That struggle, that internal tug-of-war, is something ancient thinkers grappled with too. And one place we find it explored is in the writings attributed to Philo of Alexandria. Now, scholars debate the authorship of all these texts, but let's dive into "The Midrash of Philo" and see what wisdom we can unearth.
In this particular passage, Philo (or the author) paints a vivid picture of someone who’s lost their way. He describes a "father" – not necessarily a literal parent, but more of a foundational figure, a person who shapes and influences others – who is "truly dissolute." This isn't just a minor slip-up; it's a complete abandonment of the "spiritual bond of the soul."
Instead of nurturing connection and consistency, this figure, according to Philo, embodies something far more…grounded. "Like a giant born of the earth," he "prefers earthly to heavenly things." And this is where it gets really interesting. Philo invokes the "ancient fable of the giants and Titans," those mythical beings who famously waged war against the gods.
Think about it: what does it mean to "raise up earth as a bulwark against heaven"? It's a powerful image, isn’t it? It suggests a deliberate choice to prioritize the material world over the spiritual, to build defenses against anything that might lift us higher. The author emphasizes that "those things which are below are adverse to those which are above."
But why is this figure so destructive? Philo uses the phrase "he was a giant against God." This isn't just about disagreeing with divine will; it's about active opposition. "A wicked man," the text declares, "is nothing else than an enemy, contending against God." Strong words, right?
And this brings us to Nimrod. "Every one who sins greatly," we're told, "ought to be referred to him as the original and chief of sinners, being spoken of 'as a second Nimrod.'" Nimrod, in Jewish tradition, is a symbol of rebellion against God, a hunter who used his power to defy divine authority (Genesis 10:8-12; Ginzberg, Legends of the Jews, vol. 1).
Philo, or the author, even dissects the name itself. "His very name is an indication of his character," he says, "for it is interpreted Aethiopian, and his art is that of hunting, both of which things are detestable." Aethiopian, in this context, represents a lack of light, an embrace of "night and darkness." It's a stark metaphor for moral corruption.
And the practice of hunting? That's seen as "at variance with rational nature." Why? Because "he who lives among wild beasts wishes to live the life of a beast, and to be equal to the brutes in the vices of wickedness." It’s a life driven by instinct and aggression, devoid of reason and compassion.
So, what's the takeaway here? It seems to be a warning against letting our earthly desires overshadow our spiritual aspirations. It's about recognizing the internal struggle between the "heavenly" and the "earthly" within ourselves, and choosing, consciously and deliberately, to cultivate the higher aspects of our nature. It’s a call to avoid becoming a "second Nimrod," a giant building bulwarks against the heavens. Are there aspects of your life where you feel like you might be doing that?