In Greek mythology, Zeus is called “father
of gods and men.” But even though his procreative propensities are remarkable,
it is not really true. Zeus is the son of Cronus and the grandson of Ouranos,
the sky-god. He is preceded by a whole generation of Titans, the brothers and
sisters of Cronus, whom he thrust from power, by the aid of strategic alliances
with a few of those Titans, most notably the hundred-armed Cottus, Gyas, and
Briareus – a boon to have on one’s side in battle.
He is called “father” rather because of the
combination of force and intelligence which has resulted in his pre-eminence.
His daughters, the Muses, confer some of that savoir-faire on men whom
they especially favor. These men will not only see what is to be done but will
be able, with their honeyed words, to persuade others.
In other words, the Greek religious system is a
mythic presentation of the polis, founded upon controlled violence and
persuasion – sometimes outright deceit. I don’t wish to discount the tremendous
Greek achievement. It is a deeply human thing – but also a deeply fallen thing.
The first chapters of Genesis will have none of
it. I am struck by the utter insouciance of the account of the Fall, which in
so few words aims right at the heart of any attempt, ancient or modern, to
raise political structures, and the violence they presuppose, to the status of
idols.
I’ve already noted the terrible change that sin
works in Adam and Eve, replacing their nakedness with cunning. Now let us
examine their response to the questions that God poses to them, starting with,
“Where art thou?”
God does not need to ask, “In what location may
I find you?” In the psalms, to “dwell in the house of the Lord” or “to behold
the countenance of God” is to dwell in a relationship of love. “Where are you?”
is then an existential question. “Why have you not met me? Why do you hide from
me? Why have you rejected me?”
Adam’s response is a childish dodge. He is
hiding, he says, because of his nakedness. Again, we have been told that the
nakedness is not a just cause of shame. It is rather shame that is the cause of
Adam’s embarrassment. He is already alienated from his body and from the body
of his wife. Nor can he be frank with his Maker. He is passing the blame.
Then God asks, “Who told thee that thou wast
naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou
shouldest not eat?”
What Adam then does should be seen as undermining
the possibility of lasting communion and peace upon earth: “The woman whom
thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.”
It’s Eve’s fault. No, rather it’s God’s
fault. We may well embellish the response in the fashion of Milton’s Paradise
Lost. “The woman – you know, that woman that you gave to me for
my companion, so perfect, so acceptable, so wise – that woman gave me
the fruit,” and now the voice drops to a grumble, “and I did eat.” In this one
sentence, Adam sets himself at enmity with both God and Eve – never so guilty
as when he ducks his guilt.
Eve, “not so loquacious,” as Milton shrewdly
notes, gives us her version: “The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.” Hers is
but half a dodge. The blame is placed on the serpent – on a creature beyond
Eve’s control; and yet a beguilement requires someone to be beguiled, a fool,
someone who places more trust in his or her own evaluation of things than in
the commands of God. So Eve also suffers alienation in the very act of setting
God aside.
I will treat of God’s judgment upon them at
more leisure, in the next essay. For now, consider how much light these few
verses shed upon the book of b’reshith – in Hebrew, “In the beginning.”
For Genesis is, to the eye and ear of this reader accustomed to ancient poetry,
a work of astonishing unity: I might say crushing and disillusioning unity, sparing
no illusions of human greatness.
Adam and Eve, cast forth from Paradise, beget
two sons, Cain and Abel. Each son plies a trade without which there can be no human
civilization: Cain is a farmer and Abel a shepherd. Of the two, the one most
obviously necessary for cities is the farmer. There can be no city without a
supply of dry storable grain.
That, for the ancients, is what a city is: a
place of granaries, protected by walls, political organization, and armies. It
is no accident that when Cain is driven forth from his family, he “builded a
city” and named it for his son. Cain is the elder son, the one who should
principally benefit from inherited property.
Yet we do not remember Cain for his seat on the
chamber of commerce, but for his villainy. God rejects his half-hearted
sacrifice, and Cain, seething with envy of his brother Abel, murders him. “And
Cain talked with Abel,” says the verse – he “talked.” He used the medium of
human intercourse – the verse does not say that they fought. Perhaps he took
Abel aside, in a brotherly fashion but with evil intent. Then he slays his
brother.
When God asks Cain, “Where is Abel thy
brother?” the son dodges – as his father had. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain
asks, casting God’s question back in his teeth. The malice that was skulking
and ducking in Adam is now shameless.
Cain’s rhetorical question, implying that it is
absurd to believe that we are our brother’s keepers, is not only a sign of
alienation. It is a celebration of it. A first fruit of the builders of cities
everywhere.
