Treasury of Bible Stories

by Donna Jo Napoli

  But another side of God knew that perfection was hard to achieve. Maybe even impossible. This side of the divine—called the Lord—knew about feelings and understood mercy. The Lord didn’t create solely through divine words that were clean and cold. The Lord’s power to create lay in the hands—and the hands needed to get down and dirty with the materials in order to create what was needed.

  This is what the Lord did.

  Stomp, stomp, stomp, in the dry earth. Dust rose and the Lord fashioned a human and blew into those waiting nostrils and bestowed life. That’s the way the Lord did it. Hands on.

  The Lord planted a garden in the east and called it Eden. Plop! The human would live right there, smack in the middle of that garden.

  The Lord made trees grow, beautiful and fruitful. Two trees were special: the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge. That second tree, ah, that was the key to everything—that was the source of understanding, of knowing what is good from what is not.

  For there had to be both. It was impossible to appreciate good without recognizing the lack of it. Perfection wasn’t just impossible, it wasn’t even desirable. It was a bore; it led to nothing—no conflict, no joy, no stories. That tree had to be there, it had to be nourished.

  Many trees grew in Eden, the most special being the Tree of Knowledge. Luscious fruits hung there, swollen and yummy—forbidden fruits.

  The Lord split the land with dazzling rivers, carrying fresh water to all the plants, all the creatures. Every living thing had all it needed.

  A river was needed. Well, the Lord simply made one, and split it into four streams.

  One was Pishon, which wound through the land of Havilah, adorned with gold and lapis lazuli.

  One was Gihon, which curved through the land of Cush.

  One was Tigris, which stretched to the east of Ashur.

  And the fourth was Euphrates.

  And the Lord told that human—that single, blinking person—the rules, because humans, like everything else, were flawed and needed rules: “Eat from any tree in Eden. Let the juices roll down your chin in excess. Enjoy every luscious drop. But never eat from the Tree of Knowledge. For if you do, you’ll be doomed to die.”

  The sole human kept blinking.

  And the Lord realized that a human alone could accomplish little. That human needed support. So the Lord dug into the soil again and again and fashioned all beasts and all fowl, showing each one to the human and asking what would be a good name for it. Whatever name the human gave was what the creature would be called forevermore.

  Yet no number of beasts or fowl was enough; the human kept blinking in that vague way. Oh, something more was needed. So the Lord cast a slumber over the human, a heavy blanket of a slumber, like a death that wasn’t a death, a temporary time-out. And while the man slept, the Lord pulled a rib from the man’s chest and fashioned a second human. When the man woke, he blinked no more, but stared upon this companion. “Bone of my bones,” he said, entranced. “Flesh of my flesh.” And he called the new human woman.

  Man and woman. Formed from one flesh, separate but parts of a whole. Bare to the elements. Bare to one another. They smiled upon each other in blissful innocence.

  After all, what was there to be ashamed of? Looking upon the other was like looking upon oneself.

  THE IMPORTANCE OF RIVERS

  This story is based on Genesis 2, and one of the central points of it is the creation and importance of rivers. Places where complex societies emerge are called cradles of civilization. The Nile Valley and Nile Delta, the eastern Mediterranean coast, plus the lands fed by the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers make up the Fertile Crescent, which is one of the oldest cradles of civilization. This is where the Garden of Eden is located in this story. Other ancient cradles include areas along the Indus River of India, the meeting of three rivers in Peru, the Yellow River of China, and the Coatzacoalcos River of Guatemala and Mexico.

  The Lord had made but one rule—and the first woman broke that rule. She blamed it on the serpent that touched her cheeks. But it had been her own judgment to reach for knowledge and bear the consequences.

  EXPULSION FROM EDEN

  A serpent inhabited the Garden of Eden, shrewd and full of unknown motives. That serpent wove his way through the fragrant plants and flicked his tongue against the woman’s cheek. “Though the Lord forbade you to eat the fruit from the trees…”

  “The Lord didn’t say that,” said the woman quickly, for though she hadn’t yet been alive when the Lord told the first human the rules, she knew them. “We can eat fruit. Just not from the tree in the middle of the garden. If we eat from that tree, if we even so much as touch it, we die.”

  “Wrong.” The serpent circled the woman and flicked his tongue against her other cheek. “You won’t die. Your eyes will open. You’ll know what is good from what is not, like gods do.”

  The tree wasn’t a threat? The woman didn’t take the serpent’s word for it. She gazed on the tree carefully. She arrived at her own conclusion: It was a fine tree! It entranced the eyes. Certainly its fruit was good. She ate one.

  She turned to her man and gave him a fruit. He ate it.

  It was true: Their eyes saw differently now. What was this? They had been made from the same flesh, that was undeniable, nevertheless their flesh was different. They weren’t one—they were man and woman. Naked! Like animals. But humans were meant to be special; to rise above the animals. Shame heated their cheeks. They sewed fig leaves together and clothed themselves.

  They heard the Lord walking in the garden. They hid. The Lord called, “Where?” The word swirled, like the beginnings of a storm. “Where are you?”

  The man answered that he was hiding from fear, for he was naked. He said this despite the fact that fig leaves now covered him.

  The Lord ignored this detail, for the man’s words were alarming in far more important ways. “Who told you that you were naked? Did you eat from the tree?”

  “The woman that you gave to me handed me a fruit. I ate.” An honest answer, though cowardly.

  The Lord looked hard at the woman. “What have you done?”

  “It’s the serpent’s fault,” said the woman, matching the man in cowardice. In fact, she had judged the tree’s fruit to be good on her own. But she reasoned away that fine point, for, after all, she’d have never considered that fruit if the serpent hadn’t spoken to her.

  “Cursed be you,” said the Lord to the serpent. “From this day forth, you will be an enemy of humans. You will slither on your belly, the lowest of the low.”

  “And you,” said the Lord to the woman, “you will know the pains and risks of having children. You will yearn for your man, and he will rule over you.”

  “And you,” said the Lord, finally turning to the man, “did you think you’d get off free? All acts have consequences. You will eat no more from the fruits around you, picking at will. Instead, getting enough food will become the bane of your existence. You will toil in the fields. You’ll fight thorn and thistle. You’ll sweat for every bite of bread. All your life. Till you die. You started as dust; you’ll end as dust. Dust to dust.”

  The man answered nothing. The consequences of being cast out of Eden were too large to comprehend in words. He needed time to live them.

  But he did do one thing. Knowing now that the woman was fully distinct from him, a truly separate being, he realized he had to honor that knowledge by giving her a suitable name: He called her Eve—“mother of life.”

  SERPENTS WITH LEGS

  The serpent here is cursed to slither on his belly forevermore. This suggests that serpents, or snakes, originally didn’t slither; they had legs. That’s true. Paleontologists have established that serpents evolved from legged creatures. Some had hind legs during the late Cretaceous period, more than 66 million years ago, when dinosaurs abounded. Much of the evidence for these two-legged serpents comes from underwater geologic strata in the Middle East. It’s a mystery how this knowledge was conveyed to ancient
people so many millions of years later.

  Eden had been dreamily easy. Leaving it behind, having to fend off who knew what—that was harsh and scary.

  The man and Eve. About to be cast out of the garden that had nourished them. Without defenses. Clueless.

  The Lord had pity on their human frailty. Minimal pity—but pity. The Lord made them skin coats, so they wouldn’t be exposed to cold and rain as they left the garden.

  The woman’s head whirled with worries. Might she die giving birth? Might her babes die? That’s how it could be, now that she had challenged the Lord. What if her own children challenged her? What kind of a mess had she gotten humankind into?

  The man couldn’t think that way. His stomach growled. His eyes turned alert, searching for food. He had responsibilities.

  The Lord set angels to guard the entrance to the garden behind them. Those humans must not come back. They had already eaten of the Tree of Knowledge; they already knew what was good from what was not. What if they ate of the Tree of Life and became immortal? Never! The Lord set angels and a flaming, swirling sword to guard the entrance.

  There was no turning back. Carefree days were already a memory.

  Eve’s strong son, Cain, worked the fields. Her slight son, Abel, tended the sheep. Both worked hard; both did their best.

  Somehow the Lord favored Abel’s gifts over Cain’s. The injustice wounded Cain in the very center of his being. He gave in to the evil of envy; he killed his own little brother.

  THE FIRST SIBLINGS

  The man seemed to catch on to the way life progressed among the beasts of the earth and the fowl of the air and the fish of the seas; he knew Eve as his wife, as the mother of his children to be.

  Eve felt life within her—a child was there! But, being one who used her own eyes in her own way and came to her own conclusions, she decided the Lord had put that child within her. After all, the Lord was the great creator.

  Eve called this newly gotten son, this strapping and lusty fellow, Cain. And she had a second son, a misty sort of son, hardly more than vapor, yet so pleasing in his vulnerability—and she called him Abel.

  The children grew and shouldered responsibilities as they must. Abel herded sheep, calling to them with his wispy voice, being their gentle leader. Cain tilled the soil, flexing the muscles of his back, neck, arms, and legs, using every bit of strength he had.

  Then came a time of offering to the Lord. Cain came laden with plump, aromatic fruits. Abel came laden with equally plump, though stinky, suckling lambs. And what happened? The Lord looked upon Abel and his offering, but didn’t even glance at Cain or his offering. What was going on? Each son of Eve had brought the product of his labors, as was fitting. The Lord’s reaction was unjust!

  Anger inflamed Cain. The unappreciated. The unvalued. His face fell.

  The Lord spoke in mysterious verse:

  Now now, why are you mad

  with a face so sad?

  An offering’s not a ploy

  that always brings joy.

  Look by the tent flap where the lion of sin

  crouches, drool on his chin.

  Step carefully, Cain, so you’re the one to win.

  Who knows what Cain thought of those words, but he turned to his brother: “Let’s go out to the field.” And they did. No preamble—no warning argument—just a jump: Cain was upon Abel and he slew him. Quick. Like snapping twigs. The lion had won; Cain had lost.

  The Lord saw Cain and called out, “Where is your brother?” There was that word again—where—that word that the Lord had called out in the Garden of Eden after the serpent had done his damage. That word that pointed like the most accusing of fingers, as though the very location of the man proved his guilt.

  DOMESTICATION

  Cain tills the soil while Abel herds the sheep. The two activities of domesticating wild plants and wild animals are crucial to many types of human communities and helpful to other types. Relying solely on foraging and hunting for food makes a community completely vulnerable to forces it cannot control. Instead, with reasonable luck regarding climate and disease and with good practices regarding caring for land and livestock, farming and herding can provide insurance against lean seasons.

  But Cain said, “I don’t know.” His bold-faced lie soiled the air. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Now that was something different. That question hung in the stifling air. That was a question for all time. What do we owe one another? Are we each other’s keepers?

  “What have you done?” said the Lord. “Listen! Hear that? That’s your brother’s blood calling to me. You cursed the earth by spilling your brother’s blood into its jaws. From this day forth, the earth will give you nothing. You can never till it again. Instead, you will wander.”

  “No one can survive such a punishment. Anyone I pass will kill me.”

  And with Cain’s words, the Lord saw again the pathetic nature of these humans. Mercy stirred within the Lord’s heart, as it had stirred for the first woman and the first man upon their expulsion from Eden. That’s when the Lord clothed man and woman in skin coats. Now mercy made the Lord say, “Whoever kills Cain will suffer sevenfold vengeance.” And the Lord put a mark upon Cain—a magic shield against harm.

  So Cain wandered in the land of Nod to the east of Eden and found a wife. Where, you might ask, where, where did this wife come from? Ask away. Some answers may never be found.

  Cain and his wife had a son, who in time found his own wife. That couple had a son who found a wife. And on and on. Through the years the descendants of Cain grew numerous. Some wandered. Some built cities. Some lived in tents and tended livestock. Some played the lyre and pipe. Some did metalwork.

  In the meantime, the first man, now called Adam—meaning “human”—had another child with Eve, a son called Seth. And Eve believed that the Lord had given her this son to replace her slain son, Abel, the wispy, whispery one who had disappeared like vapor. Seth took a wife and had children, and all of them were in the image of the Lord. Generation after generation, it was Seth’s line that would populate the world with the image of God. So it was Seth’s line that mattered for posterity. Farewell to Abel, but farewell to Cain, too.

  The Lord punished Cain for his ill deed: He would wander for the rest of his days. His descendants thrived—but elsewhere. It was Eve’s third son, Seth, whose descendants would live the stories yet to come.

  Seth’s descendants were wicked—all but one: Noah. So God had Noah build an ark for his wife and sons and their wives and a pair of every creature plus seven pairs of the creatures clean enough for sacrifice. An ark to ride out the coming storm.

  THE FLOOD

  Ten generations of Seth’s line rolled out through the years. They were good-looking and strong, yes, but a disappointment in terms of their hearts. Evil controlled them.

  These humans brought nothing but regret to the divine. They needed to be wiped out.

  But the Lord side of the divine, the side that understood feelings and was moved to mercy, took one last look at the humans. Who was that? Over there? A man full of love for family and the divine. His name was Noah. The Lord was smitten with Noah. How could all humans perish—even Noah?

  Still, justice and order must prevail, for those were of utmost importance to the other side of the divine. So God decided to protect Noah and his family, but destroy all others. God told Noah to build an ark of cypress and seal it watertight with pitch. Three decks, an entrance on one side, a window at the top with a sky view. Noah, his wife, and three sons—Shem and Ham and Japheth—and their wives, plus two each of every kind of land animal and fowl, a female and a male, were all to go into the ark, along with plentiful food. Then rain would fall. And fall. Water would cover everything, just as it had in the beginning. All outside the ark would perish. The chosen few on the ark could start anew, a fresh line, a perfect future, as God had envisioned originally. This flood would undo the mistakes of creation.

  A neat plan—everything fit.

&n
bsp; But the Lord, the side of the divine emotionally attached to humans, recognized something God could not see: Evil would always lurk in the shadows. God could break what had been created, but what would come next would be equally flawed. So the Lord told Noah to take two of each creature, but he was to take seven pairs of the special creatures that were ritually pure and could be used as offerings to the divine.

  Noah and his family built the ark, then, for a week, they worked stocking it with food, gathering the animals. Rains came. Lowlands flooded. Hills sank away. Mountaintops disappeared. For 40 nights and 40 days, it poured. When the sun showed its face again, life outside the seas had been eradicated, except the life inside that one, lonely ark. Imagine it—the confusion of beasts and fowl—the ebb and flow of hope among those few tiny humans. This storm challenged them to the core. Though the day sky was clear now and the night sky once again sparkled with stars and glowed with moon, the ordeal was not over. All that water had to subside—no small task.

  God remembered Noah’s family and those cringing animals closed in the ark. From within God came a wind—that wind that had begun creation on Day One. It blew across the tops of the waters and lowered them till earth appeared again. It was a new creation—a new finding of earth. For 150 days the ark bobbed along under a clean heaven as the waters gradually yielded. On the 17th day of the seventh month, the ark lodged on top of Mount Ararat.

  Noah sent out a raven to find dry land. The raven flew and flew. So Noah sent out a dove. The dove returned, its bitty heart thumping so hard its chest shook. Well, they had spent so long in the ark already, Noah could be patient a bit longer. He waited a week and sent out that dove again. The dove returned with an olive leaf in its bill. Yes, the earth was drying! Noah waited another week, then sent that dove out again. The dove didn’t return; Noah imagined the bird cooing in the dizziness of freedom. Soon, oh so soon, the ark inhabitants could disembark. Everyone inside crowded against the door, but Noah made them wait, for he was faithful, loyal, obedient; they waited nearly two months. At last, God told Noah it was time. Humans and beasts walked out onto the washed earth. Fowl flew out across the scrubbed sky.