Parshat Noach4 min read

Philo Defended Noah for Getting Drunk After the Flood

Noah planted a vineyard and got drunk after the flood. Most readers see a hero stumbling. Philo of Alexandria saw a man proving what virtue actually looks like.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Interpretation Everyone Gets Wrong
  2. He Drank Some, Not All
  3. The Parallel With Adam
  4. Why Bereshit Rabbah Heard a Different Story

The Interpretation Everyone Gets Wrong

Noah came off the ark and planted a vineyard. He drank the wine and became drunk. He lay uncovered in his tent (Genesis 9:21). The narrative is three verses long, cold and factual. The verse looks like the hero's fall: the man who saved all of life on earth could not handle the peace that followed. The flood survivor turned to drink. The righteous man became his own cautionary tale.

Philo of Alexandria thought this reading was completely wrong, and he said so.

He Drank Some, Not All

The defense of Noah in the Midrash of Philo, section 21:2, turns on a distinction so fine it passes almost invisibly through the verse. The Torah says Noah drank of the wine. Not all the wine. A portion. Philo treated this preposition as a theological marker. A debauched person drinks until the vessel is empty. Appetite rules him; stopping is not something he can choose. The word of indicates that Noah did not finish. He drank what was enough and stopped. The act of stopping is the act of a will still intact.

This matters enormously to Philo because he was working inside a tradition that had absorbed Stoic philosophy's emphasis on self-control. The Stoics wanted perfect regulation, the complete suppression of appetite. Philo agreed with the goal but argued for a different method. He believed the soul needed to test itself against wine, against material pleasure, against the physical world, not to avoid these things but to learn from engaging with them that the ruling mind can remain in charge. Noah drank to demonstrate that the ruling mind could stay ruling. He stopped when he had demonstrated it.

The Parallel With Adam

The Midrash of Philo makes a comparison between Noah and Adam that the plain text of Genesis does not obviously suggest. Adam was the first human formed from the earth. He began cultivating the land after creation. Noah was, in the reading of the sources, a second Adam: after the flood destroyed everything, he was the first human to begin cultivation again. The phrase "he began to till the earth" (Genesis 9:20) is almost identical in form to the description of Adam's activity after Eden.

Philo argues from the flood narrative itself: the Torah says the flood covered the earth because the earth had been covered in water before. This is the logic of re-creation. Just as the first creation moved from a water-covered formless world to a fruitful one, the post-flood world begins again in water and moves toward fruit. Noah planting a vineyard is not Noah indulging himself. It is Noah doing the work of the first human in a second world.

Why Bereshit Rabbah Heard a Different Story

Bereshit Rabbah, the great midrash on Genesis compiled in fifth-century Palestine, offers a reading that complicates Philo's defense without directly contradicting it. Noah was cooped up in the ark for months. The rabbis imagined the difficulty of that confinement vividly: the labor of feeding every species at its proper time, the darkness, the smell, the constant motion of the water. When God finally told Noah to come out, Noah waited. The midrash records that he did not rush.

A man that careful, that obedient even at the moment of release, does not become a simple drunk. The vineyard and the wine fit the portrait. Noah was a methodical person working through methodical processes. The drunk in the tent is not a lapse. It is what happens when a man who has been in motion continuously for the first time stops, allows the body to fully rest, and does not entirely anticipate what rest will do to someone who has been under sustained pressure for that long.


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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.

The Midrash of Philo 21:2The Midrash of Philo

The familiar story centers on the Ark, but what happened after the flood?

That Noah planted a vineyard and "drank of the wine, and was drunken" (Genesis 9:21). A simple statement. But the rabbis of old, ever eager to find layers of meaning, weren't so sure. Was Noah simply indulging, or was something more profound happening?

The Midrash of Philo grapples with this very question. The text makes a key distinction: Noah, a "just man," didn't drink all the wine, but only a portion. Isn’t that something we should all strive for?

A debauched man, the text argues, won't stop until the bottle (or cask!) is empty. He’s driven by excess. But the religious and sober person? They use what's necessary in moderation.

But here's the kicker: The Midrash of Philo suggests that even the word "drunken" needs a second look.

There are, it says, two ways to be "drunken." One is the "intemperate sottishness" of the wicked, misusing wine and losing control. The other is simply "the use of wine," and this belongs to the wise. According to this interpretation, Noah wasn’t wallowing in drunken abandon. Instead, he used wine wisely; as a part of life.

So, when the Torah says Noah "was drunken," it's not necessarily a condemnation. It's an observation that he used wine.

It's a subtle but important distinction, isn't it? It's not about abstinence; it's about intention and moderation. It’s about using something powerful, like wine, with awareness and respect. It pushes us to think: how do we use the good things in our lives? Are we controlled by them, or do we control them?

Perhaps Noah's post-flood experience isn't just a cautionary tale about the dangers of alcohol. Maybe it's a lesson about how we approach pleasure, responsibility, and the delicate balance between enjoying the world and being consumed by it.

What do you think?

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The Midrash of Philo 20:2The Midrash of Philo

It's a story of a new beginning, a re-creation of sorts.

Philo compares Noah to Adam, the first human formed from the earth. Just as Adam began cultivating the land after creation, so did Noah after the deluge. It's a fascinating parallel, isn't it? Both moments represent a fresh start, a chance to build anew. Philo argues that the Torah wouldn's say "Let the waters be gathered together into one body, and let the dry land appear," unless the earth had previously been covered with water. (Genesis 1:9)

"He began to be a tiller of the earth" (Genesis 9:20) - that seemingly simple phrase carries so much weight. Philo sees Noah not just as a survivor, but as the beginning of a new era – a new generation, new seeds, new cultivation, and a renewal of life itself. This is the literal interpretation, of course. But what about the deeper meaning?

Philo draws a distinction between "tilling" and "cultivating." He contrasts Noah with Cain, who "tilled" the earth after murdering Abel (Genesis 4:3). According to Philo, the earth symbolizes our body, inherently earthly. A wicked person "tills" the body like a lazy worker, merely going through the motions. But a virtuous person "cultivates" it, like a skilled farmer nurturing a field. It's a powerful metaphor.

Philo suggests that the mind, when it's focused on worldly desires, only produces fleeting pleasures. But a true cultivator aims for something more – the fruits of tzniut (modesty), kedushah (holiness), and chochmah (wisdom). This means pruning away excesses and bad habits, just like trimming overgrown branches. It's about nurturing the soul, not just indulging the senses.

So, the next time you read the story of Noah, remember that it's not just a story about a flood. It's a story about renewal, about the potential for growth within ourselves. Are we merely "tilling" our lives, or are we truly "cultivating" them? What kind of fruits are we hoping to harvest?

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Bereshit Rabbah 34:4Bereshit Rabbah

Maybe you're in a job you don't love, a relationship that's run its course, or even just a prolonged period of feeling…blah. Well, Noah, yes that Noah of ark fame, knew that feeling all too well.

The familiar story is this: the world drowning in a great flood, and Noah, his family, and pairs of every animal type safely tucked away in the ark. But what happened after the waters receded? What was it like to be cooped up in there for so long? And what motivated Noah to finally leave?

A reader can imagine Noah eager to burst out of the ark the moment the water level dropped. But the ancient rabbis, in their brilliant way of interpreting scripture, found something much deeper in the text.

In Bereshit Rabbah 34, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Genesis, we find a fascinating perspective. It all hinges on the verse, “Go out of the ark” (Genesis 8:16).

The rabbis point to (Ecclesiastes 10:4), "If the spirit of the ruler will depart from you, do not abandon your place." This, they suggest, applies directly to Noah. “The spirit of the ruler,” in this case, refers to God's initial command to enter the ark – the very thing that saved him from the flood. God told Noah to enter. The essence of that command, to escape the flood, had expired. But Noah, ever the righteous one, hesitated. He understood that the initial command had lost its power, but he wasn’t going anywhere until he received explicit permission to leave.

Noah essentially thought, ‘I entered the ark only with permission, so I will leave only with permission.’ It’s a powerful illustration of obedience, but also of recognizing divine timing.

We see this echoed in the text itself. God commanded, “Come…into the ark” (Genesis 7:1), and Noah followed, “Noah came” (Genesis 7:7). Then, and only then, did God command, “Go out of the ark” (Genesis 8:16), and “Noah went out” (Genesis 8:18). It seems almost redundant. Why spell it out so clearly?

The rabbis see a profound lesson here. Noah wasn't acting on his own impulse. He understood that even after the immediate danger was over, he still needed divine guidance. He waited patiently for the signal.

It’s a challenging concept, isn’t it? In our modern world, we're often encouraged to be proactive, to seize opportunities. But Noah teaches us the importance of patience, of waiting for the right moment, of not abandoning our "place" until we're explicitly told to do so.

Ginzberg, in his monumental Legends of the Jews, paints a vivid picture of Noah's unwavering faith. It wasn’t just blind obedience, but a deep understanding of his relationship with God.

So, what does this mean for us? Maybe it’s a reminder to pause before making a big decision. To consider whether we're acting out of our own desires or a sense of divine prompting. Maybe it’s a call to trust that when the time is right, we’ll receive the guidance we need.

As we find in Midrash Rabbah, these stories aren’t just historical accounts; they’re mirrors reflecting our own lives. Noah's story reminds us that sometimes, the greatest act of faith is simply waiting for the command to "go out." It's about recognizing that even when the floodwaters have receded, we still need guidance to work through the new world. And that can be a powerful lesson for us all.

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