point between the seven celestial spheres – the heavens. Or maybe it is the sun, almost perfectly positioned among the planets, dictating the seasons, and bringing everything into existence.

Still others saw the Tree of Life as representing something internal. The direction of the soul, maybe? Something that strengthens our senses and allows us to act in accordance with our true nature, connecting all the parts of our being. Think of it as the leader of a chorus, the central force harmonizing everything around it.

But some of the most respected voices, the wisest among us, believe the Tree of Life represents something even deeper: the highest of human virtues, piety. It is through piety, through a deep and unwavering connection to the Divine, that the mind, the neshama, achieves a kind of immortality.

So, which interpretation is "correct"? Perhaps they all hold a piece of the truth. Maybe the Tree of Life is a many-sided symbol, reflecting the interconnectedness of the physical world, the celestial realm, and the depths of the human soul, all pointing us toward a life of meaning and connection. What do you think?

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The Midrash of Philo 20:2The Midrash of Philo

The earth beneath his feet, the rivers flowing nearby, the vast ocean, the air he breathed, the very light that illuminated his path, the heavens above… all were at his service. Every fruit, every plant, every creature, from the docile cattle to the wild beasts, they all contributed to his well-being.

Pretty idyllic. But here’s the kicker. Among all those elements willingly aiding him, something crucial was missing. Something that left Adam fundamentally…alone. Because none of them were human. He was king of the world, yet utterly isolated.

So, what was the solution? What did God do to remedy this profound loneliness? The Midrash of Philo suggests that God provided a clear sign, an indication of something essential: that human beings are meant to assist and cooperate with one another. That we, with our shared humanity, are designed to be each other's helpers.

Why? Because we possess a perfect similarity, a profound connection, in both body and soul. We recognize ourselves in each other, at least potentially. We see our own struggles, our own joys, our own vulnerabilities.

It’s a powerful message about the importance of community, of empathy, of recognizing the divine spark in those around us. It's a reminder that even when the world seems to offer everything, the deepest connection, the truest assistance, comes from fellow human beings.

This ancient text, though brief, offers a timeless truth. We are all, in a sense, “princes” or “princesses” of our own lives, surrounded by resources and opportunities. But it is in our connections with one another, in our willingness to lend a hand, to offer support, to simply be present, that we truly find ourselves, and fulfill our purpose.

So, the next time you feel alone, remember Adam in his paradise. Remember that the greatest gift is not what the world can offer, but what we can offer each other. What does it mean to truly see another person, and offer them a hand? Perhaps, that's the question we should all be asking ourselves.

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The Midrash of Philo 1:6The Midrash of Philo

Did you ever stop to wonder… did that serpent in the Garden of Eden actually talk? I mean, really talk?

(Genesis 3:2) simply states the fact: the serpent spoke. But how? Was it a sibilant whisper, a cunning hiss… or something more?

Philo, the great Jewish philosopher of Alexandria, writing in the first century, dove deep into this very question. He offers us a few fascinating possibilities.

First, Philo suggests that maybe, just maybe, back at the dawn of creation, the lines between humans and animals weren’t so sharply drawn. Perhaps animals, even then, possessed some capacity for articulate speech, but humans simply excelled in clarity and fluency. It's a beautiful thought, isn’t it? A world where the language barrier between species was thinner, where understanding flowed more freely.

But Philo doesn't stop there. He proposes another compelling idea: When the divine needs to accomplish something extraordinary, God alters the very nature of things involved. It's a powerful concept – the Almighty directly influencing the building blocks of reality to bring about a specific outcome. So, perhaps, the serpent’s speech was a temporary divine modification, a special dispensation for that pivotal moment.

And then, Philo turns inward, examining the human condition itself. He argues that our souls, weighed down by errors and limited by familiar languages, are deaf to other forms of communication. But the souls of those first humans, Adam and Eve, were different. They were pure, unblemished, and acutely attuned to every voice, every nuance. They were able to understand languages beyond our current comprehension.

It’s a poignant reminder of our fallen state, isn't it? A glimpse of what we might have been.

Philo even connects this heightened sensory perception to the physical stature of early humans. He notes that these first people had bodies of vast size, “reaching to a gigantic height.” And with these grand bodies came heightened senses and even "a power of examining into and hearing things in a philosophical manner." He suggests they might have been able to perceive heavenly realms and comprehend every voice and language. What an incredible image!

Of course, we can't know for sure. We can only speculate, imagine, and learn from the wisdom of those who came before us. Philo's midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), his interpretation, isn't just about a talking serpent. It's about the nature of creation, the potential of humanity, and the profound mysteries that still echo within the ancient texts. It invites us to consider what we’ve lost, and perhaps, what we might still regain. What would it be like to hear the voices of the universe? To understand the language of creation itself?

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The Midrash of Philo 19:2The Midrash of Philo

Ancient Jewish wisdom has something profound to say about that very human struggle.

Philo of Alexandria, a Jewish philosopher living in Egypt in the first century CE, offered a unique interpretation of the creation story. He wasn't just reading it literally; he was diving deep for hidden meanings. And in his writings, particularly in what's known as The Midrash of Philo, he unpacks the story of Adam in a truly fascinating way.

Philo suggests that the first human, Adam, wasn't just a being of earth. He was a blend of earth and heaven. We have a spiritual, a heavenly, dimension too. But here's the kicker: Adam didn't hold onto that heavenly aspect. He succumbed to temptation, he disobeyed God, and in doing so, he prioritized the earthly, the material, over the spiritual. He became a slave to the "denser and heavier element," as Philo puts it.

That pull of the material world, drawing you away from what you know is truly important?

Philo goes on to draw a powerful parallel. If we yearn for virtue, for the kind of goodness that makes the soul immortal, we can attain a heavenly inheritance. But if we chase after pleasure alone, if we give ourselves over to the things that ultimately lead to spiritual death, we, too, are giving ourselves back to the earth. This is why, Philo says, God declared, "Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." (Genesis 3:19).

It’s a stark reminder, isn't it?

For the wicked, the depraved, the earth is both their beginning and their end. They are consumed by the material. But for those who strive for virtue, for those who cultivate their spiritual selves, heaven is both their beginning and their end.

What does this mean for us today? Perhaps it's an invitation to examine our own lives. Are we prioritizing the earthly over the heavenly? Are we letting the "denser and heavier element" weigh us down, or are we striving for virtue, for that spark of the divine within us? It's a question worth pondering, a question that echoes through the ages from the very beginning of our story.

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The Midrash of Philo 17:2The Midrash of Philo

Surprisingly, this feeling isn't exactly new. to a fascinating ancient text called "The Midrash of Philo." Now, when we say midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), It's not just about repeating a biblical story, but about unpacking it, exploring its deeper meanings, and connecting it to our lives. And Philo? He was a Jewish philosopher living in Alexandria in the first century CE, who tried to blend Greek philosophy with Jewish thought. So, in this particular midrash, number 17 to be exact, Philo is contemplating the idea of sacrifice. He starts with the literal: when sacrifices are offered, the divine word, God's message, consumes them, not with earthly fire, but with a fire that descends from heaven. This heavenly fire, he suggests, is a evidence of the purity and sanctity of the offering.

Then, things get really interesting. Philo moves beyond the literal, He says that everything "beneath the moon" – basically, everything in our earthly realm – is like a smoking furnace. Why? Because of all the vapor rising from the earth and water.

He uses the image of "divisions of nature" to illustrate his point. He argues that every part of the world is divided into two parts. And these divisions, these opposing forces, are like torches of fire. They're powerful, effective, and burn like "divine fiery discourses." Think of them as ideas that ignite and illuminate. Sometimes these fiery forces keep the universe in balance, working together. But at other times, they cleanse away the excess darkness, the klipot as the Kabbalists would call them – the shells or husks that obscure the light.

Here's where it gets really relatable. Philo offers a more "familiar" interpretation. He says that human life itself is like a smoking furnace. We are the smoking furnace! It's not that we're inherently bad, but our fire – our inner light – isn't pure. It's mixed with smoke. This smoke, he says, causes "mist and darkness," not in our bodies, but in our souls.

And isn't that how it often feels? Like there's something clouding our judgment, preventing us from seeing things clearly? This obscuration keeps us from truly understanding ourselves, each other, and the world around us.

But here's the hopeful part: Philo says that this isn't a permanent condition. God, "the redeemer," can command the "heavenly lamps to arise." These aren't just any lamps; they're "more pure and more holy radiations." These radiations unite the divided parts within us – the right and the left, the opposing forces – and illuminate them, bringing harmony and clarity. When you're struggling, when life feels smoky and unclear, what do you do? Do you seek out those "heavenly lamps"? Do you look for the sources of pure light that can illuminate your path and help you see through the haze?

Philo's midrash is a reminder that we all experience periods of darkness and confusion. But it's also a message of hope. We have the potential to clear the smoke and find clarity, to connect with the divine light that can illuminate our souls. Maybe that's through prayer, meditation, acts of kindness, or simply spending time in nature. Whatever it is, seek out those "heavenly lamps" and let them guide you.

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