Parshat Bereshit5 min read

Two Powers of God Guard the Gate of Eden

Adam asked for the fruit that would let him live forever. The angels wept and still drove him east, under a sword that would not hold still.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Angels Would Not Drive Them
  2. Two Watchers at the East
  3. A Sword That Kept Turning
  4. The Tree They Could Carry
  5. Heat From a House They Could Not Enter
Two Powers of God Guard the Gate of Eden Click for full size

The Angels Would Not Drive Them

Adam and Eve wept at the edge of the trees. God had already spoken the sentences, on the man, on the woman, on the serpent. Then He ordered the angels to drive the pair out.

The angels did not move. They heard the weeping. They took pity. They left the command unfulfilled and went back to ask if the verdict might be softened.

The Lord did not soften it. "Was it I that committed a trespass," He said, "or did I pronounce a false judgment?"

Feet that had walked among trees now walked toward thorns. The gate behind them began to fill.

Two Watchers at the East

East of Eden the gate did not stay empty. Cherubim took their posts (Genesis 3:24). One stood in the aspect called God, creative, gentle, a maker who still feeds. The other stood in the aspect called Lord, royal, a king who sets a border and keeps it. They were not two gods. They were two ways the One met a world that had already broken a command.

Adam and Eve left under both lights. The Parent who still cared. The King who would not pretend the fruit was never taken.

Adam asked, before the last step, for fruit from the Tree of Life. The request was turned aside. If he led a pious life, he would be given of that fruit on the day of resurrection, and then he would live forever. Not now. Not by reaching.

A Sword That Kept Turning

Between the watchers a sword of flame turned without rest. The air itself seemed to revolve, heaven-colored, never holding still long enough for a thief to count the beat and slip through. No lucky pause. The lock moved.

What looked like a blade could be a messenger. What looked like a winged guardian could cut. Angels shift form as needed. The watch was alive, not a statue with a prop in its hand.

Eve heard the sword's roar the way a person hears a river that will not be forded. Adam pressed his palm once toward the outer heat and pulled it back. Nearness without entrance is its own discipline. They were allowed to settle east, close enough to feel the old life the way a person feels heat from a house he can no longer enter.

The Tree They Could Carry

Access to the Tree of Life closed with the gate. God did not leave them without a tree. He gave Adam the Torah, called a tree of life to those who take hold of her. Immortality of body behind a flaming door became a covenant in a scroll that can be carried into exile.

Fruit once hung in a garden that required only reach and refusal. Torah requires study, practice, failure, return. The cherubim still barred the old shortcut. The new path ran through time, people, and law.

Eve walked that path in the same dust. The creative power still fed them. The royal power still judged them. Between those two, they learned garments and work and the long project of naming pain without the garden's open shelves of fruit.

Heat From a House They Could Not Enter

Later a soul came to that same east and found the watch still on duty. The righteous were let through. The rest met the flame and were driven back. The shortcut of the old fruit stayed closed. The long path still ran through a scroll held in the hands.

Adam's tears dried into the first agriculture. Eve's memory of the garden became the first warning that was also a hunger. The cherubim did not wave farewell. They remained, creative and royal, while the sword kept time for a ban that has not been lifted.

When Israel later built cherubim of gold on the Ark, the memory ran both ways. Mercy-seat and exile-gate. Intimacy and ban. The same winged watch that served distance at Eden served nearness in the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary in the wilderness. Boundaries and nearness were carved from one glory.

Adam turned toward thorns. Eve turned with him. The sword turned still. Certain returns cannot be forced by cleverness. They wait on a tree that can be held as scroll and practice when the other tree cannot.

EdenCherubimFlaming SwordAdamEvePhiloExileTorah
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From the tradition

Sources

3 sources

The texts behind this telling. Some cards carry a translation of the source; others are our own retelling of it, and each card says which. Every card links out to the original.

The Midrash of Philo 24:2The Midrash of Philo

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Works of Philo Judaeus, trans. C. D. Yonge, London, H. G. Bohn, 1854-1890 · Public Domain

Take the image of the cherubim, those powerful, enigmatic beings guarding the Garden of Eden after Adam and Eve were expelled. What do they really represent?

Philo, a Jewish philosopher living in Alexandria in the first century CE, offers a fascinating interpretation in his writings, sometimes referred to as "The Midrash of Philo." He suggests the cherubim symbolize two fundamental virtues of God: His creative power and His royal power. Two facets of the Divine, standing sentinel.

Philo elaborates, telling us that the creative power, the one associated with the name "God", is gentle, peaceful, and beneficent. Think of a loving parent, nurturing and kind. But the royal power, linked to the name "Lord", is legislative, chastising, and correcting. This is the aspect of God that sets boundaries and ensures justice. It’s a tougher love, but love nonetheless.

What about that "flaming sword?" Philo sees it as a symbol of heaven itself. He points out that the air has a fiery color and constantly revolves, encompassing the entire universe. It’s a dynamic image, full of movement and energy. So these things, the cherubim and the flaming sword, together guard Paradise, because they preside over wisdom.

Philo uses an analogy to explain further: the wisdom of the world, he says, is like a mirror reflecting divine virtues. The world, in all its complexity and beauty, is a reflection of God's own nature. It’s through this wisdom that the universe is ordered and arranged. And how do we access this wisdom? Through philosophy, the love and pursuit of wisdom. The very word "philosophy" comes from the Greek, meaning love of wisdom, philosophia.

Because the creative virtue possesses both philosophical and royal qualities, Philo even suggests that the world itself is philosophical. Isn't that a profound thought? The universe, in its essence, is engaged in the pursuit of wisdom!

Now, some have interpreted the flaming sword differently, seeing it as a symbol of the sun. The sun, with its constant revolutions, marks the seasons and acts as a guardian of life. It's a powerful image, connecting the divine with the natural world.

So, the next time you encounter the image of the cherubim guarding the Garden of Eden, remember Philo's interpretation. They aren't just mythical creatures. They are symbols of God's creative and royal powers, reflections of divine wisdom, and reminders that the pursuit of wisdom is a journey that encompasses not just ourselves but the entire universe. What does this ancient image mean to you?

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Legends of the Jews 2:71Legends of the Jews

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Legends of the Jews by Louis Ginzberg (1909) · Public Domain

God didn't just leave the entrance to Paradise unguarded. Instead, He appointed the cherubim, those powerful, almost indescribable angelic beings, to stand watch. But they weren't alone. They were also called the "ever-turning sword of flames," a pretty intimidating image. This, we learn, is because angels, as the tradition tells us, are able to shift their forms as needed (Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews).

What about the Tree of Life? Did Adam just lose access to immortality forever? Well, instead of the physical tree, God gave Adam something else: the Torah. The Torah, Jewish tradition teaches, is itself a "tree of life to them that lay hold upon her." So, Adam was allowed to settle near Paradise, specifically to the east, where he could, in a way, still be close to that original source of life.

Then came the moment of expulsion. After the sentences were pronounced upon Adam, Eve, and the serpent, God commanded the angels to banish the first couple from Paradise. Adam and Eve, overcome with grief, weeping and begging for mercy.

Here's where the story takes a fascinating turn. The angels, witnessing their despair, felt pity. They hesitated. They couldn't bring themselves to immediately carry out God's command. Instead, they decided to do something… risky. They delayed. They hoped to petition God, to plead for a more lenient judgment.

But God was resolute. "Was it I that committed a trespass, or did I pronounce a false judgment?" He wouldn't budge. As we find in Midrash Rabbah, God's justice had to be served. Adam's plea for the fruit of the Tree of Life was also denied.

However. And this is crucial, it wasn't a complete and utter rejection. God promised Adam that if he lived a pious life, he would be given the fruit on the day of resurrection, and he would then live forever.

So, what does this all mean? It's a complex picture. There's justice, yes, and consequences for actions. But there's also compassion, even from the angels. And, perhaps most importantly, there's a promise of redemption, a future opportunity to partake in the Tree of Life, reminding us that even after mistakes, hope remains.

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Midrash ha-Ne'elamZohar (Midrash HaNeelam)

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.Sefaria-hosted English translation · CC-BY

The familiar story is this: from Genesis: the serpent, the forbidden fruit, the exile. But what then? Did the Garden just sit there, empty and forlorn?

Not quite. According to Jewish lore, God placed mighty guardians east of the Garden: the cherubim, angelic beings, and a terrifying, ever-turning sword of flame (Genesis 3:24).

The Zohar, a foundational text of Kabbalah, tells us that after this, no one could enter the Garden… except for the souls of the righteous. But even they had to pass muster.

Think of it like this: the Garden of Eden evolved. It wasn't just the place where humanity began; it became the gateway to Paradise for deserving souls. But those cherubim? They were still on duty, judging each soul that approached. If a soul was deemed worthy, the cherubim would allow it to pass. But if not? According to this myth from the Zohar, they'd be driven away, scorched by the fiery sword.

This raises a fascinating question: how did the cherubim know who was worthy? What cosmic yardstick were they using? The texts don't explicitly say, but it implies a profound sense of divine discernment.

In fact, there are really two distinct phases to the Garden of Eden in Jewish tradition. First, the story of Adam and Eve, their life there, and their expulsion. Second, the Garden’s role after that expulsion, as the destination for righteous souls on their journey to Paradise.

The initial purpose of the cherubim seems clear enough. After tasting from the Tree of Knowledge, Adam and Eve became mortal. Allowing them access to the Tree of Life would have been… problematic, to say the least. Genesis implies they were barred to prevent them from achieving immortality.

But what about after that? What purpose did the cherubim serve then? They kept out anyone who tried to sneak in, including, according to legend, even Alexander the Great!

But as the Garden took on this new role as the entry point for righteous souls, the cherubim's function evolved too. They weren't just gatekeepers anymore; they became celestial bouncers, discerning who was worthy and who wasn't. And for those who didn't make the cut? Well, the Zohar tells us of the painful consequences, a burning purification by the ever-turning sword.

This idea of facing judgment, of being assessed for our worthiness.

We see a similar concept in the traditions surrounding the High Priest and the Holy of Holies in the Temple in Jerusalem on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. The kapporet, the cover of the Ark of the Covenant, featured two cherubim. Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) ha-Ne'elam and Zohar Hadash describe them as standing guard, much like their Eden counterparts. The High Priest entered this sacred space in awe and dread. If he was worthy, he would enter and exit in peace. But if he was not? A flame, mirroring the fiery sword of Eden, would erupt from between the cherubim, and he would perish.

So, what does this all mean? Perhaps it's a reminder that the path to Paradise, whatever that may be for you, isn't always easy. It requires a certain level of righteousness, a dedication to living a meaningful life. And maybe, just maybe, there are celestial gatekeepers along the way, helping us to become the best versions of ourselves. Are we ready to face them?

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