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How Sammael Rode the Serpent Into Eden

The serpent in Genesis does not explain itself. The midrash does: Sammael, the heavenly accuser, chose the serpent as his mount and descended into the Garden.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Why the Serpent Could Speak
  2. The Logic of the Seduction
  3. What the Midrash Says About Cain
  4. Sammael's Limited Domain

Why the Serpent Could Speak

The serpent in Genesis speaks. It reasons, argues, and persuades. It knows what God told Adam. It understands the consequences. It asks the question that will unravel paradise: did God really say you shall not eat from every tree? The plain text never explains how a reptile acquired this level of sophistication. The rabbinic tradition has an answer, and it is not about the serpent's natural intelligence.

Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, the early medieval narrative midrash from Palestine, describes Sammael arriving in heaven before the creation of humanity, a celestial being of twelve wings. The Seraphim around the divine throne have six. Sammael's twelve are a measure of his standing, and perhaps of the pride that will eventually cost him everything. He gathers his followers, descends, and surveys all the creatures that God has made. He is looking for one specific quality: access.

He finds it in the serpent. Genesis 3:1 calls the creature more subtle than any beast of the field. In the world before the fall, the serpent walked upright, had a shape closer to human form than most animals, and possessed speech. Sammael recognized in the serpent the physical access to Eve that he needed and the linguistic capacity to do the work he intended. He chose it as his mount, the way a rider uses a horse, and the combination of Sammael's intelligence with the serpent's body and voice produced the entity that approached Eve in the Garden.

The Logic of the Seduction

Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer uses a parable to describe the relationship between Sammael and the serpent: a man possessed by an evil spirit does not act from his own will. The words he speaks are not his own thoughts. He is a vessel. The serpent in Eden was the vessel. The words that came out of it were not the serpent's.

This matters for how the rabbinic tradition reads Eve's responsibility and the serpent's punishment. God curses the serpent in Genesis: you will crawl on your belly and eat dust. The tradition notes that the serpent was cursed with a punishment fitted to its role: it had walked upright, and now it would not. It had been chosen as a mount, and it would spend the rest of its existence as low as any creature could be. The instrument paid for the instrument's part. The one who chose the instrument paid separately.

What the Midrash Says About Cain

The most provocative claim in Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer's account of Sammael's ride is what it implies about who Cain's father was. The midrash reads Genesis 4:1 carefully. When it says Adam knew Eve his wife and she conceived and bore Cain, the midrash hears the word knew as an indication that the knowing came after a prior pregnancy was already established. Eve saw Cain's form and recognized it was not of earthly origin. His likeness, the tradition says, was not the likeness of Adam below but of the angels above, from Sammael.

Then Adam came to her, and she conceived Abel. The two brothers, in this reading, were not twins of the same father. Their difference in orientation, the farmer and the shepherd, the murderer and the murdered, was rooted not only in choice but in origin. Cain's wrath at God's preference for Abel's offering becomes, in this light, a cosmic wrath, the wrath of one whose birth traces back to the first act of celestial rebellion against the human order that God had made.

Sammael's Limited Domain

Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer records a later exchange between Sammael and God. Sammael complains: you have given me power over all the nations of the world but not over Israel. God answers that he does have power over Israel, but only on Yom Kippur, and only if they have sin. The tradition reads this as a structural fact about Sammael's role: he is the accuser, not the executioner. He can present the case against Israel on the Day of Judgment. He cannot execute it if Israel has atoned.

The rider who descended on the serpent in Eden still exists. He still operates. But the boundary God drew around his domain on Yom Kippur is the annual answer to the first crossing of that boundary in the Garden. The fast and the confession and the liturgy of the day are the community's collective response to what Sammael first set in motion when he chose the serpent as his mount and descended into the world that had just been made.

SammaelEdenSerpentEveCainAdamMidrash AggadahAngels
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Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer 13:2Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer

The story of Sammael and the serpent offers a glimpse into that primal moment.

A celestial being, a great prince in heaven. That was Sammael. Now, The Seraphim, even more elevated, boasted six. But Sammael? He possessed a staggering twelve wings. for a second – twelve wings! That image alone speaks volumes about his power and perhaps, his pride.

What did Sammael do with all that power? According to Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, a fascinating early medieval Jewish text, he gathered his band, his followers, we can assume. And descended from the heavens. He surveyed all of creation, searching. Searching for what? For the perfect instrument of… well, let's call it disruption.

He found it. "Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field" (Genesis 3:1). This isn't just any snake. Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer tells us its appearance was "something like that of the camel." Intriguing. Not a slithering worm, but something…stately. Something capable of carrying a prince.

So, Sammael, this winged prince, mounted the serpent. Think about the symbolism there: celestial power, literally riding upon the most cunning of earthly creatures. It’s a potent image of temptation and the corrupting influence of power.

But here’s where the story gets even more interesting. As Sammael took control, the Torah itself, the very essence of divine law, cried out. Imagine the Torah, not as a book, but as a living voice, pleading: "Why, O Sammael! now that the world is created, is it the time to rebel against the Omnipresent?"

It's a powerful question, isn't it? Why, now, after all the work of creation, would anyone choose to rebel? Is it ever the right time for rebellion?

The Torah continues, warning Sammael against his arrogance. "Is it like a time when thou shouldst lift up thyself on high? The Lord of the world 'will laugh at the horse and its rider' (Job 39:18)." This is a direct challenge, a reminder that even the most powerful beings are ultimately subject to the divine will. The image of God laughing is striking, suggesting the futility of Sammael’s actions.

So, what are we to make of this story? It's a potent reminder about the seductive nature of power, the dangers of pride, and the eternal struggle between obedience and rebellion. It suggests that temptation isn't just some random event; it's a calculated act, orchestrated by forces that seek to undermine the very foundation of creation. And it all began with a prince, a serpent, and a single, fateful ride. Where did they go? That, my friend, is another story.

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Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer 13:3Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer

Jewish tradition has explored this very idea for centuries, particularly when confronting the mystery of evil.

One fascinating text, Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, a compilation of stories and interpretations dating back to the 8th or 9th century, tackles this question head-on. And it does so with a striking parable, a short story designed to illuminate a deeper truth.

The parable goes like this: Imagine a man possessed by an evil spirit. Does he act of his own free will? Do the words he speaks originate from his own thoughts? Of course not! He is merely a vessel, a puppet animated by the malevolent entity within him. It's a powerful image, isn't it? And what does this have to do with the story of the Garden of Eden?

The text makes a direct connection: "So (was it with) the serpent." Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer argues that the serpent in the Garden wasn't acting on its own accord. It was possessed by Sammael.

Now, who is Sammael? He's a complex figure in Jewish lore, often identified as a powerful angel, sometimes associated with evil. Think of him, in this context, as the ultimate source of temptation and rebellion. The serpent, therefore, becomes a mere instrument in Sammael's grand scheme.

The words spoken by the serpent, the deception that led to humanity's expulsion from paradise – none of it originated with the serpent itself. It was all the work of Sammael, using the serpent as his mouthpiece.

The text concludes with a verse from Proverbs (14:32): "The wicked is thrust down in his evil-doing." This serves as a stark reminder that those who choose the path of wickedness, like Sammael, ultimately face the consequences of their actions.

What does this parable teach us? It's not simply about demonizing the serpent. It's about recognizing the forces that can influence our choices. It's about understanding that sometimes, the source of evil lies not within ourselves, but in the external influences that prey on our vulnerabilities.

This interpretation offers a fascinating perspective on the story of the Fall. It suggests that evil isn't just a matter of individual choice, but a force that can manipulate and corrupt. It's a chilling thought, but also a call to be vigilant, to recognize the voices that seek to lead us astray and, most importantly, to reclaim our own agency.

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Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer 21:3Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer

One particularly intriguing, and perhaps shocking, account comes from Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, a text that explores the narratives of the Torah with expansive detail. This passage tackles the very beginning of human history outside of Eden.

It tells us that Sammael – often identified as a heavenly accuser or even Satan – rode upon the serpent and came to Eve, and she conceived. Let that sink in for a moment. Afterward, Adam came to her, and she conceived Abel. It's a complex and layered picture, isn't it? The verse "And Adam knew Eve his wife" (Genesis 4:1) takes on a new dimension here. According to this tradition, "knew" isn’t just about intimacy; it’s about recognizing that she was already pregnant.

It continues, saying that Eve saw Cain's likeness and realized it wasn't of earthly beings, but of the heavenly ones. This led her to prophesy and declare, "I have gotten a man with the Lord" (Genesis 4:1). Think about the implications! This wasn’t just a birth; it was, in her eyes, something almost divinely orchestrated, though tinged with otherness.

The story doesn't stop there. The Rabbis confront the implications of these first births. Rabbi Miasha suggests that Cain was born with a twin sister, destined to be his wife. Now, immediately, that raises ethical questions. How could that be permissible?

Rabbi Simeon challenges this idea directly. He quotes (Leviticus 20:17), "And if a man shall take his sister, his father's daughter, or his mother's daughter, and see her nakedness, and she see her nakedness; it is a shameful thing?" How could incest be allowed?

The answer, according to this tradition, lies in necessity. "From these words know that there were no other women whom they could marry, and these were permitted to them, as it is said, 'For I have said, The world shall be built up by love' (Psalm 89:2)." Before the Torah was given, before explicit laws were in place, the world was built upon love, upon the necessity of procreation to ensure the continuation of humanity. It's a fascinating, if potentially troubling, way to understand the moral landscape of that primordial time.

Rabbi Joseph offers another perspective: Cain and Abel were twins! The text then says, "And she conceived, and bare (with) Cain" (Genesis 4:1), suggesting a simultaneous birth. Then, "And she continued to bear his brother Abel" (Genesis 4:2) indicates that Eve had an increased capacity for childbearing at that time.

What does it all mean? These ancient texts offer us a glimpse into the rabbinic imagination, confronting the gaps and ambiguities of the biblical narrative. They wrestle with questions of morality, divine intervention, and the very nature of humanity’s origins. While these interpretations may not be literal truth, they provide a tradition of meaning, prompting us to think deeply about our own understanding of creation and the complexities of human relationships.

So, the next time you read the story of Adam and Eve, remember these alternative narratives. Remember the wrestling, the questioning, the attempts to make sense of a story that continues to resonate with us, even millennia later. It's a reminder that the Bible is not just a book of answers, but a springboard for endless exploration and reflection.

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Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer 46:8Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer

The scene opens with Sammael, often understood as a figure representing the accuser or even the embodiment of evil, in conversation with the Holy One, blessed be He. Sammael is essentially complaining. "Sovereign of all the universe!" he says, "Thou hast given me power over all the nations of the world, but over Israel Thou hast not given me power." He's frustrated. He has dominion, but there's a line he can't cross.

So, what does God say? The answer is both comforting and a little… conditional. God replies that Sammael does have power over Israel, but only on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, and only if they have sin. If the people are pure, if they’ve truly atoned, then Sammael has no hold.

Think about the weight of that. Our actions, our choices, directly impact the influence that negative forces can have in our lives. Yom Kippur becomes this incredible moment of vulnerability and potential. It's not just about asking for forgiveness; it's about actively diminishing the power of evil in the world.

Here's where it gets really interesting. The text goes on to say that the Israelites would give Sammael a "present" on Yom Kippur. A present? What's that about? Well, it's connected to the ritual described in (Leviticus 16:8), the verse about the two goats: "One lot for the Lord, and the other lot for Azazel." One goat was sacrificed to God, a symbol of atonement and purification. The other. the other was sent out into the wilderness, symbolically carrying away the sins of the people.

This second goat, the one for Azazel, is the “present” for Sammael. The idea is that by dealing with sin in this way – acknowledging it, taking responsibility, and symbolically removing it – they prevent Sammael from having power over them. It's like a pre-emptive strike, a spiritual act of self-defense.

But wait a minute. Isn't that… kind of giving in to evil? Appeasing it? That's a fair question, and one that commentators have debated for centuries. One way to understand it is that it's not about appeasement, but about containment. By acknowledging the existence of negative forces and giving them a symbolic outlet, we prevent them from gaining a foothold within ourselves and within our community.

It’s a delicate balance, isn’t it? Recognizing the power of evil, without letting it define us. Striving for purity, not out of fear, but out of a desire to create a world where goodness prevails. This passage from Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer invites us to consider our own relationship with darkness, and the choices we make every day that either strengthen its hold or weaken its grip. What "present" are we offering the forces of good or the forces of ill in our own lives?

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Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer 13:1Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer

The serpent? Well, let's just say he plays a pivotal role.

Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, a fascinating ancient Jewish text, offers a unique perspective on the events leading up to the expulsion from Paradise. It begins with a rather blunt statement: "Envy, cupidity, and ambition remove man (Adam) from the world." Pretty strong stuff. It sets the stage for a story driven by these very human flaws.

Before we even get to the serpent, there's a celestial debate brewing. The angels, those "ministering angels," question God's fascination with humanity. "What is man, that thou shouldst take note of him?" they ask, quoting (Psalm 144:3). They see humanity as fleeting, "like unto vanity," as (Psalm 144:4) puts it. In their eyes,

God, however, has a different perspective. He answers them, essentially saying: “Just as you praise me in the heavens, humanity declares my unity on earth.” Humanity, in its own way, reflects God's glory.

But God doesn't stop there. He throws down a challenge. "Are you able to stand up and call the names for all the creatures which I have created?" Can you imagine the scene? The angels, beings of pure light and intellect, stumped by something as simple as naming the animals.

And then Adam steps up. He names every creature, perfectly. "And the man gave names to all cattle" (Genesis 2:20). It's a moment of profound significance. Adam demonstrates a connection to creation, an understanding that the angels, in their celestial realm, simply lack.

The angels, witnessing this, are taken aback. They realize the unique position of humanity in God's creation. But instead of accepting it, a seed of something dark begins to sprout.

"If we do not take counsel against this man so that he sin before his Creator," the angels say, "we cannot prevail against him." They recognize that humanity's connection to God is a source of power. And if they can sever that connection, they can diminish humanity's standing.

And there it is. The stage is set for the serpent's entrance. Driven by envy and a desire to undermine humanity, the angels plot to tempt Adam and Eve, to introduce sin into their perfect world. It’s a reminder that even in the most heavenly realms, the seeds of discord can take root.

So, what does this all mean? It suggests that the story of the Garden of Eden isn't just about a forbidden fruit. It's about the struggle between humanity and the forces that seek to diminish our connection to the Divine. It's about the power of envy, cupidity, and ambition to lead us astray. And it's a reminder that even in the face of such challenges, humanity has the potential for greatness, a spark of the Divine that the angels themselves recognize, and perhaps, even envy.

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Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer 14:5Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer

Sammael, often identified with the angel of death or a rebellious force, is cast down from heaven along with his legions. It’s a cosmic demotion, a fall from grace that resonates with similar stories found in other traditions. But the drama doesn't end there.

The serpent, the instrument of temptation in the Garden of Eden, doesn’t escape divine judgment either. According to Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, God "cut off the feet of the serpent." The serpent is then condemned to shed its skin painfully every seven years and to crawl on its belly, eating dust. The text emphasizes the serpent's inherent toxicity, stating its "food is turned in its belly into dust and the gall of asps, and death is in its mouth." A rather grim picture, wouldn't you agree? The passage goes on to establish an eternal enmity "between it and the children of the woman," a perpetual struggle where humanity will bruise its head, an ongoing battle against temptation and evil.

What of the woman, Eve? The text outlines nine curses, a heavy burden. These afflictions range from the physical, menstruation, the pains of childbirth, and the challenges of raising children, to the social. Her head is covered, like a mourner, a sign of humility and perhaps a reflection of the sorrow brought into the world. She can only cut her hair as a mark of shame, she is pierced like a perpetual slave, and her testimony is not to be believed. The list ends with the stark reminder of mortality: death.

It's a harsh catalog, isn't it? Many modern readers find these pronouncements difficult, even offensive. How do we reconcile these ancient words with our contemporary understanding of justice and fairness?

Perhaps the key is to see these "curses" not as arbitrary punishments, but as symbolic representations of the challenges and limitations inherent in the human condition after the loss of innocence. The pain of childbirth speaks to the inherent vulnerability of life. The social restrictions placed upon women reflect the power dynamics of the ancient world, a world that Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, for all its timeless wisdom, was still very much a product of. As we find in many places throughout Jewish tradition, such as in the Talmud, the words of our Sages must be interpreted in their historical context.

This passage from Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer invites us to confront difficult questions about sin, suffering, and the human experience. It reminds us that life is not always easy, that there are consequences to our choices, and that even in the face of adversity, we are called to strive for goodness and healing. And after all these struggles, there is death. A sobering thought, but also a reminder to make the most of the time we have.

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Midrash Aggadah, Genesis 3:1Midrash Aggadah

The serpent had a plan, and it was breathtaking in its ambition. Kill Adam. Marry Eve. Rule every living creature on earth. Walk upright through the world, tall and proud, and feast on every delicacy creation could offer.

It said all of this in its heart. It thought no one was listening.

God was listening. And the punishment that followed was not random. It was a mirror held up to each secret wish, returning every one of them inverted.

You wanted to kill Adam and marry Eve? Then I will set hatred between you and the woman forever (Genesis 3:15). You wanted to be king over all the beasts? Then you will be the most cursed of all the beasts (Genesis 3:14). You wanted to walk upright? Crawl on your belly. You wanted to eat the finest food in the world? Eat dust, every day, for the rest of your life (Genesis 3:14).

Four ambitions. Four curses. The serpent built its own sentence, line by line, and never knew the judge was already in the room.

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