Parshat Bereshit6 min read

Philo Saw the Serpent's Trap as False Wisdom

In Philo's Eden, the serpent wins not by making evil look appealing but by making appetite look like sound philosophical prudence.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. What the Serpent Actually Wanted
  2. The Tree as Prudence Distorted
  3. Why Adam and Eve Hid in the Trees
  4. The Serpent That Walked Upright

The serpent did not make evil look appealing. That would have been too easy to refuse. It made appetite look like wisdom, and that was a different kind of danger entirely.

Philo of Alexandria saw this in the third chapter of Genesis and could not stop reading it as a lesson about the interior life of every human being who has ever justified a bad choice with careful reasoning.

What the Serpent Actually Wanted

The Midrash of Philo, based on Philo's first-century Jewish philosophical writings, reads the serpent's approach to Eve as a study in motive and strategy. The serpent is not a simple tempter asking the woman to do something she knows is wrong. It is far more sophisticated. It offers her a philosophical case for why the forbidden thing is actually a form of insight. The evil it promotes comes wearing the name of wisdom, which is the form of temptation that the rational mind cannot dismiss by reflex.

Crude temptation announces itself. Anyone can recognize desire calling itself permission. False wisdom sounds careful. It presents itself as responsibility, as mature understanding, as the willingness to see past naive restrictions toward the deeper truth. The serpent wins in Eden not by overpowering human reason but by recruiting it. Once appetite has been given an intellectual argument, the person no longer needs to fight against desire. They have been persuaded that desire was right all along.

The garden becomes the first classroom in the difference between wisdom and the convincing sound of wisdom. They are not the same thing, and the first human beings discovered that they could not reliably tell them apart.

The Tree as Prudence Distorted

Philo's reading of the tree of knowledge in the Midrash of Philo connects it not to abstract knowledge in general but to prudence, phronesis in Greek, the practical faculty of choosing well in concrete situations. Prudence is what allows a person to distinguish good from bad, beautiful from ugly, right from wrong. It is the most necessary human faculty. Without it, all the other virtues go crooked.

In Eden, prudence is distorted before it is exercised. The tree does not offer forbidden knowledge as something one must sneak past conscience to obtain. It offers prudence itself, the very faculty needed to evaluate choices, now operating on the wrong premise. The serpent has corrupted the instrument of judgment before the judgment is made. Once the tree represents a distorted prudence, every choice made using the tree's gift is already bent at its source.

Philo sees this as the deep structure of the fall: not a single bad choice but the replacement of genuine practical wisdom with a counterfeit that looks indistinguishable from the original to someone who has not yet tasted the difference.

Why Adam and Eve Hid in the Trees

After eating, Adam and Eve heard God's voice and hid in the middle of the trees of paradise. Not at the edge of the garden, not beyond the garden's walls, but in the very place they committed the act. Philo found this choice revealing rather than strange.

He understood their hiding place as evidence of sin's self-knowledge. They knew what they had done. They hid, not to escape God, since God cannot be escaped, but because the act had produced in them the beginnings of shame, and shame seeks concealment in the nearest available space. The middle of the garden, surrounded by trees, was where they had been when they chose badly. Returning there was returning to the scene, which is what guilt tends to do even when it would rather flee.

The trees that had been the setting of the original choice became the setting of the concealment. The geography of the garden encoded the psychology of transgression: the human beings could not get further from what they had done than the place where they had done it.

The Serpent That Walked Upright

A complementary tradition preserved by Ginzberg in Legends of the Jews describes what the serpent was before the fall. It was the most remarkable of all creatures: upright like a human, as tall as a camel, possessing extraordinary intelligence. Had the first transgression not occurred, a pair of these serpents could have labored for humanity, providing material goods and releasing human beings for higher purposes.

The serpent's capability was never in question. It was intelligent enough to construct the philosophical argument it made to Eve. It was able to walk among human beings as near equals. The tragedy of the serpent in this tradition is not that it was dangerous from the start but that it chose to misuse a genuine capacity for reason and speech in order to seduce rather than assist. A creature built to be a partner in creation became instead the agent of its disruption.

Philo's Eden and the Ginzberg tradition converge on the same point: the first catastrophe was not the irruption of evil from outside the garden. It was the turning of intelligence, prudence, and speech toward purposes they were not made for. The serpent taught this with its argument. Adam and Eve learned it through their choice. Every person since has faced the same exam with the same counterfeit currency available as payment.

SerpentAdam EveWisdomPhiloEden
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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 1:13The Midrash of Philo

The story in Genesis, as The familiar version gives us, tells of a serpent who tempts the woman, leading to the eating of the forbidden fruit and the expulsion from paradise. But the ancient sages weren't content with just the surface narrative. They delved deeper, seeking to understand the motivations and nuances of the story. And that's where the midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) comes in – a way of interpreting scripture that fills in the gaps, asks the "what ifs," and draws out deeper meaning.

Here's one fascinating midrash, attributed to Philo of Alexandria, a Jewish philosopher who lived in Egypt during the first century. Philo, steeped in both Jewish tradition and Greek philosophy, offers a unique perspective on this pivotal moment. His midrash attempts to answer that very question: Why the woman?

Philo argues that the serpent chose the woman because she was, in his view, "more accustomed to be deceived than the man." Now, that might sound a bit harsh to our modern ears. But The source unfolds what Philo might have meant. He suggests that Adam, possessing a "masculine" mind and body, was better equipped to resist temptation and see through deception. His reasoning and strength allowed him to "disentangle the notions of seduction."

Eve, on the other hand, according to Philo, possessed a more "effeminate" mind, making her more susceptible to flattery and easily swayed by falsehoods that cleverly mimicked the truth. Her "softness," as Philo puts it, made her an easier target.

Ouch.

But the midrash doesn't stop there. It goes on to describe the serpent shedding its skin, from head to tail, a process that renews its life. Philo interprets this shedding as a reproach to humankind. The serpent's renewal mocks humanity's loss of immortality. The serpent, through its shedding, achieves a kind of perpetual youth, while humanity, by succumbing to temptation, has embraced mortality.

The midrash suggests that Eve, upon witnessing this, should have recognized the serpent's cunning and deceitfulness. She should have seen its "ingenuity" as a red flag, a sign of its manipulative nature. Instead, she was enticed by the prospect of acquiring a life free from aging and decay – a life, ironically, that the serpent seemed to possess through its constant renewal.

It is important to note that Philo's interpretation is just one perspective, and it reflects the cultural biases of his time. Many other midrashim offer different, and often more nuanced, interpretations of the story of Adam and Eve. But it offers us a fascinating glimpse into how ancient thinkers grappled with the complexities of the biblical narrative and sought to understand the human condition.

So, what do we take away from this? Is Eve truly more susceptible to deception? Or is this midrash simply reflecting the patriarchal views of its time? Perhaps the real lesson is about the allure of the forbidden, the seductive power of immortality, and the ever-present challenge of discerning truth from falsehood – challenges that confront us all, regardless of gender. What do you think?

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The Midrash of Philo 9:15The Midrash of Philo

Philo, a Jewish philosopher living in Alexandria nearly two thousand years ago, offers a fascinating interpretation. He cuts right to the heart of it: the tree isn't just about some forbidden fruit. It's an allegory, a symbolic representation of something much deeper.

In Philo, the tree represents prudence, or phronesis in Greek. Good and bad, beautiful and unseemly, every kind of opposite – prudence allows us to discern them. It’s about comprehending the world through knowledge and science.

Philo distinguishes between two kinds of wisdom. There's the wisdom that belongs to God. That, he says, is not God Himself, but rather the work of God. It’s a divine, all-encompassing perspective that sees and investigates everything perfectly.

Then there’s human wisdom. Ah, human wisdom… that's a different story. Philo suggests that human wisdom is flawed, "mixed" and "darkened." We don't see clearly. Our vision is imperfect. We’re often incompetent to understand each thing separately and without bias. Sound familiar?

He even argues that there's an element of deception mixed into our wisdom. Shadows, he says, can obscure the light, preventing us from truly seeing. It’s like our eyes – they're essential for seeing, but they can also be deceived by illusions, by tricks of the light.

Philo makes a powerful analogy: "what the eye is in the body, such also is the mind and wisdom in the soul." Our minds, our capacity for wisdom, are like our eyes. They allow us to perceive the world, but they’re also limited, prone to error, and easily misled.

So, what's the takeaway? Philo's interpretation of the Tree of Knowledge isn't just about forbidden fruit or some primeval sin. It's a profound meditation on the nature of knowledge itself. It’s a reminder that while wisdom is essential, human wisdom is always imperfect, always filtered through the lens of our own limited perspectives. Maybe that’s why the story of the Garden resonates so deeply, even today. It speaks to our ongoing struggle to understand the world, and ourselves, with clarity and truth.

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The Midrash of Philo 8:8The Midrash of Philo

Why Adam and Eve Hid Among the Trees is the question behind this passage from The Midrash of Philo.

No. They hid "in the middle of the trees of the Paradise" (Genesis 3:9). In the very place they committed the act.

Why?

Philo, a Jewish philosopher from Alexandria, writing in the first century CE, grapples with this very question. He sees in their baffling choice a deeper truth about human nature, particularly the nature of sin. He offers us a powerful insight – one that resonates even today.

Philo suggests that sinners aren't exactly criminal masterminds. They don't operate with flawless logic or strategic brilliance. He paints this vivid picture: thieves so focused on their immediate prize, on the act of stealing, that they completely forget there's a power, a "Deity who presides over the world," watching over them. They are so consumed by the act, they are blind to the bigger picture.

And that blindness, according to Philo, is what traps Adam and Eve. They should have fled. They should have sought refuge far from the scene of their transgression. But their sin, their act of defiance, had a kind of gravitational pull. It held them captive, right there in the Gan Eden (Garden of Eden).

"They still were arrested in the middle of the Paradise itself," Philo writes, "in order that they might be convicted of their sin too clearly to find any refuge even in flight itself."

It's a striking image, isn't it?

Philo isn’t just talking about Adam and Eve, of course. He's using their story as an allegory. He sees their actions as a microcosm of the human condition. He's suggesting that wickedness itself becomes a refuge for the wicked. That those consumed by their passions actually flee to those passions for safety. How often do we see people doubling down on their mistakes, clinging to destructive behaviors, not because they’re unaware of the consequences, but because, on some level, those behaviors offer a twisted sense of comfort, of familiarity? It is a dark sort of shelter, a place to hide from the light of accountability and change.

Philo’s commentary invites us to ask ourselves: Where are we hiding? What “trees” in our own personal “paradise” are we clinging to, even though they offer no real protection?

And perhaps, most importantly, what would it take to step out of the shadows and into the open?

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Legends of the Jews 2:55Legends of the Jews

In Ginzberg's retelling in, Legends of the Jews, this serpent was no ordinary animal. It was, in fact, the most remarkable of all creatures. Imagine this: standing upright like a human, as tall as a camel, and possessing incredible intelligence. Had things gone differently, had the "Adam's transgression" not occurred, a pair of these serpents could have taken over humanity's workload, providing us with silver, gold, gems, and pearls! Sounds like a pretty sweet deal. So, what went wrong?

Well, it was precisely the serpent's exceptional intellect that led to his downfall – and ours. His superior mental gifts caused him to become an infidel, leading to envy, particularly of Adam's relationship with Eve. This envy fueled his plot to bring about Adam's demise. But the serpent knew Adam too well to try any tricks of persuasion directly. Instead, he targeted Eve, believing women were more easily deceived.

The conversation with Eve was meticulously planned, a calculated trap. The serpent starts with a question: "Is it true that God hath said, Ye shall not eat of every tree in the garden?" Eve responds, explaining that they can eat from any tree except the one in the center, which they can't even touch, "lest we be stricken with death."

Here's where it gets interesting. Eve's response isn't exactly what God commanded. God only forbade eating the fruit, not touching the tree. in the story, Adam, in his zeal to protect Eve from disobeying God, had added the prohibition against touching. As the proverb says, "Better a wall ten hands high that stands, than a wall a hundred ells high that cannot stand." It was Adam's exaggeration that gave the serpent an opening.

The serpent, seizing the opportunity, pushes Eve against the tree and says, "See? Touching the tree hasn't killed you. Eating the fruit won't hurt you either. God is just being malicious, because as soon as you eat it, you'll become like Him."

The serpent goes on, "As He creates and destroys worlds, so will you. As He doth slay and revive, so will you. He Himself ate first of the fruit of the tree, and then He created the world. Therefore doth He forbid you to eat thereof, lest you create other worlds. Everyone knows that 'artisans of the same guild hate one another.'"

The serpent continues his twisted logic, arguing that every creature has dominion over the one created before it. "The heavens were made on the first day, and they are kept in place by the firmament made on the second day. The firmament, in turn, is ruled by the plants. The sun and the other celestial bodies. have power over the world of plants. The creation of the fifth day, the animal world, rules over the celestial spheres." He even mentions the ziz, a giant bird whose wings can darken the sun!

Then comes the final, tempting offer: "But ye are masters of the whole of creation, because ye were the last to be created. Hasten now and eat of the fruit of the tree in the midst of the garden, and become independent of God, lest He bring forth still other creatures to bear rule over you."

The serpent's argument isn't just about eating a piece of fruit. It's about power, independence, and a fear of being surpassed. It’s a challenge to the established order, a promise of godlike abilities. It's an incredibly compelling narrative, even if it is based on deception.

So, what does this all mean? Is the serpent simply a villain, or a symbol of something deeper? Perhaps the serpent represents the allure of forbidden knowledge, the temptation to question authority, or the inherent human desire to become something more than we are. Maybe the story isn't just about a snake, an apple, and a garden, but about the very nature of choice, ambition, and the consequences of our actions.

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