The verse in question is Genesis 2:5: "And God made every green herb of the field, before it was upon the earth, and every grass before it had sprung up." Seems a bit… backwards, right? Why mention something being made before it actually exists? What's the Torah trying to tell us?
Philo of Alexandria, a Jewish philosopher who lived in Egypt around the time of Jesus, provides an intriguing explanation in his Questions and Answers on Genesis. He sees in this verse a reference to the ideal or archetypal forms of things. It's a concept that might sound familiar if you've ever dipped your toes into Platonic philosophy.
Think of it like this: before God created the physical, tangible grass, He first conceived of the idea of grass. This ideal grass, this perfect blueprint, existed in the Divine mind even before the earth was ready to sprout its first blade.
Philo argues that these ideal forms are incorporeal and exist eternally within God's wisdom. They are the models upon which the physical world is based. So, according to Philo, Genesis 2:5 isn't a chronological error, but a profound statement about the nature of creation itself. God didn't just throw things together haphazardly. He created with intention, with a pre-existing plan.
It's a beautiful thought, isn't it? The idea that everything in our world is rooted in something deeper, something more perfect, within the Divine.
But Philo isn't the only one to wrestle with this verse. Medieval commentators also chimed in. Rashi, the famed 11th-century French commentator, offers a more straightforward explanation. He suggests the verse means that God created all the vegetation with the potential to grow, but it didn't actually sprout until Adam prayed for rain. In other words, the potential was there, but human intervention (in the form of prayer) was needed to activate it.
It's a fascinating contrast to Philo's more abstract philosophical reading. Rashi grounds the verse in a more practical, human-centered understanding.
What does this all mean for us today? Perhaps it's a reminder that everything has a potential, a blueprint, waiting to be realized. Maybe it's an encouragement to nurture that potential, to pray for the "rain" that will allow it to blossom. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s an invitation to contemplate the deeper, more perfect forms that underlie the world around us.
It makes you wonder, what "green herb of the field" – what potential – is waiting to spring up in your own life?