Parshat Noach4 min read

Why Noah Built His Altar to Elohim and Not to the Lord

Noah built the first altar after the flood and offered everything he had. Philo noticed something almost no reader catches: he prayed to the wrong divine name.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Man Who Stepped Off the Ark Into Silence
  2. What Two Names Mean
  3. Gratitude That Was Not Yet Full
  4. What the Book of Jubilees Saw in the Offering

The Man Who Stepped Off the Ark Into Silence

The waters had receded. The earth was dry. God had spoken and told Noah to come out, to bring every living thing with him, to fill the earth again. Noah descended from the ark with his wife, his sons, his sons' wives, and every creature he had kept alive for forty days of rain and months of waiting.

The first thing he did was build an altar. He took from every clean animal, from every clean bird, and offered burnt offerings on that altar (Genesis 8:20). It was the right response, a spontaneous acknowledgment of survival, an offering given without being commanded. The first altar in the post-flood world. The first human act of worship in a washed-clean earth.

Philo of Alexandria, writing in the first century CE, caught a detail in that verse that almost no careful reader notices. The altar was built to Elohim. Not to Adonai.

What Two Names Mean

In ancient Jewish interpretation, the difference between the two divine names carries the weight of two entire theologies. Elohim is the universal God, the Creator of all things, the power that governs nature and cosmos, the name that appears in the first chapter of Genesis when the world is being made. It is the name that belongs to all of creation, not to any particular relationship.

Adonai, the personal divine name, is the God of covenant, the God who called Abraham, who remembered Rachel, who heard the groaning of Israel in Egypt. It is the name of intimacy, of the particular, of the relationship that has a history and a future. The Midrash of Philo, in section 20:5, draws the distinction sharply: Noah used the universal name, not the personal one. His gratitude was real. His offering was complete. But it was the offering of a man who had not yet arrived at the kind of relationship in which a person calls God by the intimate name.

Gratitude That Was Not Yet Full

Philo's reading turns on a distinction between two kinds of giving thanks. When someone gives thanks because they have been commanded, when they wait for the explicit instruction before acknowledging what they have received, they reveal the depth of their appreciation: it is real, but it is obligatory. It acknowledges a God. It does not yet reach the God who is personally yours.

Noah survived the flood. He saw the entire world destroyed. He watched the waters rise over every mountain. He cared for every species of creature for months in a floating box. When the earth dried, he built an altar. He gave everything he had. But the Midrash of Philo hears in the choice of Elohim a man who is grateful to the power that made the world and the flood and the dry ground, not yet to the God who knows his name specifically and called him specifically to build the ark. That particular intimacy is still ahead of him.

What the Book of Jubilees Saw in the Offering

The Book of Jubilees, the ancient Jewish retelling of Genesis from the 2nd century BCE, gives the offering a different texture. It describes Noah watching over his newly planted vines with care, guarding the fruit, gathering grapes in the seventh month, making wine, and putting it away for four years before drinking it. The offering that follows from this patience is not the impulsive act of a man who just climbed off a boat. It is the measured act of a man who has waited, prepared, and chosen the right time.

Jubilees is also interested in the clean and unclean birds Noah used. Philo notes this too: the dove is a clean animal, ritually pure, suitable for sacrifice. The raven that Noah sent first is unclean. The choice of bird for the offering was not arbitrary. Everything in the scene has been chosen. Noah was precise even in what Philo called his incomplete gratitude. The precision matters. It means the incompleteness was not carelessness but the honest state of a man at the beginning of a new world.

NoahGratitudeDivine NamesSacrifice
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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 20:5The Midrash of Philo

That feeling, that impulse – it gets to the heart of what it means to be truly grateful, and what it means to connect with the Divine.

The Midrash of Philo touches on this very point, reminding us that gratitude to God should be offered freely, without being prompted or compelled. It should flow naturally from a heart filled with appreciation, a heart free from vice. when we’re given a blessing, shouldn't our first instinct be to express our thanks? To acknowledge the source of that goodness? It's like when a friend does you a huge favor – you don't wait for them to ask for your gratitude. You offer it willingly, joyfully.

What about those times when we do wait? When we need a nudge, a reminder, an explicit command to express our thanks? The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) suggests that this delay reveals a certain…ungratefulness. It implies that we're only honoring our benefactor – in this case, God – out of obligation, not out of genuine appreciation.

It's a powerful idea, isn't it? The difference between a heartfelt "thank you" and a perfunctory one. The difference between recognizing the gift and feeling the connection to the giver.

And that brings us to an interesting question posed in the Midrash: "Why is it said that Noah built an altar to God, and not to the Lord?" (Genesis 8:20).

Now, in Hebrew, "God" is often referred to as Elohim, a more general term for the Divine. "The Lord," or YHWH, often vocalized as Adonai, is the specific, personal name of God, the one that represents the covenant between God and humanity.

So, why the distinction here? What’s the significance of Noah offering his sacrifice to Elohim, and not Adonai? Is it that Noah's gratitude was somehow incomplete? Was it a general acknowledgement rather than a deeply personal expression of thanks?

Perhaps. Or, perhaps it points to something more fundamental about the nature of gratitude itself. Maybe it suggests that even in our most heartfelt expressions of thanks, we're ultimately acknowledging a power greater than ourselves, a force that transcends our individual understanding.

Whatever the answer, the Midrash of Philo invites us to reflect on the nature of our own gratitude. Are we offering it freely, willingly, from a place of genuine appreciation? Or are we waiting for a command, a reminder, a nudge? And, more importantly, are we truly recognizing the source of the blessings in our lives?

It's a question worth pondering, isn't it? A question that can help us deepen our connection to the Divine and to each other. And maybe, just maybe, it's a question that can help us become a little more grateful, a little more aware, and a little more…human.

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Book of Jubilees 7:5Book of Jubilees

This book, considered scripture by some and a valuable historical source by others, gives us a detailed look into the life of figures from the Hebrew Bible. a particular moment – a celebration led by none other than Noah himself, after the flood.

The scene: The earth is still fresh, reborn. Noah, having survived the cataclysmic flood, is now planting. The Book of Jubilees tells us that he carefully watched over his newly planted vines. He guarded their fruit, ensuring a bountiful harvest. He gathered in the grapes during the seventh month. Then, he made wine. He didn't rush things,. He put the wine into a vessel, and then…he waited. He kept it aging until the fifth year, until the first day, on the new moon of the first month.

Finally, the moment arrived. Can you feel the anticipation? Noah celebrated with joy. It wasn't just a casual get-together. This was a sacred occasion. The text says he made a burnt sacrifice unto the Lord. Specifically, "one young ox and one ram, and seven sheep, each a year old, and a kid of the goats." A pretty significant offering!

The purpose? Atonement. He offered the sacrifice "that he might make atonement thereby for himself and his sons." This highlights a key concept: the need for reconciliation with God, even after surviving such a world-altering event.

The details are fascinating. "He prepared the kid first," the Book of Jubilees continues. He placed some of its blood on the flesh that was on the altar which he had made. And all the fat? That went onto the altar where he made the burnt sacrifice.

It’s worth pausing here. Why the blood? Why the fat? Sacrifice rituals in the ancient world were deeply symbolic, acting as a way to purify and consecrate offerings. Blood, often seen as the essence of life, played a crucial role.

These seemingly small details in the Book of Jubilees give us so much. We get a glimpse into the practical aspects of ancient life – winemaking, animal husbandry – but also into the spiritual heart of the matter: The enduring need for connection with the Divine, and the rituals developed to foster that connection.

So, the next time you raise a glass – maybe even a glass of wine – consider the story of Noah. Think about the patience, the joy, and the deep spiritual yearning that underpinned his ancient celebration. It might just give you a whole new appreciation for the moment.

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The Midrash of Philo 8:2The Midrash of Philo

Philo of Alexandria was a Jewish philosopher who lived way back in the first century. He tried to bridge the gap between Greek philosophy and Jewish tradition, and his writings offer some pretty unique interpretations of the Torah.

Here, Philo looks at the story of Noah and the flood. Remember that after the ark landed, Noah sent out birds to see if the waters had receded? First, he sent a raven, and then a dove. Philo asks, why these birds in particular?

His answer is really quite insightful. He points out that the dove is a "clean animal." In other words, it's ritually pure, suitable for sacrifice. And that's important! It shows the dove has a special connection to the sacred. He also says the dove is "tame, civilized, and one which associates with mankind." It’s a creature that seeks connection, seeks community. It's not solitary or aggressive. Because of these qualities, Philo argues, it’s been given the honor of being offered on the altar.

There's more to it than just that. Philo sees the raven and the dove as symbols: wickedness and virtue. The raven, he says, has "no house, nor habitation, nor city." It's an "insolent unsociable bird." for a second. The raven represents someone who is isolated, disconnected, maybe even a little arrogant. The opposite of that is the dove.

The dove, "namely virtue," has "a regard to humanity, and to the public good." This is huge! The dove isn't just about personal piety; it's about caring for others, contributing to the community, working for the common good. So, when Noah – representing righteous humanity – sends out the dove, he's sending out an ambassador of virtue. He's seeking "desirable information" and hoping to avoid what's hurtful and embrace what's useful.

And that’s the essence of it, isn't it? The dove, in Philo's interpretation, isn’t just a bird; it's a symbol of our deepest aspirations. It represents our desire for connection, our commitment to community, and our pursuit of virtue in a world that often feels chaotic and uncertain. So, the next time you see a dove, remember Philo's words and think about the kind of ambassador you want to be in the world.

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