Parshat Bereshit5 min read

The Cherubim at Eden's Gate Guard the Path the Mind Walks

Philo of Alexandria read the garden as wisdom made visible, and the cherubim with the flaming sword as guardians of thought itself.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. What Was Planted Before the Trees
  2. Eden Was Wisdom Before It Was Geography
  3. The Two Powers That Guard It
  4. The First Light and What It Guarded

What Was Planted Before the Trees

The cherubim do not speak. They stand east of the garden, turning the flaming sword in every direction, and the gate stays shut. Genesis gives them the minimum number of words it can: they are placed there to guard the path to the Tree of Life. That is all.

Philo of Alexandria, reading this scene in the first century CE, heard something larger than a closed gate behind those few words. If the garden was only a garden, two guards and a sword could keep bodies out indefinitely. But Philo had already decided the garden was not only a garden.

Eden Was Wisdom Before It Was Geography

The garden, in Philo's reading, is wisdom made visible. The trees planted in it are the outlines of divine and human intelligence, comprehension of causes, the capacity to look at the visible world and trace what stands behind it. God did not plant soil. He planted a curriculum. He placed the first human inside a living argument for the existence and order of a Creator, surrounded by evidence that everything made has a cause and a purpose and a place in a rational whole.

This changes the center of gravity of everything that follows. The exile from Eden is not merely expulsion from a pleasant location. It is separation from the state of mind in which the visible world is legible, in which every tree and river and creature tells the truth about what made it. Outside the garden, the world still exists, but the lens through which it was transparent to divine order has cracked. The exile is cognitive before it is geographic.

And so the cherubim are not guarding soil. They are guarding access to the condition of mind in which wisdom is native, in which the soul moves through the world without the friction of confusion and distraction and the accumulated weight of choices made against what it knows. They are guarding the path back to integrated knowledge, and they stand there with a turning sword because that path cannot be forced. It cannot be rushed. It cannot be stormed by effort or cleverness or ambition. The sword turns in every direction because there is no angle of attack that will work.

The Two Powers That Guard It

The two cherubim represent two specific divine attributes in Philo's allegory. Goodness and sovereignty. Mercy and authority. The creative power that brings things into existence out of generosity, and the governing power that maintains order through law. In the garden, these two powers were present together in balanced tension. The human being placed inside that balance could contemplate both and understand the world as a unified act of divine intention.

The exile broke that balance, not in God but in the human. The faculties that were designed to move together, mercy and justice, creation and limit, freedom and boundary, began to pull against each other in the soul that could no longer hold them in view simultaneously. The cherubim mark the place where the integration was last intact.

The flaming sword that turns in every direction has a further meaning in this reading. It is not a weapon of destruction but of illumination. Fire is the symbol of divine light in the Torah from the burning bush to the pillar of flame in the wilderness. The sword is not cutting. It is revealing. It shows, in the turning, every approach to the garden, and in showing every approach, it demonstrates that no approach from the outside is the right one. The path back is not from outside in. It is from below up, from within out, from the condition of exile inward toward the condition that was lost.

The First Light and What It Guarded

There is a tradition that the first light of creation, the light of the first day, was not the light of the sun. The sun was not made until the fourth day. The first light was something else: a primordial radiance, so powerful that by its illumination a person could see from one end of the world to the other. When human sin made that light too dangerous to leave exposed, God concealed it. Some traditions say it was stored in the Torah. Others say it was hidden for the righteous at the end of days.

In the Philonic reading, the garden holds an echo of that first light. It is the place in the created world where the original clarity was most accessible, where a creature made in God's image could stand in a world shaped by divine intelligence and actually see how it worked. The cherubim stand at the entrance to that clarity and prevent the return of anyone who forfeited access to it through the confusion of desire over reason.

The gate stays shut not because God is vengeful but because access to primordial wisdom cannot be forced from outside. It is recovered, if it is recovered, only from within.

EdenCherubimAngelsWisdom
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From the tradition

Sources

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The Midrash of Philo 8:2The Midrash of Philo

Philo, the 1st-century Jewish philosopher from Alexandria, offers a fascinating perspective in his writings, specifically here in The Midrash of Philo. He suggests that paradise isn't just a physical location, but a symbol.

Philo argues that the word "paradise," taken literally, simply describes a garden filled with trees. But taken symbolically, it represents wisdom, both divine and human. It's about grasping the underlying reasons for things, understanding the causes of things. after creating the world, it makes sense that a way of contemplating it would be established. That humans could look at the world and everything in it, and through that, arrive at a true appreciation for the Creator.

How can we truly understand the Creator without wisdom? Philo beautifully suggests that the Creator planted the very essence of wisdom within the mind, within our rational souls, just like planting trees in a garden. Our minds become the Garden of Eden.

What about the Tree of Life, standing prominently in the middle of the garden? Philo sees this as representing the knowledge of not only creation, but also of the “greater and supreme cause of the universe.” If we can genuinely understand that cause, Philo implies, we will be truly blessed, truly happy, and even immortal. That's a powerful idea!

Philo goes on to connect this concept to the creation of human wisdom, which, he says, happened after the creation of the world, just as the Garden of Eden was planted afterward. It's almost like the universe needed to be in place first, a stage set for wisdom to blossom. He draws a parallel with the creation of music, of a "chorus of musicians" whose purpose is to praise the Creator and His works.

He even evokes Plato, who spoke of the Creator as the “first and greatest of causes” and the world as the “most beautiful of all creatures.” It's a beautiful image, and it all ties back to this central idea: that the Garden of Eden isn't just a place, but a state of mind, a journey toward wisdom and understanding.

So, the next time you think of the Garden of Eden, maybe picture it not just as a physical space, but as the potential for wisdom and understanding that resides within each of us. What if the real paradise is the one we cultivate within our own minds?

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The Midrash of Philo 9:6The Midrash of Philo

That iconic image from the Garden of Eden, planted right in the middle of Paradise (Genesis 2:9). What exactly was it? And why was it so important?

Well, people have been pondering that question for millennia. Some took a very literal approach. If there were plants that brought death, they reasoned, surely there must be plants that granted life – even immortality! They figured, since some plants are clearly harmful, others must be beneficial, bringing health and vitality. But identifying which ones? That was the tricky part. After all, as the wise have pointed out, even the process of being born, of generation, is the first step toward decay.

Maybe, just maybe, we're meant to understand this whole thing allegorically.

Some ancient thinkers believed the Tree of Life was connected to the earth itself. The earth, after all, produces everything we need to survive, from grains to fruits to sustain all living creatures. And where is it placed? In the center. And what is in the center? The Earth! So it is the source of life.

Others looked to the cosmos. Perhaps, they suggested, the Tree of Life represents the center point between the seven celestial spheres – the heavens. Or maybe it is the sun, almost perfectly positioned among the planets, dictating the seasons, and bringing everything into existence.

Still others saw the Tree of Life as representing something internal. The direction of the soul, maybe? Something that strengthens our senses and allows us to act in accordance with our true nature, connecting all the parts of our being. Think of it as the leader of a chorus, the central force harmonizing everything around it.

But some of the most respected voices, the wisest among us, believe the Tree of Life represents something even deeper: the highest of human virtues, piety. It is through piety, through a deep and unwavering connection to the Divine, that the mind, the neshama, achieves a kind of immortality.

So, which interpretation is "correct"? Perhaps they all hold a piece of the truth. Maybe the Tree of Life is a many-sided symbol, reflecting the interconnectedness of the physical world, the celestial realm, and the depths of the human soul, all pointing us toward a life of meaning and connection. What do you think?

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The Midrash of Philo 24:1The Midrash of Philo

why? What was the point of this divine bouncer?

That's the question the Midrash of Philo 24 wrestles with. Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), by the way, is a method of interpreting Biblical texts. And Philo? That refers to Philo of Alexandria, a Hellenistic Jewish philosopher who lived in the first century CE. He was all about allegorical interpretation, seeing deeper meanings in the Torah's stories.

So, Philo asks us: Why a cherubim? Why a flaming sword?

Was it simply to prevent Adam and Eve from sneaking back in for a forbidden snack? Probably not. There's got to be more to it. The Midrash suggests that the cherubim and the flaming sword aren’t just physical barriers. They represent something far more profound. Perhaps they represent the very obstacles that stand between us and spiritual enlightenment. The "way of the tree of life" isn't just a physical path. It's a path to wisdom, to understanding, to a deeper connection with the divine. And what prevents us from reaching that? Our own limitations, our own desires, our own flawed natures.

The flaming sword "which turned every way"... doesn't that sound like the constant struggle we face within ourselves? The internal battles between our higher and lower selves? It’s a potent image, isn’t it?

So, maybe the cherubim isn't just guarding a garden. Maybe it's guarding our potential. Maybe the flaming sword isn't keeping us out, but rather challenging us to overcome our own internal obstacles.

Perhaps the real question isn't why God placed a guard at the Garden of Eden, but what we are doing to overcome the guards within ourselves. Are we willing to face the flaming sword and strive for the tree of life? That's the journey, isn't it?

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The Midrash of Philo 24:2The Midrash of Philo

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. It's a beautiful idea, isn't it? 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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