Fierce, Flawed and Faithful: The Boldest Women of the Bible

Meet the women of the Bible who defied kings, led armies, seduced heroes, saved nations — and rewrote the rules. From Jezebel and Bathsheba to Deborah and Delilah, these are the stories of power, survival and divine disruption.

When people picture women in the Bible, they often imagine quiet obedience, gentle kindness or domestic virtue. But crack open the text, and you’ll find something far juicier: prophets, rebels, assassins, queens and seductresses. These are women who changed the course of history — whether scripture painted them as saints or sinners.

Some were praised, others demonized. Some saved lives with wisdom or loyalty. Others spilled blood without blinking. But one thing’s for sure: None of them were forgettable.

So let’s meet the fiercest women in the Bible: the faithful, the flawed and the downright fearsome.

“These women weren’t just background characters. They were prophets, plotters, protectors and provocateurs.

Some were praised. Others were punished. All of them left a mark.”

Righteous Rebels

These women broke the rules to do what was right — even when the world was stacked against them.

Shiphrah and Puah

The midwives who quietly launched a revolution

Bible Verses: Exodus 1:15–21

What They Did: When Pharaoh demanded the death of every Hebrew baby boy, these two women — likely low-status midwives — flatly refused. Instead of violence, they used wit, telling Pharaoh that Hebrew women gave birth too quickly for them to intervene. Their rebellion allowed a generation of children — including Moses — to live.

Modern Take: In a time when midwives had little social power, Shiphrah and Puah used the only weapon available: their word. Their civil disobedience predates Moses’ leadership and reminds us that revolutions often begin with women operating behind the scenes. Historically, midwives were both caretakers and quiet community leaders. Their defiance speaks to moral courage — choosing life over law in the face of a brutal regime.

Tamar

The widow who outplayed a patriarch — and won her place in history

Bible Verses: Genesis 38

What She Did: Twice widowed by the sons of Judah, Tamar was promised a third husband — but her father-in-law failed to deliver. Taking matters into her own hands, she disguised herself as a prostitute and slept with Judah. When she was found pregnant, he ordered her execution — until she produced his own staff and ring as proof of paternity. Judah, stunned, admits, “She is more righteous than I.”

Modern Take: Tamar’s actions are morally complex but deeply rooted in justice. In a system that left widows vulnerable and childless women powerless, she navigated patriarchal structures with strategy and nerve. From a historical lens, she subverted the levirate marriage laws — which stated that if a man died without children, his brother or another close male relative was expected to marry the widow — to claim her rightful place. Her story is one of resilience and survival: a woman taking back agency in a rigged game. Notably, she becomes an ancestor of King David and Jesus, canonizing her in the royal line.

Ruth

The loyal outsider who played the long game

Bible Verses: Book of Ruth

What She Did: After losing her husband, Ruth makes a bold choice: She refuses to abandon her mother-in-law, Naomi, and travels with her to Judah. To survive, she gathers leftover grain from fields — a practice called gleaning, where the poor could pick up scraps after harvest. Her loyalty and grit catch the attention of Boaz, a wealthy landowner and relative of Naomi. Ruth later approaches him at night and proposes marriage — a daring move that leads to a new beginning and places her in the lineage of King David.

Modern Take: Ruth’s story is often cast as sweet and romantic, but beneath the surface lies a tale of calculated risk and social navigation. As a Moabite, she was a foreigner and likely looked down upon. But she used cultural customs — gleaning, kinship ties, levirate marriage — to secure a future. Historically, her story challenged ideas of purity and inclusion. She represents the emotional strength of caretaking and long-term resilience.

Rahab

The outsider who brokered salvation with scarlet thread

Bible Verses: Joshua 2; Hebrews 11:31

What She Did: Rahab, a Canaanite sex worker living on the edge — literally, her home was built into Jericho’s city wall — welcomed two Israelite spies into her house and hid them under stalks of flax on her roof. When the king’s men came knocking, she coolly lied through her teeth, saying the spies had already left. Then she cut a deal: If she helped them escape, they’d spare her and her family when the Israelites conquered Canaan. Her one condition? “Tie a scarlet cord in the window” — a bright, bloody thread of survival hanging from the same place where she’d once advertised her services. And when Jericho crumbled, hers was the only household left standing.

Modern Take: Rahab embodies the cunning of marginalized people who work outside the system to survive. While labeled a prostitute, she displays diplomatic skill, foresight and shrewd negotiation. In the New Testament, Rahab is actually praised for her faith and included in Jesus’ genealogy, highlighting the Bible’s complicated relationship with female outsiders. Her courage in the face of annihilation marks her as a figure of radical faith.

The Syrophoenician Woman

The woman who changed Jesus’ mind

Bible Verses: Mark 7:24–30; Matthew 15:21–28

What She Did: A non-Jewish woman asks Jesus to heal her daughter. He rebuffs her, saying it’s not right to give the children’s bread to the dogs. She replies, “Even the dogs eat the crumbs under the table.” Jesus is impressed — and heals her daughter.

Modern Take: This exchange is one of the most shocking in the Gospels. A woman, doubly marginalized by ethnicity and gender, challenges Jesus — and wins. From a cultural standpoint, her story exposes deep prejudices of the time, including those Jesus himself inherited. It’s a moment of boundary-pushing faith, persistence and maternal desperation. Theologically, it’s a turning point that expands the scope of Jesus’s mission — and it happens because a woman insisted she mattered.

Delilah

The seductress who toppled a legend

Bible Verses: Judges 16

What She Did: The Philistine rulers knew brute force couldn’t bring Samson down. So they turned to something more dangerous: a woman with motive and access. They promised Delilah a king’s ransom if she could uncover the secret of his strength. She smiled. She agreed. Then she got to work. Night after night, she coaxed and teased, feigned frustration, and tested his love with lies of her own. “Tell me,” she whispered, as he lay tangled in her lap. And every time he fed her a false answer, she sprang the trap — watching as Philistine guards failed again and again. But she didn’t give up. Delilah was patient. She made betrayal feel like affection. Eventually, Samson cracked. He told her the truth: His hair had never been cut. It was his covenant with God. That night, he fell asleep with his head in her lap. She summoned a barber. The scissors whispered. The covenant snapped. And by morning, the man who had once torn lions apart was blind, bound, and defeated.

Modern Take: Delilah is usually cast as a cold-hearted betrayer, but we’re never told her motivations. Was it about money, survival or political loyalty? Unlike Samson, she wasn’t operating under divine direction — just practical, if dangerous, cunning. Her story is a study in how women’s power — especially when sexual or strategic — is often cast as villainous in ancient texts. She fits a familiar mold: the woman blamed for the downfall of a powerful man.

Lot’s Daughters

Survivors of Sodom with a disturbing plan

Bible Verses: Genesis 19:30–38

What They Did: After watching their city go up in flames, losing their mother in a pillar of salt, and seeing their fiancés vaporized in the rubble of Sodom, Lot’s daughters took refuge in a mountain cave with their father. There were no towns, no people, no future. Believing the world had ended, they hatched a desperate plan: get their father drunk, sleep with him, and repopulate the earth. One night at a time. One sister after the other. He never knew. Both girls became pregnant — and their sons, Moab and Ben-Ammi, would go on to found two of Israel’s most persistent rivals: the Moabites and Ammonites.

Modern Take: This story is more complex than it appears at first glance. It’s not just about taboo; it’s about fear, trauma and twisted survival instincts. Culturally, it also serves as an origin story used to discredit rival nations. But viewed psychologically, this is a trauma narrative: displaced, motherless and isolated, the daughters act in desperation. Whether you see their actions as horrifying or human, they force us to confront how messy survival can be.

Athaliah

The queen who killed for the crown

Bible Verses: 2 Kings 11; 2 Chronicles 22–23

What She Did: After her son, King Ahaziah, was assassinated, Athaliah seized power by executing the rest of the royal family — except for one hidden grandson. She ruled Judah for six years until she was overthrown by a priest-led coup.

Modern Take: Athaliah did what male monarchs often did — secured power by eliminating rivals — but as a woman, her actions were scandalous. Her rule is painted as a dark, wicked time, but she clearly held onto the throne with force and strategy. She may have been protecting her dynastic line (as the daughter or stepdaughter of Jezebel). Her reign reminds us how easily women in power are branded as unnatural or evil, especially when they don’t play “mother” or “queen” in the expected ways.

Herodias

The queen who silenced a prophet

Bible Verses: Mark 6:17–29; Matthew 14:3–11

What She Did: Herodias didn’t just marry into power — she remarried into it, divorcing Herod Philip to wed his half-brother, Herod Antipas. The move consolidated her influence but scandalized the region, and no one was louder about it than John the Baptist. He didn’t whisper, he shouted — from the riverbanks and beyond — that her marriage was unlawful. Herodias, humiliated and enraged, bided her time. That moment came during Herod’s birthday banquet. Wine flowed. Dancers twirled. Her own daughter took the floor — young, dazzling and magnetic. Herod was so pleased he promised her anything, even half his kingdom. Coached by Herodias, the girl made a simple, chilling request: “I want the head of John the Baptist — on a platter.” Moments later, the prophet’s severed head was paraded through the banquet hall like a party favor. 

Modern Take: Herodias is often reduced to a manipulative villain, but she was defending her position in a fragile political marriage. John the Baptist was attacking the legitimacy of her union. In ancient honor-based societies, public shame could be fatal. While her methods were brutal, they weren’t out of place in Herodian politics. Her story underscores how women were forced to wield indirect power — often through spectacle, scandal or seduction — because direct influence wasn’t allowed.

Prophets, Leaders and Warriors

They spoke for God, commanded armies, interpreted law, or held entire kingdoms together — often in sandals, not armor.

Deborah

The prophetess who led from both the palm tree and the battlefield

Bible Verses: Judges 4–5

What She Did: Deborah was both a prophet and a judge — meaning she settled disputes, delivered divine messages, and led Israel during one of its most chaotic eras. She summoned the general Barak to battle and foretold that a woman (not him) would get the glory. Spoiler: She was right.

Modern Take: Deborah is often treated as an exception to the rule. But maybe she just proves the rules were never the point. She’s not framed as masculine or controversial; she simply leads, with wisdom and clarity. Her story challenges the idea that women in ancient Israel were always silent or sidelined. Historically, her rise may reflect periods when traditional structures collapsed and leadership was open to those with proven charisma and vision — regardless of gender.

Jael

The housewife who nailed it — literally

Bible Verses:: Judges 4–5

What She Did: After the Canaanite general Sisera fled the battlefield, he sought shelter in Jael’s tent. She welcomed him, gave him milk, waited until he slept — and then drove a tent peg through his skull.

Modern Take: Jael’s act is both shockingly violent and deeply subversive. She’s not a soldier, but her tent is her battlefield — and she uses tools from daily life (a hammer and peg) to carry out a political assassination. In ancient Bedouin culture, women often set up tents, so she used her own domestic domain as a trap. The story celebrates her action without moral panic — unusual for biblical violence involving women. She’s framed as a hero, not a murderer. Think of her as the ancient world’s quiet avenger.

Esther

The queen who played the long game and saved a nation

Bible Verses: Book of Esther

What She Did: Chosen as queen for her beauty, Esther kept her Jewish identity secret — until the king’s righthand man plotted genocide. Risking death, she approached the king without invitation and, through a series of well-timed banquets and pleas, exposed the plot and saved her people.

Modern Take: Esther is often seen as a passive beauty queen turned heroine — but she’s far more strategic than that. She uses every tool available to her in a deeply patriarchal court: silence, timing, performance and, yes, her looks. Her story reflects the vulnerability of diaspora communities under imperial rule. Esther’s courage is slow-burning but explosive. She teaches us that bravery doesn’t always look loud — and that saving lives can sometimes start with throwing a really well-planned dinner party.

Judith

The widow who prayed, seduced and beheaded her way to freedom

Bible Verses: Book of Judith (in the Apocrypha)

What She Did: With her city under siege, Judith took matters into her own hands. Dressed in her finest, she infiltrated the enemy camp, charmed the general Holofernes, got him drunk — and decapitated him in his sleep. She returned home with his head in a bag, and the enemy scattered.

Modern Take: Judith’s story is so cinematic it’s almost unbelievable — which is why many scholars see it as historical fiction or parable. Either way, she embodies a radical blend of piety and violence. She fasts and prays before taking action, but once she moves, it’s swift and irreversible. Her tale has inspired centuries of art — and fear. She’s the kind of woman whose name never got dragged through the mud because she left no room for interpretation. She was both sword and salvation.

Huldah

The prophet who interpreted a rediscovered scroll — and shaped reform

Bible Verses: 2 Kings 22:14–20; 2 Chronicles 34:22–28

What She Did: When a lost book of the law was found in the temple during King Josiah’s reign, the officials didn’t go to a priest; they went to Huldah. She read it, confirmed its authenticity, and prophesied destruction for Judah — but peace for Josiah because of his humility.

Modern Take: Huldah was a recognized religious authority at a time when prophets like Jeremiah were also active. That’s a big deal. She shows us that literate, spiritual women had real influence in ancient Judah. Her brief story reveals how women’s voices were, at times, the final word. In a world that often forgets female scholars, Huldah remains a quiet but powerful counterpoint.

Women of Wisdom and Influence

They weren’t always the ones with swords or scrolls —but they knew how to read a room, bend a situation and leave a legacy.

Abigail

The diplomat who stopped a king from bloodshed

Bible Verses: 1 Samuel 25

What She Did: Married to the boorish Nabal, Abigail intervened when David — still a rising outlaw — was about to slaughter her household in revenge. She rushed out with gifts and a speech so persuasive that David praised her wisdom, thanked her for saving him from a terrible sin, and, after Nabal died, married her.

Modern Take: Abigail is the master of de-escalation. She’s calm, strategic and fast-moving. In a culture where women’s voices were often private or domestic, she steps directly into a military crisis and changes the outcome. She represents the “wise woman” archetype: a kind of informal authority figure often embedded in households or towns. She also offers an early model of emotional intelligence and diplomacy. Also, let’s be honest: She traded up.

Bathsheba

From pawn to power behind the throne

Bible Verses: 2 Samuel 11–12; 1 Kings 1–2

What She Did: First introduced when King David saw her bathing and summoned her, Bathsheba is often framed as passive. But later, after their son Solomon is born, she secures his claim to the throne — by confronting David and collaborating with the prophet Nathan. She later becomes the queen mother.

Modern Take: Bathsheba’s story is often filtered through male guilt: David’s sin, Nathan’s rebuke. But read closely, she transforms. After enduring trauma and loss, she becomes politically astute. In ancient royal courts, the role of queen mother was often more powerful than that of the queen herself. She became one of the few women with real dynastic influence. Psychologically, Bathsheba reflects the shift from victim to strategist: someone who learns the system, survives it, and ultimately shapes it.

The Queen of Sheba

The outsider who tested Israel’s wisdom

Bible Verses: 1 Kings 10:1–13; 2 Chronicles 9

What She Did: The Queen of Sheba traveled to Jerusalem to test King Solomon with riddles, questions and wealth. She left impressed by his wisdom and court — but not before making a striking impression herself.

Modern Take: She represents global intrigue, cross-cultural exchange and intellectual power. Historically, she may have been a South Arabian or Ethiopian ruler, and her story reflects real trade networks between Israel and Africa. In some traditions, she and Solomon have a child together, starting royal lines across Africa. Her visit challenges the idea that all wisdom flows from men or from Israel. She’s the rare woman in scripture who isn’t a wife, widow or mother, but a sovereign in her own right.

Priscilla

The teacher who quietly shaped Christian theology

Bible Verses: Acts 18:24–26; Romans 16:3

What She Did: Priscilla, along with her husband, Aquila, took the eloquent preacher Apollos aside and corrected his theology — offering deeper instruction in “the way of God.” She is often listed before her husband, suggesting she may have been the more prominent teacher.

Modern Take: In the early Church, Priscilla stands out as a female intellectual. Not reduced to the common status of helper or hostess, she was a theological mentor. Her presence shows that women were deeply involved in the formation of Christian doctrine. Some scholars even suggest she may have authored parts of the New Testament (like Hebrews), though that remains debated. She represents a model of collaborative leadership and quiet authority in a male-dominated movement.

Phoebe

The deacon who carried Paul’s most important letter

Bible Verses: Romans 16:1–2

What She Did: Paul introduces Phoebe as a deacon and benefactor (or patron), and entrusts her to deliver his letter to the Church in Rome. That means she didn’t just drop it off; she likely read and explained it.

Modern Take: Phoebe’s title, diakonos, is the same word used for male deacons. She’s the first named Church leader in Romans 16, and one of the few explicitly praised for her work. She reflects a Church still forming its structures, where women had space to lead. This makes us challenge assumptions about who held knowledge and who spread it — especially given how misogynistic the Church has become. 

Divine, Symbolic and Mysterious

These women act as symbols, archetypes and cosmic forces that stretch beyond history into myth, theology and metaphor.

Eve

The first woman — and the first to reach for knowledge

Bible Verses: Genesis 2–4

What She Did: Eve was formed from Adam’s side and placed in the Garden of Eden. She listened to the serpent, ate from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and gave some to Adam. The result? Consciousness, shame, exile — and, for better or worse, the birth of humanity as we know it.

Modern Take: Often blamed for “the Fall,” Eve has been scapegoated for millennia. But some see her not as wicked, but curious and courageous — a seeker of wisdom. Historically, her story has justified everything from patriarchy to childbirth pain. But reread through feminist or psychological lenses, Eve becomes a symbol of autonomy, awakening, and the cost of choosing freedom over obedience. The first to question. The first to act. And the first to pay the price.

Mary, Mother of Jesus

The vessel of incarnation who sang a revolutionary song

Bible Verses: Luke 1–2; John 2; Acts 1

What She Did: Mary accepted the impossible: a miraculous pregnancy, divine purpose and certain scandal. After the angel Gabriel appeared and told her she would conceive a son by the Holy Spirit — without ever having been with a man — Mary didn’t panic, protest or faint. Instead, this young, unmarried girl in a patriarchal society said yes to a destiny that could get her shunned, divorced, or even stoned. She visited her cousin and sang the Magnificat — a bold hymn that shouted revolution. She predicted thrones would topple, the rich would go hungry, and the lowly would rise. Throughout the Gospels, the Virgin Mary stays close: from the wedding at Cana, to the cross, to the fledgling early Church.

Modern Take: Mary has long been framed as the pinnacle of passive femininity: meek and mild. But a closer reading reveals something far bolder. She’s a teenage girl who says yes to a life-threatening calling, sings a revolutionary anthem about overturning social hierarchies, and endures the trauma of watching her son executed by the state. In many cultures, she has become a mother, queen, even goddess — a figure claimed by liberation theologians, artists, mystics and mothers alike. She’s a paradox: virgin and mother, humble and exalted, human and divine vessel. Mary holds the sacred tension between idealized womanhood and radical spiritual agency. She doesn’t just bear the Word; she becomes a voice in her own right, whispering comfort, roaring justice and outlasting empires.

RELATED: Artistic Depictions of the Virgin Mary

Mary Magdalene

The much-maligned apostle to the apostles

Bible Verses: Luke 8:1–3; John 20:1–18

What She Did: Mary Magdalene followed Jesus, supported his ministry financially, witnessed the crucifixion, and was the first to see him resurrected. Jesus called her by name — and sent her to tell the others.

Modern Take: Long confused with a prostitute (a smear introduced centuries later), Mary Magdalene was actually one of Jesus’ most loyal followers. She’s the only person mentioned in all four Gospels as witnessing the resurrection. Historically, her demotion from leader to fallen woman reflects the Church’s discomfort with powerful women. But in recent decades, she’s been reclaimed as a true apostle — equal in faith and insight. She was the first to preach the risen Christ. That’s not just symbolic. That’s canon.

RELATED: What Did Early Christians Believe?

The Woman With the Alabaster Jar

The one who poured it all out

Bible Verses: Mark 14:3–9; Luke 7:36–50; Matthew 26:6–13

What She Did: She broke an alabaster jar of expensive perfume and anointed Jesus, either on his head or feet, depending on the Gospel. Some bystanders called it wasteful. Jesus called it beautiful — and said her act would be remembered wherever the Gospel was preached.

Modern Take: This unnamed woman breaks every rule of decorum: She touches a man, pours out wealth, and interrupts a meal. But Jesus praises her more than almost anyone else in the room. Her story blends sensuality, sorrow and sacrifice. Historically, she’s been confused with other women or moralized into irrelevance. But she embodies a kind of devotion: extravagant, intuitive and unapologetic.

Wisdom (Sophia)

She who was with God before the beginning

Bible Verses: Proverbs 8–9; Sirach 24

What She Did: Wisdom is personified as a woman calling out in the streets, standing at the gates, and present at the creation of the world. She builds her own house and prepares a feast, inviting the simple to come and learn.

Modern Take: Sophia is both symbol and spirit — seen by some as a feminine aspect of God, by others as a poetic device. Her presence in Proverbs is striking: She’s active, vocal and cosmic, present at the dawn of creation. In Christian mysticism, she becomes a bridge between human reason and divine truth. For many, Sophia also offers a sacred feminine within traditions that often silence it. She echoes the ancient mother goddesses — not in open defiance of monotheism, but woven quietly into it. In this way, she becomes a goddess in disguise, allowing vestiges of female divinity to survive under the name of wisdom. Across Orthodox icons, Gnostic texts and mystical visions, she whispers of a God who speaks not only with thunder — but with intuition, mystery and grace.

The Woman Clothed With the Sun

A radiant sign of pain, power and apocalypse

Bible Verses: Revelation 12

What She Did: In a vision, John sees a woman “clothed with the sun,” crowned with stars and pregnant. As she gives birth, a dragon waits to devour the child. She escapes into the wilderness as war breaks out in heaven.

Modern Take: Interpretations vary wildly: sometimes Mary, Israel, the Church or divine femininity itself. But whatever she symbolizes, her imagery is intense. She labors while cosmic forces collide. She’s both vulnerable and protected, chased and exalted. Historically, she reflects ancient mythic tropes of the mother goddess and the serpent. Psychologically, she represents transformation: pain that brings new creation, radiance born of struggle. She’s the centerpiece of a celestial showdown.

Bible Study, but Make It Subversive

Sunday school left a lot out. It’s time to shine the spotlight on the women who flipped the script. These women weren’t just background characters. They were prophets, plotters, protectors and provocateurs. Some were praised. Others were punished. All of them left a mark.

Their stories remind us that the Bible is a wild, ancient tapestry of human ambition, courage, desperation and wit. And at the heart of that chaos? Women who dared to act.

So go ahead. Read between the (patriarchal) lines. Ask the uncomfortable questions. If you relate more to the bold, subversive, and violent women of the Bible (like Jael, who literally nailed a Canaanite general to the ground with a tent peg) than to the idealized, domestic “virtuous woman” described in Proverbs 31 — you’re not alone. –Wally

Controversial Takes on the Tower of Babel

Why did God really scatter humanity at Babel? A tale of ambition, jealousy, power — and the tower that dared to reach the heavens.

The Tower of Babel by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1563

The story of the Tower of Babel is one of humanity’s earliest and most ambitious projects — a symbol of both unity and defiance. 

In Genesis, after Noah gets drunk and curses his grandson Canaan, the whole world spoke a single language and, as people settled in the plains of Shinar, they devised a plan: “Come, let us build ourselves a city and a tower with its top in the heavens” (Genesis 11:4). Their goal? To make a name for themselves and prevent being scattered across the Earth.

But their ambition drew the attention of God. Observing their progress, he said, “Behold, they are one people, and they all have one language … and nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them” (Genesis 11:6). And so, to disrupt their hubris, God confused their language, making it impossible for them to understand each other. The tower was abandoned, and the place became known as Babel. 

This brief but powerful narrative has sparked centuries of debate. What was so dangerous about this unified human effort? And does the name Babel hint at a deeper meaning? Let’s explore the surprising theories surrounding this ancient tale.

Turris Babel by Athanasius Kircher, 1679

Babel: What’s in a Name?

The name “Babel” plays a central role in this story, and its meaning has intrigued scholars for centuries. Genesis 11:9 tells us, “Therefore its name was called Babel, because there the Lord confused the language of all the Earth.” The Hebrew word balal, meaning “to confuse,” is a fitting explanation for the chaos that ensued when languages were divided. But there’s more to the name than a simple pun.

Historically, Babel is associated with Babylon, one of the most powerful cities in ancient Mesopotamia. In Akkadian, the word Bab-ilu means “Gate of the God(s),” which gives the story an ironic twist. What was meant to be a gateway to the divine became a symbol of divine judgment. Scholars like John H. Walton, in Ancient Near Eastern Thought and the Old Testament, suggests that the story reflects a jab at Babylon, a city known for its monumental architecture and imperial power.

In this context, the Tower of Babel may not just be a story of human pride but also a critique of Babylon’s attempts to centralize control and elevate itself to divine status. As the story unfolds, the name Babel takes on layers of meaning — confusion, divine intervention and the limits of human ambition.

From a manuscript of Rudolf von Ems’ Weltchronik, circa  1370s

The Tower: Architectural Marvel or Symbol of Tyranny?

What exactly was the Tower of Babel? Some see it as a simple architectural wonder, a testament to early human ingenuity. Others, however, argue that it was more symbolic — a representation of a dangerous kind of unity, one that leaned toward tyranny.

Scholars like André Parrot, in The Tower of Babel, point out that the tower could have been modeled after the ziggurats of Mesopotamia. These massive stepped structures weren’t just places of worship; they were symbols of power, often commissioned by rulers to display their authority and connection to the divine. In the case of Babel, the tower may have been a political statement as much as a religious one — a way for the people of Shinar (modern-day Iraq) to consolidate their power and make a name for themselves.

Bruce K. Waltke, in Genesis: A Commentary, takes this a step further, suggesting that the story represents a critique of human arrogance and centralized control. By attempting to build a tower “with its top in the heavens,” humanity was essentially overstepping its bounds, aiming to control not just the Earth, but the heavens, too. For God, much like with Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, and that tempting fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, this was an example of human overreach. It also revealed mankind’s potential for tyranny. The scattering of people and languages, then, was more about disrupting a dangerous concentration of power.

Was the Tower of Babel merely a marvel of human engineering, or was it a warning about the dangers of unchecked ambition and centralized control? The story leaves room for both interpretations.

Tower of Babel by Lucas van Valckenborch, 1594

A Test of Unity or Divine Jealousy?

At the heart of the Tower of Babel story is a question: Why did God intervene? Was it simply a matter of preventing human overreach, or was there something more behind his actions? Some scholars argue that God’s decision to divide humanity was a way of protecting us from ourselves, while others suggest it could reflect a more unsettling aspect of divine jealousy.

The Babel story could represent God’s concern over humanity’s growing self-sufficiency. By working together with one language and a unified purpose, humanity was moving toward a level of technological and social advancement that might have made us too self-reliant — possibly even eliminating the need for divine authority. The creation of numerous languages, then, served as a divine check on human ambition, ensuring that we remain dependent on God’s guidance. (I’m not sure why he hasn’t stepped in since, say, with the rise of AI.) 

In other words, God was acting jealous and petty. Whether seen as protective or punitive, the confusion of languages suggests that unity without divine blessing was considered dangerous. Was it out of care or control that God intervened? Scholars continue to debate the deeper motivations behind this ancient narrative.

The Tower as a Return to Eden?

Could the Tower of Babel have been more than just a display of human ambition? Some scholars suggest that it represented humanity’s attempt to re-create the unity they once experienced in the Garden of Eden: a world where they lived in harmony with each other and with God.

Phyllis Trible, in Texts of Terror: Literary-Feminist Readings of Biblical Narratives, explores the idea that the Babel project symbolized a desire to return to the original state of unity that existed before the Fall. In Eden, humanity walked in close proximity to God, speaking a divine language, free of conflict and strife. By building a tower “with its top in the heavens,” humans may have been trying to reclaim that lost connection and regain their place alongside the divine.

RELATED: What Does God Look Like?

John H. Walton, in The Lost World of Genesis One, sees things a bit rosier. He argues that God’s disruption of the Babel project was actually a protective act. After the Fall, humans were no longer capable of re-creating Eden through their own efforts. God’s scattering of people and languages could be seen as a way to prevent a repeat of the Fall — protecting humanity from trying to reenter a paradise they could no longer access without divine intervention.

RELATED: Controversial Takes on Cain and Abel

In this light, Babel becomes a story about the limits of human power and the dangers of trying to forcefully regain what was lost in Eden. The scattered languages and divided nations reflect the reality that Eden, and its perfect unity, is gone — at least until a new kind of divine reconciliation can be achieved.

The Confusion of Tongues by Gustave Doré, 1866

The Role of Language: Tool of Power or Divine Gift?

Language plays a crucial role in the story of Babel. The multiplying of languages is God’s method of halting the ambitious project. But what does this division of tongues truly represent? Was it a curse to fracture human unity, or could it be seen as a divine gift, ensuring cultural diversity and preventing totalitarianism?

Some scholars think that the confusion of languages was a political move. By disrupting a single language, God introduced a tool that ensures division and decentralization, preventing any one group from gaining unchecked power over the world. 

In this view, language becomes a form of control. It prevents unified rebellion or dominance by any one people, a theme that would echo through later biblical stories of empires rising and falling.

Others, like Joseph Blenkinsopp in Creation, Un-Creation, Re-Creation, propose that language diversity could be seen as part of God’s larger plan for humanity. Rather than cursing humanity with confusion, the diversity of languages allowed for cultural richness, individuality and the development of multiple civilizations. This theory suggests that pre-Babel unity wasn’t a utopian ideal, but rather a stifling form of uniformity. The multiplying of languages, then, might represent a divine gift that celebrates diversity and human potential in new and unexpected ways.

Theological Implications of Babel: Was God’s Action Justified?

The Tower of Babel story raises profound theological questions about the nature of God’s intervention. Was the scattering of people and languages a necessary measure to protect humanity, or was it an example of divine overreach? Scholars remain divided on whether God’s actions in this story reflect wisdom … or an overly controlling approach to human progress.

Walter Brueggemann, in Genesis: Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching, interprets God’s scattering of the people as a protective act. He suggests that God saw humanity’s unified ambition as leading toward potential self-destruction. By disrupting their efforts, God prevented them from becoming too powerful and overstepping their natural limits, much like the consequences faced in Eden. As God observed, “Nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them” (Genesis 11:6). In this view, divine intervention was an act of mercy, keeping humanity from a path that could have led to another downfall.

On the other hand, David J.A. Clines, in The Theme of the Pentateuch, offers a more critical perspective. Clines questions whether God’s disruption of human progress was truly necessary. What if humanity had been allowed to continue its work, even if it led to failure? This view suggests that God’s intervention may have been a way to maintain divine authority, ensuring that humanity could never challenge or rival God’s position. In this reading, the confusion of languages represents a limit imposed by God — not on humanity’s safety, but on its potential.

These contrasting perspectives raise a larger question: Was God justified in scattering humanity and fragmenting their language — or was it an overreaction to a collective project that may have been doomed to fail on its own? As with many Old Testament stories, the answer depends on how you interpret divine-human relationships and the boundaries between freedom and control.

Tower of Babel by Endre Rozsda, 1958

Babel’s Legacy

The Tower of Babel story is often seen as a straightforward tale about human pride and divine punishment. But as we’ve explored, it’s anything but simple. From questions about the true meaning of Babel’s name to debates over whether God’s actions were protective or controlling, this ancient narrative touches on themes of unity, power and the human desire for greatness. Was Babel a symbol of technological tyranny, a return to Eden, or an expression of divine jealousy? Each theory offers new insights into the relationship between humanity and the divine.

Ultimately, the Tower of Babel reminds us that the limits placed on human ambition — whether through language or culture — aren’t just about division, but about the complexity of freedom. As people reached for the heavens, they were brought back to earth, scattered, perhaps not as punishment but as a way to preserve our potential for diversity, creativity and growth. 

The conversation around Babel continues — in a variety of languages. –Wally

Controversial Takes on Ham and the Curse of Canaan

A biblical tale of nudity, curses and divine justice, the story of Noah’s son and the curse on Canaan raises more questions than answers. What really happened in that tent?

Ham saw his father naked and told his brothers, who rushed to cover up Noah.

The story of Ham isn’t as well known as, say, the Creation or the Garden of Eden. But it’s a head-scratcher of a tale, where nudity, curses and the perplexities of divine justice intertwine in a way that only the Old Testament can deliver.

It begins in Genesis 9:20-27 with Noah, one of the few survivors of the Flood. Having planted a vineyard, he’s now enjoying a well-deserved drink after the harrowing events of the deluge. But this is no ordinary drink — he gets the first recorded hangover in history. Noah, in his post-apocalyptic revelry, indulges a bit too much and ends up sprawled naked in his tent. (Who hasn’t been there?) And this is when things take a bizarre turn.

“This isn’t the first or last time someone inadvertently witnessed a family member in an undressed state.

But in the world of the Old Testament, this act carries deep dishonor and disgrace.”

Noah survived the Flood, planted a vineyard, made wine, got wasted — and goes down in history as having the first recorded hangover.

RELATED: The Flood was a tale borrowed from another culture — and other controversial takes on Noah’s Ark and the Flood

Enter Ham, Noah’s middle child. He stumbles upon his father in this compromising position and unwittingly does something that’ll echo through the generations: He sees Noah naked. 

Ham stumbles upon his father naked — and all hell breaks loose.

The Indignity of Seeing Your Father Naked

Now, you might wonder, what’s the big deal? After all, this isn’t the first or last time someone inadvertently witnessed a family member in an undressed state. But in the world of the Old Testament, this act carries deep dishonor and disgrace.

The shame of nudity in this context isn’t just about physical exposure; it’s about a loss of dignity, a stripping away of the patriarch’s honor. Noah, as the father and leader, is supposed to be a figure of authority, respect and, perhaps most crucially, control. Seeing him naked, vulnerable and unconscious is a direct affront to this image. In the ancient world, where familial honor was paramount, this was akin to a serious breach of respect.

But Ham doesn’t just see his father naked — he goes and tells his brothers, Shem and Japheth, about it. Shem and Japheth respond by carefully covering their father, walking backward with a garment to ensure they don’t see his nakedness. This act of discretion starkly contrasts Ham’s behavior, which some interpretations suggest wasn’t an innocent blunder but perhaps a deliberate act of mockery or dishonor.

Good boys that they are, Shem and Japheth bring a sheet to cover their indecent father.

When Noah wakes up and discovers what Ham has done — or rather, what he’s seen — he doesn’t curse Ham directly but instead curses Ham’s son, Canaan: “Cursed be Canaan; the lowest of slaves will he be to his brothers” (Genesis 9:25). 

Did Ham do more than just see his father passed out and naked?

Castration or Another Violation 

Some scholars, like David M. Goldenberg, have explored the possibility that Ham’s offense was far graver than a mere glimpse of his father’s nakedness. Ancient Jewish interpretations suggest that Ham may have castrated Noah or even violated him, which would explain the severity of Noah’s reaction. Though these interpretations are speculative and highly debated, they attempt to rationalize why Noah’s curse was so intense.

Poor innocent Canaan didn’t do anything wrong — but ends up cursed.

Was this story written later to explain the subjugation of the Canaanites?

Cursing the Canaanites

But why did the curse fall on Canaan, Ham’s son? One theory, as suggested by scholars like Bernard Levinson, is that this curse was a later editorial choice, designed to provide a backstory for the subjugation of the Canaanites by the Israelites. By cursing Canaan, the text offers a divine justification for Israel’s later actions against these people, weaving the story into the sociopolitical realities of the time.

Noah curses Canaan and his descendants.

The Naked Truth?

This story has been the subject of numerous interpretations, many of them controversial. Throughout history, it’s been used to justify various social hierarchies and even slavery, though these takes are now widely criticized. The notion of cursing an entire lineage for the actions of one man is as perplexing as it is unsettling, and it’s one of those biblical moments that leaves us with more questions than answers.

The tale of Ham and the curse of Canaan is a cautionary tale about the weight of family honor, the repercussions of indiscretion, and the enduring power of curses. It’s a story that reminds us that even the most righteous among us, like Noah, are far from perfect — and that sometimes, the consequences of our actions can ripple through generations in ways we might never expect. –Wally

Controversial Theories of Noah’s Ark and the Flood

Was the story of Noah’s Ark a real global flood, borrowed myth or moral allegory? Explore the debates and meaning behind this ancient tale of God’s wrath and human survival.

Strip away the storybook elements of passive animals and hopeful rainbows, and what you have in the story of Noah’s Ark is a tale of despair, destruction and desperation. It’s the ultimate doomsday scenario: a world gone so wrong that the only solution is to drown it all and start over. It all started with the Fall of Man and expulsion from the Garden of Eden, followed by Cain killing Abel — and it was all downhill from there.

The ark was a lifeboat in a sea of death, carrying the last shreds of a lost world. Maybe that’s why this story has stuck around — it forces us to confront the uncomfortable truth that sometimes there’s no easy way out.

“ Is the story of Noah’s Ark a memory of a cataclysmic event, a borrowed myth retooled to fit a single-god narrative or a timeless warning wrapped in allegory?

Maybe it’s all of these at once. ”

Scholars have wrestled with this tale for ages, debating whether it’s factual history, a symbolic myth, or an ancient legend borrowed and tweaked to fit a monotheistic agenda. Let’s look at some of the more controversial theories about Noah and his ark. 

The Flood Narrative: History or Allegory?

One of the biggest debates is whether this flood was truly global, drowning every mountain and valley — or simply a catastrophic local event blown out of proportion by time and retelling. 

The flood account likely reflects a significant regional event — a deluge so devastating it took on mythic status, argues Kenneth Kitchen in On the Reliability of the Old Testament. 

But not everyone’s buying the history angle. John Walton, in The Lost World of the Flood, sees the tale as an allegory dripping with symbolism rather than being drenched in reality. The story is best understood as an archetypal narrative, one that uses the motif of a flood to explore the relationship between God, humanity and the world. In other words, it’s less about the logistics of animal storage and more about delivering a moral gut punch.

Was There Really a Global Flood?

Essentially, it comes down to the million-dollar question: Did a flood cover every inch of the planet? Modern geology says probably not. Despite fervent searches for Noah’s Ark (we’re looking at you, Mount Ararat), the evidence just isn’t there. Geologists William Ryan and Walter Pitman suggest the story likely originates from a massive but localized deluge, such as the flooding of the Black Sea around 5600 BCE. In Noah’s Flood: The New Scientific Discoveries About the Event That Changed History, they propose that this event was so catastrophic it burned itself into cultural memory, inspiring flood myths across multiple civilizations.

Borrowed Mythology: Gilgamesh and the Biblical Flood

Much like the Garden of Eden, the Genesis flood story has a striking resemblance to the Epic of Gilgamesh, which hit Mesopotamian bestseller lists centuries before Noah ever built his ark. In both, a divine figure warns a righteous man about an impending flood, instructing him to build a boat and save the animals. 

Essentially, the evidence shows the biblical authors took an old tale, stripped it down and rebuilt it with a monotheistic engine under the hood. No need for a pantheon of bickering gods — just one all-powerful deity making a divine point.

Why Did God Cause the Flood? A Divine Temper Tantrum?

The story of Noah’s Ark is often presented as a tale of divine judgment, where the wickedness of humanity becomes so unbearable that God decides to hit the cosmic reset button. But let’s pause and consider this for a moment: Wiping out nearly every living being on Earth seems, well, a bit extreme, doesn’t it? Surely there must have been a less apocalyptic solution. So, why did God do it? 

One could argue that the Flood was a manifestation of divine frustration — a sort of celestial temper tantrum. The ancient world was full of tales where God acted out of anger, jealousy or spite (often enlisting the monsters of the Bible to do his dirty work), and perhaps the Flood is another contribution to this tradition. 

In God: A Biography, Jack Miles suggests that the God of the Old Testament is still figuring things out, developing his character, so to speak. This was early in his divine career, and perhaps he hadn’t yet learned the art of conflict resolution without resorting to mass destruction.

Another controversial take comes from the notion that the Flood wasn’t merely about punishing sin but rather about purification, a sort of cosmic detox. Humanity (and perhaps that mysterious race of Nephilim), in its moral decay, had become so corrupt that a full cleanse was deemed necessary. 

Some scholars, like Jonathan Kirsch in The Harlot by the Side of the Road, suggest that the Flood story serves as a dramatic metaphor for the removal of moral pollution. The message here might be that extreme problems sometimes require extreme solutions — even if that means wiping the slate clean in the most literal sense.

And, of course, there’s the view that the Flood reflects the idea of collective punishment — a controversial concept to say the least. The innocent perish along with the guilty, a notion that seems at odds with modern ideas of justice. Yet, in the ancient world, where the actions of one could bring consequences upon many, this might have seemed entirely reasonable. Perhaps this is less a story about a wrathful God and more a reflection of the harsh realities of ancient life, where survival often came at the cost of others.

The Ark: Feasible Ship or Impossible Fantasy?

OK, let’s talk logistics. Could Noah’s Ark — roughly 450 feet long, 75 feet wide and 45 feet high — really house two of every species, plus food and water? Some engineers argue the boat’s dimensions are surprisingly seaworthy. In The Genesis Flood, Robert Briscoe claims the ark’s proportions would hold up even by today’s standards. 

But others are quick to point out the obvious: A literal interpretation runs aground when you consider how many species you’d have to accommodate. 

Some scholars argue that the Genesis story refers to broader categories rather than every specific species. Carol Hill explains in A Worldview Approach to Science and Scripture, that the word “kind” in the Hebrew Bible isn’t a technical term for species, but rather a more general grouping, perhaps closer to what we might consider families or genera. 

This might reduce the total number of animals to a manageable few thousand. Some literalists have suggested that young animals were chosen to save space and resources, as juveniles require less food and produce less waste.

Of Poop and Predators

Speaking of, the Ark was no small undertaking. Housing and sustaining thousands of animals for an extended period would challenge even modern engineering. Yet literalists argue it was feasible — with some creative problem-solving and, perhaps, divine intervention.

As for feeding this floating zoo, Henry Morris in The Genesis Record suggests that Noah and his family could have stored compact, long-lasting food like grains and dried meat. Carnivores could have been sustained on preserved foods, while herbivores would have been fed hay or something similar. This doesn’t eliminate all logistical challenges, but it helps the story hold together.

Sanitation is another frequently raised issue. Literalists propose that Noah’s Ark may have included simple yet effective waste management systems, like sloped floors to channel waste into designated areas. 

Some even suggest that God put the animals in a state of torpor (similar to hibernation), which would have reduced their movement, food intake and waste production. Lack of evidence aside, it could also explain how the animals all seemed to get along, and Noah’s Ark didn’t turn into a bloodbath. 

But the challenges extend beyond the Ark itself. Critics like William Stansfield in Science of Evolution cite the absence of evidence for the migration of species like kangaroos from the Middle East to Australia. Geneticists, including Francisco Ayala, have also pointed out that the severe bottleneck caused by such a small animal population would have led to genetic collapse in most species.

A Covenant of Survival: Rainbow or Repentance?

After the flood subsides, the skies clear, and a rainbow splashes across the heavens. It’s a warm and fuzzy moment — but there’s more going on here than just a colorful weather phenomenon. Claus Westermann, author of Genesis 1-11: A Continental Commentary, sees the rainbow as a divine apology of sorts: The rainbow represents not just a promise, but a shift in the divine-human relationship — a move from destruction to preservation. 

But hold the applause. Terence Fretheim argues the real takeaway isn’t just that God put away the smite button; it’s that humans are now on notice. The covenant is conditional, based on humanity’s moral conduct, shifting the focus from divine mercy to ethical living — with the threat of annihilation held over our heads if we don’t behave.

Flooded With Interpretations

The story of Noah’s Ark is like the Flood itself — overflowing with meaning, historical puzzles and theological depths. Is it a memory of a cataclysmic event, a borrowed myth retooled to fit a single-god narrative or a timeless warning wrapped in allegory? Maybe it’s all of these at once. 

But one thing’s for sure: This ancient narrative refuses to be boxed in. It has flowed through centuries, from ancient clay tablets to modern debates, each generation finding alternative meanings or raising new questions. Whether you approach it as fact or fiction, one truth remains: Noah’s Ark keeps sailing through our collective imagination, steering us toward reflections on faith, morality and what it means to endure life’s storms. –Wally

What Are the Nephilim and Sons of God in the Bible?

Exploring controversial theories about Nephilim and the lustful Sons of God. Were they giants, fallen angels, warrior kings — or aliens?!

They’ve confounded readers of the Bible for centuries: the Nephilim — those enigmatic giants who, for a brief moment in Genesis 6:1-4, stride across the stage before vanishing into the mists of time. What are we to make of these mysterious figures, and the equally shadowy “sons of God” who, it seems, were quite taken with the local ladies? If you’re expecting a straightforward answer, prepare to be disappointed — or delighted, depending on your taste for ancient mysteries.

“When the Bible says the Sons of God took any of the women they chose, there’s no indication that their consent was considered. Today, we’d call that rape. ”

Divine Romances and Giant Offspring

Back when the world was young, shortly after the Creation and the Fall of Man, humanity was multiplying, and somewhere out there, celestial beings were looking down at the burgeoning population of Earth. And what caught their eye? The daughters of men, who, according to the text, were beautiful enough to inspire these sons of God to leave their heavenly abode and mingle with the mortals. The result? The birth of the Nephilim — described as mighty men, heroes of old.

It’s a story that practically begs for elaboration, yet Genesis offers little more than a tantalizing sketch. Who are these sons of God? What exactly were the Nephilim — and why do they get only a brief mention before the narrative shifts to the business of the Flood?

The Dark Side of Divine Romance: Consent? What Consent?

Let’s not sugarcoat this: The sons of God in Genesis aren’t exactly the chivalrous type. When the text says they “married any of them they chose,” we’re not talking about a whirlwind romance or a fairy-tale wedding. No, this is more of a divine free-for-all, where the daughters of men were taken — emphasis on taken — with no indication that their consent was considered. Today, we’d call that rape. 

This little detail turns the story from a mythical dalliance into something much darker. It’s not just about heavenly beings mingling with mortals; it’s about power dynamics and the exploitation of vulnerability. The sons of God are exercising a celestial privilege, and the daughters of men are on the receiving end of a cosmic power play.

Some scholars argue that this part of the narrative reflects a broader theme of power imbalance — one that echoes through many ancient myths (including putting the blame on Eve in the Garden of Eden) and even into modern discussions about consent and authority. 

These divine beings, with all their supernatural power, saw something they wanted and took it, consequences be damned. And what were those consequences? Enter the Nephilim, the chaotic offspring of these unions, who were as much a symbol of the moral disorder as they were of physical might.

In this light, the Flood that follows can be seen as more than just a reset button for a world gone wrong; it could be a divine response to the abuse of power. The story’s about what happens when those with power overstep their bounds, and how, in the end, that kind of violation brings about its own downfall.

Sons of God: Angels Gone Wild?

But what exactly were these dubious creatures? One popular interpretation, especially in early Jewish thought, is that the sons of God were fallen angels — divine beings who, perhaps bored or rebellious, decided to have a little fun on Earth. 

This view is championed by the ancient Book of Enoch, a text that didn’t make the biblical cut but still managed to influence a lot of early Jewish thought. In Enoch, these sons of God were explicitly identified as angels who not only fathered the Nephilim but also taught humans all sorts of forbidden knowledge — think weapon-making, sorcery and makeup tips.

If we’re to believe this interpretation, the Nephilim were half-divine, half-human hybrids, giants whose very existence was an affront to the natural order — part of a roster of monsters of the Bible. 

Genesis 6 reflects an ancient belief in a world teeming with divine beings who sometimes overstepped their bounds, argues Michael Heiser, in his book The Unseen Realm: Recovering the Supernatural Worldview of the Bible. The sons of God are best understood as members of the divine council who rebelled against God, leading to the corruption of humanity through their offspring, the Nephilim. This reading positions the Nephilim as symbols of chaos, a divine error that needed correction — cue the Flood.

The Nephilim: They Might Be Giants

Not everyone is on board with the angelic interpretation. Some scholars suggest that the sons of God were actually members of a ruling class — mortal kings or warriors who, through their power and prestige, were seen as godlike. 

In this view, the Nephilim were their offspring, not so much giants in the literal sense but towering figures in terms of reputation and strength. After all, Nephilim is sometimes translated as “fallen ones,” which could just as easily refer to warriors who fell in battle as to beings cast out of heaven.

The story is less about divine transgression and more about setting the stage for the Flood, agrees John Walton in The Lost World of Genesis One. He suggests that the Nephilim and the sons of God are narrative devices used to illustrate the moral decline of humanity. The story reflects the ancient Near Eastern understanding of kingship, where rulers often claimed divine parentage to legitimize their authority. The Nephilim, then, are not the literal giants of later myth but represent the corrupting influence of unchecked power.

The Legacy: From Giants to Modern Myth

Whatever their origins, the Nephilim have left a lasting mark on our imaginations. They’ve been linked to everything from the ancient Greek titans to the giant skeletons that pop up in dubious archaeological reports. 

In modern times, the Nephilim have marched their way into modern fiction, appearing as the heroic Shadowhunters in Cassandra Clare’s The Mortal Instruments series — proof that these ancient giants still loom large in our collective imagination.

They’ve even been co-opted by fringe theories and conspiracy buffs, who see in the Nephilim evidence of ancient alien visitations or secret histories suppressed by mainstream scholars. 

So, what are we left with? A tale of divine beings who might — or might not — have fathered a race of giants, a story that straddles the line between history and myth. –Wally

Controversial Theories of Cain and Abel

Why would God pit brother against brother — and what exactly was the mark of Cain? 

The tale of Cain and Abel reveals that it didn’t take long for sibling rivalry to manifest — and in a horrific manner. It’s a narrative of jealousy, fratricide and divine judgment. Yet, beneath the surface, this story is a theological Rorschach test, challenging assumptions about justice, fate and the very nature of God. Why did God favor Abel’s sacrifice over Cain’s? Was Cain always destined to be the villain? And does this story reveal more about human failure — or divine caprice? Scholars have wrestled with these questions for centuries, offering interpretations that range from moral instruction to thinly veiled critiques of the text itself.

“Believe it or not, in some Jewish traditions, Cain kills Abel by biting his neck.”

The Favoritism Dilemma: Why Abel?

The story’s most unsettling moment is also its crux: The two sons of Adam and Eve bring offerings to God, and one is inexplicably favored. Abel’s offering of “the firstborn of his flock” is accepted, while Cain’s “fruits of the soil” are rejected (Genesis 4:4-5). But why? The text remains maddeningly silent, leaving readers to puzzle over a seemingly arbitrary divine preference. 

Gerhard von Rad argues in Genesis: A Commentary that the lack of rationale is deliberate, underscoring a recurring biblical theme — God’s choices often defy human logic, much like the seemingly unjust suffering of Job.

Some interpreters, however, shift the blame from divine whim to Cain’s own shortcomings. In The Beginning of Wisdom: Reading Genesis, Leon Kass suggests that Cain’s offering reflects his inner state: a heart not fully invested in his act of worship. The offering of fruit was less important than the spirit in which it was given, Kass argues. Cain, in this view, was the architect of his own downfall, his half-hearted devotion sealing his rejection.

Was Cain Set Up to Fail?

But was Cain ever given a real shot at divine favor? Some scholars argue that the narrative stacks the deck against him from the start. Robert Alter, in The Art of Biblical Narrative, notes that Cain’s name echoes the Hebrew word for “acquisition,” signaling his fixation on ownership and control — a precursor to his fatal envy. Alter sees this as foreshadowing, subtly positioning Cain as a tragic figure whose sin is less a spontaneous act and more an inevitable outcome of his character. 

An Allegory of Agricultural vs. Pastoral Societies?

The Cain and Abel story also serves as a lens through which scholars view broader social dynamics in ancient Israel. Cain, the farmer, stands in tension with Abel, the shepherd — a reflection of the historical friction between settled agriculturalists and nomadic pastoralists. 

John Van Seters, in Prologue to History, interprets the story as a mythologized conflict between two ways of life. The narrative reveals a deeper cultural tension, with God’s favoritism elevating the pastoral above the agrarian — it’s a dig at the encroachment of settled civilization on nomadic traditions.

The Serpent Seed Theory: Was Cain the Son of the Devil?

Hold onto your fig leaves — this one’s a doozy. What’s known as the serpent seed theory suggests Cain wasn’t Adam’s son at all but the love child of Eve and the serpent. That’s right, some folks believe the snake in Eden didn’t just hand Eve a snack but also fathered a line of human-demonic hybrids. Move over, Maury Povich — “You are not the father” takes on a whole new meaning.

Proponents of this theory latch onto Genesis 3:15, where God curses the serpent and speaks of its “seed” being at odds with Eve’s descendants. They argue this wasn’t just symbolic but a clue that Cain’s very DNA might have been less than human. And that infamous “mark of Cain”? These theorists think it might have been serpent-like traits: scales, reptilian skin or slit-like eyes.

Mainstream theology gives this theory the side-eye, dismissing it as pure hogwash. But, rooted in fringe theological circles and esoteric traditions, this interpretation casts a shadow over the entire Genesis account, reframing the first murder as a cosmic battle between divine and demonic lineages.

How Exactly Did Cain Kill Abel?

The Bible keeps it cryptic, as though nudging readers to ponder over the messy reality of human conflict. Genesis merely tells us that “Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him” (Genesis 4:8). But the lack of details has sparked centuries of debate, each theory a reflection of the storyteller’s time and place.

The Stone

Many scholars, from ancient rabbis to modern theologians, argue Cain used a stone to strike his brother. This idea makes its way into commentary like The Legends of the Jews by Louis Ginzberg, where it’s suggested Cain saw the stone as both a weapon and a twisted reminder of the dust from which humanity was formed.

The Neck Bite

Believe it or not, some Jewish traditions add a far more primal touch. In these interpretations, like those found in The Talmud, Cain allegedly kills Abel by biting his neck. This brutal method underscores the story’s raw, animalistic nature — Cain attacks not with a weapon but with his own body, as if driven to murder by a more visceral rage.

A Sword or Tool

Medieval Christian artists sometimes depicted Cain wielding a crude sword or farming tool, suggesting he struck Abel with something close at hand, a symbol of Cain’s role as a tiller of the earth. This is the perspective you’ll see in certain illuminated manuscripts, where artists added their own medieval flavor to the story.

God’s Hand

An outlying theory, often linked to Gnostic or mystical interpretations, is that Cain’s anger somehow triggered a divine consequence. In these readings, Cain’s jealousy creates a rupture, allowing Abel to die without a physical act — almost as though God allows the anger itself to kill. This unusual perspective can be found in some early Christian texts, like those discussed in Gnostic Truth and Christian Heresy by Alastair Logan.

Each theory reflects the cultural lens of its time. Whether it’s a stone, a primal bite or divine intervention, the lack of specificity gives the story a mythic quality, inviting readers to consider not just the act but the consequences of unchecked anger.

The Mark of Cain: Curse or Protection?

Driven by jealousy and anger after God favors Abel’s offering over his, Cain lures his brother into the field and murders him in a fit of rage (Genesis 4:8). 

After this horrifying act, Cain is marked by God — not as a curse, but as protection, ensuring that anyone who tries to harm him will face vengeance sevenfold (Genesis 4:15). 

And what exactly was the mark? The nature of the mark of Cain has sparked wild speculation, ranging from a physical scar to a distinct feature like darkened skin, although these later interpretations often twisted the mark into a symbol of racial or social stigma. In its original context, however, most scholars agree that the mark was likely symbolic, representing divine mercy and protection rather than any visible disfigurement.

Ancient Jewish and Christian traditions offer a variety of theories. Some rabbinic texts suggest the mark was a supernatural sign, such as a glowing forehead or even the Hebrew letter tav etched onto his skin. Early Christian commentators like Augustine speculated that the mark was a form of trembling or perpetual wandering — an internal affliction more than an external brand. 

But they all agree that the mark wasn’t a punishment. As Victor P. Hamilton points out in The Book of Genesis: Chapters 1-17, the mark is a striking blend of judgment and grace, revealing a God who, even in the act of condemning Cain, extends protection.

In this way, the mark of Cain complicates the straightforward idea of divine punishment. The first murderer in biblical history isn’t cast out entirely; instead, he’s given a form of protection that hints at God’s ongoing commitment to flawed humanity. 

A Deeper Moral: Envy, Responsibility and Restorative Justice

At first glance, Cain and Abel reads like a straightforward morality tale about unchecked envy. God’s warning to Cain — “Sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must master it” (Genesis 4:7) — is often interpreted as a timeless lesson in self-control. 

But beneath this warning lies a story of complex responsibility. Walter Brueggemann, in Genesis: Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching, suggests that Cain’s fate remains unresolved after the murder, leaving room for redemption. He sees a God who, even in judgment, allows space for healing and transformation. Of course, God’s favoritism is what caused the entire ruckus in the first place. –Wally

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MORE: Theories about the Creation

Controversial Takes on the Garden of Eden and the Fall of Man

Shocking alternative theories of biblical interpretation of Eden, Eve, the forbidden fruit, the serpent and original sin.

The Garden of Eden is considered the quintessential paradise — an untouched, idyllic realm where rivers flowed, trees bore fruit in abundance, and harmony reigned. At its heart stood the Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, both laden with mystery and meaning. But was Eden a literal place, a symbolic lesson or something altogether different? Are you willing to take a bite of the Tree of Knowledge — and face the consequences?

RELATED: Did God Really Create the World in Seven Days?

Was Eden an Actual Garden?

The Hebrew word translated as “garden” (gan) doesn’t fully capture its significance. In fact, some scholars argue that Eden was more akin to a sanctuary or a royal park — a sacred space where divine and human realms intersected. 

For some, this shifts the narrative from a picturesque plot of land to a space designed for communion between humanity and God. If Eden is a sanctuary, it might suggest that this story is about something deeper — less about location, more about the intended relationship between humanity and the divine. Remember: God would hang out and take walks with Adam and Eve. 

RELATED: What Does God Look Like?

The Tree of Knowledge: To Be Godlike?

The Tree of Knowledge is central to this story — a tree that was off-limits yet irresistible. Putting this temptation right in the middle of the garden wasn’t the nicest thing God could have done. 

Scholars have long debated what the tree truly represents. Is it about moral discernment, free will or something darker? 

Ellen van Wolde, in Reframing Biblical Studies, argues that the Hebrew word for knowledge (da’at) implies more than just knowing good from evil. It’s about power, authority and wisdom traditionally reserved for the divine. The tree, then, may be less about moral choice and more about the dangers of encroaching on knowledge and power intended only for God.

East vs. West: Interpretations of the Serpent

The serpent slithers in as the story’s most cryptic figure. While popular culture casts the serpent as Satan himself, the original text never makes that connection. Instead, the serpent’s role is open to interpretation. 

James Barr, in The Garden of Eden and the Hope of Immortality, suggests that the serpent is a trickster figure, a symbol of chaos and subversion found in myths across cultures (think Loki, Hermes, the Joker and Deadpool). 

Gnostic traditions even flip the script entirely, portraying the serpent as a liberator who offers true knowledge, freeing humanity from an oppressive deity. 

In many Eastern cultures, snakes are revered as symbols of wisdom, fertility and even immortality. For example, in Hinduism and Buddhism, the serpent (naga) is seen as a powerful, protective force — often associated with deities and cosmic balance. In Chinese mythology, snakes are linked to longevity and good fortune, with the snake being one of the 12 zodiac animals, symbolizing deep intuition and transformation.

Contrast that with the Western tradition, where snakes have often been portrayed as malevolent creatures tied to deceit and danger. This demonization largely stems from the influence of the Bible, particularly the story of Eden. Over time, Christian theology increasingly equated the serpent with Satan himself — despite the original Genesis text never explicitly making that connection. The idea solidified through later interpretations and religious art, reinforcing the image of the serpent as a vessel of evil.

This stark difference in cultural symbolism reflects a deeper divide in worldview. In Eastern traditions, the snake’s ability to shed its skin is seen as a metaphor for renewal and spiritual growth. Meanwhile, in the West, this same attribute is often viewed with suspicion, implying deception and the capacity to mislead — qualities emphasized in the Eden narrative.

So, the serpent’s reputation as a trickster in the Garden of Eden could be interpreted through a dual lens: one that either condemns it as the catalyst of humanity’s fall or respects it as an agent of transformative knowledge. 

There’s even a fringe theory about Cain and Abel that the serpent’s encounter led to more than just forbidden fruit — he’s suggested to be the father of Cain!

The Fruit: Apple, Fig or Something Else?

The forbidden fruit is widely portrayed as an apple, but the Bible is conspicuously silent on the specifics. Some scholars speculate that it could have been a fig, linking it to the fig leaves Adam and Eve later use to cover themselves (Genesis 3:7). 

Others suggest a pomegranate, a fruit rich in symbolism across ancient cultures, often associated with fertility and the underworld. 

Apples are originally native to Central Asia, specifically the area around modern-day Kazakhstan. They eventually spread to Europe, but they wouldn’t have been a common fruit in the ancient Near East. So how did apples become the go-to symbol for the forbidden fruit?

The answer lies in a combination of linguistic coincidence and artistic tradition. In the 4th century, when the Bible was translated into Latin, the word for evil, malum, closely resembled the word for apple, malus. This play on words may have led to the association between the apple and the forbidden fruit. Over time, Western art reinforced this image, depicting Eve handing Adam an apple in countless paintings and sculptures, cementing the fruit’s place in popular imagination.

Eden and Other Myths: A Remix of Ancient Stories?

The Garden of Eden narrative shares striking similarities with older myths from the ancient Near East, particularly the Sumerian tale of Dilmun, a paradise described as a place without sickness, death or  suffering. In this story, Dilmun is a garden blessed by the gods, where pure waters flow and all living creatures thrive in harmony. Much like Eden, Dilmun is portrayed as a utopia, symbolizing a world untouched by the corruption of mortality.

What’s fascinating is how these myths overlap and diverge. The Sumerian myth, which predates the biblical account by several centuries (the earliest versions of Dilmun date back to around 2100 BCE, as opposed to the Genesis story, which was written sometime much later, sometime around 580 BCE), emphasizes the idea of a divinely created paradise. Genesis, on the other hand, reinterprets this concept in a monotheistic framework. 

One key difference lies in the purpose of these narratives. While Dilmun is primarily a tale of divine blessing and the ideal state of life, Eden’s narrative centers on a moral test, the introduction of human free will and the consequences of overreaching divine boundaries. 

Another parallel is found in the Mesopotamian Epic of Gilgamesh, which contains a scene where the hero seeks a plant that grants immortality, only to lose it to a serpent. This echoes the Eden story, where a serpent plays a central role in the loss of paradise. The Epic of Gilgamesh, likely written around 1800 BCE, also predates Genesis and suggests that the themes of a lost paradise and a deceiving serpent (as well as a god-sent flood) were circulating in the cultural consciousness long before the Hebrew Bible was compiled.

The Fall of Man: Paradise Lost

We all know the basics: Adam, Eve, a serpent, a forbidden fruit and the catastrophe that supposedly cursed all of humanity. But what if this story isn’t just a cautionary tale of disobedience? Scholars have long debated whether the so-called “Fall” was a tragic mistake or a necessary event — perhaps even one destined from the start. Is this exile merely a punishment — or is it part of humanity’s necessary evolution? 

Traditionally, the Fall is framed as humanity’s catastrophic lapse — the moment Adam and Eve traded paradise for suffering, death and toil. But what if it was less about disobedience and more about the maturation of humanity? Elaine Pagels argues in The Gnostic Gospels that eating the fruit was a catalyst for growth. Rather than a “fall” from grace, the story can be seen as a necessary step toward knowledge and independence. The departure from Eden marks the beginning of human history, with all its ambiguities, tensions and possibilities. 

The garden may have been a place of bliss, but it was also a place of ignorance. Leaving Eden means entering the world of complexity — where knowledge, creativity and culture become possible. In this reading, the “Fall” is less a tragedy and more the first step toward becoming fully human.

In this light, the knowledge of good and evil isn’t simply a curse but the beginning of human moral consciousness — the first moment when humans took responsibility for their choices and lives.

Eve as the Scapegoat: Misogyny in the Making

It’s impossible to discuss the Fall without addressing Eve’s role. For centuries, she’s been painted as the original temptress, responsible for humanity’s descent into sin. But feminist scholars like Phyllis Trible in God and the Rhetoric of Sexuality argue that this reading is a distortion. Eve’s act is often presented as malicious and subversive, yet the text itself describes her as thoughtful and engaged in ethical reasoning. 

The vilification of Eve has led to centuries of misogynistic interpretations, turning her into a scapegoat for humanity’s flaws. A more nuanced reading might see Eve as curious, rational and willing to take risks — qualities that are both human and, in many ways, admirable.

Original Sin: A Later Invention

The concept of “original sin” — the idea that Adam and Eve’s disobedience condemned all future generations — largely comes from Saint Augustine’s interpretation, which heavily influenced Christian doctrine. But is this really what the Genesis authors intended? John Hick, in Evil and the God of Love, suggests that inherited guilt was an overlay imposed by later Christian theology. There’s no evidence that early Jewish interpretations saw the Fall as a hereditary curse, he argues. 

The original story, then, may have been more concerned with the inevitability of human frailty rather than branding all of humanity with perpetual guilt. The shift in interpretation has had profound consequences, shaping millennia of theology and human self-perception.

Exile From Eden

The tale of Eden and the Fall of Man is a story that has sunk its teeth into human imagination for millennia — a seemingly simple narrative of temptation and transgression that, upon closer inspection, reveals layers of meaning and controversy. 

From a sanctuary more akin to a divine throne room than a garden, to a serpent who might be more liberator than villain, and a bite that offered not just forbidden fruit but the bitter-sweet taste of knowledge and independence, this story challenges our notions of innocence, guilt and what it means to be human. Perhaps we never lost paradise after all. –Wally

Controversial Takes on the Creation: Rethinking the Genesis Story

Explore the Genesis creation story through the lens of symbolic timelines, ancient mythological influences, and the evolving dialogue on gender roles and the imago Dei. 

It all starts with a void, a formless, dark abyss. Then, a single command — “Let there be light” — kicks off the creation of the universe. In a mere seven days (or was it?), God separates light from darkness and land from sea, populates the animal kingdom and eventually crafts humanity in his image. It’s a tale almost everyone knows, but beneath its simplicity lies a world of debate, alternative interpretations and a bit of controversy.

“Things get even more interesting when you look at the original Hebrew. The word for God here is Elohim, which is a plural noun.

So what gives? ”

The Cosmic Timeline: Literal Days or Epic Metaphor?

While many people believe that Genesis lays out a precise timeframe — six 24-hour days followed by a well-earned divine rest — others argue that this timeline is more symbolic. 

Let’s recall that the Bible isn’t a science textbook. The Old Testament was composed by various authors over many centuries, reflecting a range of perspectives and historical contexts. Many scholars believe that large portions were never intended to be taken literally, but were instead written as symbolic narratives or moral lessons.

The Day-Age Theory

One interpretation, known as the Day-Age Theory, suggests that each “day” represents a long epoch rather than a 24-hour time period. This perspective attempts to reconcile the biblical narrative with scientific understandings of the age of the universe. Advocates of this view point out that the Hebrew word used in Genesis, yom, can refer to different lengths of time, depending on the context.

This discussion enriches the Genesis narrative by allowing for interpretations that align with both ancient cultural contexts and modern scientific perspectives. For example, on the third day, God separated the land from the sea — an event that, according to this view, could have unfolded over millennia.

Other Ancient Myths: Genesis in a Broader Context

The Genesis creation story isn’t a one-of-a-kind tale; it’s more like a remix of the ancient world’s greatest hits. Back in the day, everyone from the Babylonians to the Egyptians had their own origin stories, where gods shaped the world. 

One of the most famous of these is the Babylonian Enuma Elish, a myth dating back to the 2nd millennium BCE.

In both Genesis and the Enuma Elish, creation begins in a world of water and darkness. Genesis opens with “the Spirit of God hovering over the waters” (Genesis 1:2), while the Enuma Elish starts with the mingling of the freshwater god Apsu and the saltwater goddess Tiamat. 

The key difference lies in how order is brought out of this chaos. In the Enuma Elish, creation is the result of a violent divine conflict. The god Marduk slays Tiamat and slices her body in half, using one part to create the heavens and the other to form the earth. In contrast, Genesis depicts an orderly and peaceful process: God speaks, and creation happens. The text emphasizes that the world is brought into being through divine command rather than conflict. 

The Divine Council and the Elohim Mystery

Another similarity lies in the presence of a divine council. In both Genesis and the Enuma Elish, the idea of a higher assembly is present. Genesis hints at this in phrases like, “Let us make man in our image” (Genesis 1:26), which have led some scholars to suggest that the pluralization in the text is alluding to a divine council. In the Enuma Elish, Marduk consults with a council of gods before he takes action. 

Things get even more interesting when you look at the original Hebrew. The word for God here is Elohim, which is a plural noun. So what gives? Is this a slip-up, a relic from polytheistic roots or a majestic way to express the fullness of God? 

Gender Roles and the Imago Dei

Genesis 1:27 famously states, “So God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.” This single verse has sparked endless debates about what it means to be made in God’s image and what it implies about gender roles. Is the imago Dei (image of God) about physical form, moral capacity, the ability to rule or something else entirely? And does the verse suggest that men and women were created as equal partners, or is there an embedded hierarchy that reflects traditional patriarchal structures?

Some scholars, like Phyllis Trible, argue that this verse in Genesis 1 speaks to an egalitarian creation — where male and female are equal partners from the outset, challenging the patriarchal interpretations that became more prevalent later in history. In her book God and the Rhetoric of Sexuality, Trible contends that the language used here emphasizes a shared humanity and mutuality between men and women. The simultaneous creation of male and female in God’s image resists any notion of hierarchy, positioning both as equal bearers of divine likeness and true partners.

The Creation Sequence in Genesis 2: Hierarchy or Partnership?

However, interpretations shift when moving to Genesis 2, where the creation of Eve from Adam’s rib introduces what some see as a declaration of male supremacy. In this version, Adam is created first, given the command to name the animals, and then put to sleep so that Eve can be made from his side. For many, this sequence has been used to argue that men hold a leadership role over women, with Eve’s creation from Adam symbolizing her derivative nature.

Bruce Waltke, in his book Genesis: A Commentary, explores how this narrative has been employed regarding gender roles. There are two schools of thought: Those who support a complementarian view argue that the sequence indicates a divinely ordained leadership role for men, while those who support egalitarianism emphasize the unity and mutual dependence expressed in the phrase “bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh” (Genesis 2:23).

Another angle in this debate revolves around what it means to bear the image of God in relation to rulership. Genesis 1:26 says, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.”

The plural “them” suggests that both male and female share in this dominion. John H. Walton, in The Lost World of Genesis One, argues that rulership is a key aspect of what it means to be made in God’s image, and that this dominion is intended to be a joint responsibility. The image of God in humanity is primarily functional, emphasizing our role as God’s representatives on Earth, with male and female equally in charge.

As Trible and others have pointed out, the so-called “curse” of patriarchy in Genesis 3, where God tells Eve, “Your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you” (Genesis 3:16), is framed as a consequence of the Fall, not a prescriptive mandate for all time. Trible argues that this shift is a distortion of the original egalitarian ideal and that the redemption of humanity should seek to restore the balance intended in the creation narratives.

The demonization of Eve (and, by extension, all women) continues in the telling of the Garden of Eden and the Fall of Man. 

The Creation Story: Timeless, Yet Ever-Evolving

The Genesis creation story may be ancient, but its interpretations continue to evolve. From questions about the cosmic timeline to debates over the roles of men and women, these texts invite us to look deeper, challenging us to explore the intersections between faith, history and science. 

The conversation is far from over — and maybe that’s the point. Genesis opens with the words, “In the beginning,” reminding us that even in our understanding, we’re still at the start of a much larger journey. –Wally

Angels, Demons, Leviathan and Other Monsters in the Bible

Our glossary of New and Old Testament creatures from God’s Monsters by Esther Hamori reveals some shocking surprises. Did angels actually have wings? How are cherubs described? You won’t believe the answers!

Those who take the Bible literally must believe in monsters — the Old Testament especially is filled with them. And in almost every case, they’re working for God.

“The biblical world is full of monsters,” writes Esther J. Hamori in her 2023 book, God’s Monsters: Vengeful Spirits, Deadly Angels, Hybrid Creatures and Divine Hitmen of the Bible. “Uncanny creatures lurk in every direction, from the hybrid monsters surrounding God in heaven to the stunning array of peculiar beings touching down on earth, and from giants in the land of milk and honey to Leviathan swimming beneath the seas. Most have been tamed by time and tradition.”

When you dig into the stories of the Old Testament, a horrifying revelation takes place. This God isn’t a loving god; in fact, he’s a major dick. Time after time, God unleashes his monsters to slaughter humans — and even his Chosen People aren’t safe from his wrath.

“Nowhere in the Bible are angels said to have wings.”

“God is surrounded by bizarre, monstrous creatures, and they commit remarkably violent acts on his command,” Hamori says.

Disclaimer: The findings put forth in this post are those of Hamori, not me. Please don’t kill the messenger. 

New and Old Testament Monsters Guide

Abaddon

What its name means: A word for the abyss or place of destruction (essentially Hell)

What it looks like: He’s not described, though he’s called the Angel of the Abyss.

What it does: He’s the one who brings forth horrific monsters with iron-like locust bodies, human faces, women’s hair, lion’s teeth and scorpion tails during the Apocalypse (Revelation 9:1-11).

angel

“Among the many monstrous creatures in the biblical heavens, angels are the most like us,” Hamori writes. “They’re the most human of monsters, not just in their sometimes-anthropomorphic appearance, but in their characters. They’re the best of it all and the worst, the most benevolent and the most brutal.”

What its name means: From the Greek word for messenger.

What it looks like: Most of the time, angels are described as looking like humans. And keep in mind, Hamori says, that they’re not White; they’d look like the people of the region — that is, Middle Eastern.

One aspect that’s never mentioned? Nowhere in the Bible are angels said to have wings.

They’re shapeshifters, taking other forms now and then. In Daniel 10:5-8, an angel is described as having a body like a gemstone, arms and legs like burnished bronze, a face like lightning and eyes like flaming torches. And the angel who led the Israelites through the desert appeared as a pillar of smoke during the day and a pillar of fire at night.

What it does: Most of the time, angels scare people, even when they come in peace. They tell Mary she’s going to give birth to God’s son, save Hagar and her son, Ishmael, and guard the Israelites during the Exodus. 

But they’re not always so benign. They’re also God’s warriors. One angel slaughters 185,000 Assyrians while they sleep. When Herod Agrippa is greeted like a god by the people, an angel strikes him down. He’s eaten by worms and then dies. “Not the other way around,” Hamori points out (Acts 12: 21-23).

And then there are the angels from the book of Revelation. At the end of the world, they’ll be throwing people into the fires of Hell for eternal punishment, and they’ll unleash hail and fire mixed with blood, throw a fiery mountain into the sea, poison the Earth’s freshwater, darken the sun, moon and stars, and unleash hybrid locust monsters.

See also: The Destroying Angel, the Destroyer

Azazel

What its name means: His name basically means The Goat That Departs.

What it looks like: Not sure

What it does: A goat (i.e., scapegoat) is designated “for Azazel” and carries off the burden of the people’s sins (Leviticus 16:8-10). (Sounds a bit like Jesus, doesn’t it?)

cherub / cherubim (plural)

“Like so many biblical monsters, the cherubim have been tamed over the centuries,” Hamori writes. “Their case is especially severe: They’ve been literally infantilized. Cherubim are imagined now as happy, fat angel babies. To the writers of the Bible, this image would be unrecognizable. They knew cherubim as something far more beastly, and far less friendly.”

What its name means: The Hebrew word is related to an Akkadian term for a type of hybrid monster.

What it looks like: This is where it gets confusing. They’re never clearly described in the Bible, though it’s thought they could be related to other guardian hybrids, like the lamassu of Assyria: winged lions or bulls with human heads.

But then there are the cherubim the prophet Ezekiel saw in a vision: “Their bodies appear humanoid, but they have four wings, straight legs with the hooves of a calf, and under their wings, human hands. Each cherub has four faces: those of a human being, a lion, an ox and an eagle,” Hamori writes. “But when he sees them again later, the four faces are those of a cherub, a human being, a lion and an eagle.”

So what exactly is the face of a cherub? Something indescribable? Or the four faces originally seen? If that sounds too bizarre to even consider, things get even more psychedelic: Their bodies sparkle like bronze, entirely covered with eyes and morphing to become a living chariot to carry God. 

And then they show up in the book of Revelations, which is one batshit crazy hallucination after another. The cherubim here still have four faces (though this time they’re of a lion, calf, human and eagle), and they’re still covered with eyes. But now they have six wings as well as hands, which they use to hold harps and golden bowls “full of the wrath of God” (Revelation 5:8-9; 15:7). 

What it does: They’re God’s bouncers, bodyguards and getaway drivers, Hamori tells us. God stationed cherubim at the gates of Eden to prevent Adam and Eve from reentering paradise. Statues of cherubim are also put to work guarding the Ark of the Covenant, where God resides on earth. (They seem a bit superfluous, since the ark, stolen by the Philistines, destroyed a statue of Dagon, one of the gods of the Old Testament, all by itself.)

As a chariot in Ezekiel’s vision, the cherubim flap their wings, which make a deafening noise. They’re fond of singing hymns and praising God. They also hand over the coals God uses to burn down Jerusalem. 

demon

In the Old Testament, demons are called upon to do some of God’s dirty work — though they’re not nearly as bloodthirsty as angels. “By the New Testament period, demons are definitively associated with Satan and are fully excised from the divine entourage,” Hamori writes. “God has banished his demons.”

What its name means: From Greek, describing an evil or unclean spirit

What it looks like: As vivid as later depictions of demons as hybrid horrors are, they’re glossed over in the Bible.

What it does: “If angels are the most like us, demons are the least,” Hamori writes. “They exist to cause harm. In the Hebrew Bible, they often take the form of plague, pestilence and disease. In the Gospels, an embarrassment of demons causes all manner of illness and disability.”

The Destroyer

What its name means: From a Hebrew word meaning “the Destroyer”

What it looks like: No description in the Bible

What it does: The Destroyer is the angel that murders all of the unprotected firstborn children in Egypt on God’s behalf during the 10th plague.

The Destroying Angel

What its name means: Pretty self-evident

What it looks like: A giant filling the sky, with a massive sword drawn

What it does: Don’t confuse this guy with the Destroyer, though they’re both capable of mass murder. 

giant

What its name means: Giant has an obvious translation, but the ancient Israelites used the name of one group of rivals, the Rephaim, as a generic term for giants.

What it looks like:  The bed of King Og, ruler of the Rephaim, gives us a clue as to their size: It’s 13.5 feet long and 6 feet wide. And the infamous Philistine warrior Goliath came in at over 9.5 feet tall.

What it does: They live in Canaan, a place where the people have been monsterized, turned into supersized cannibals. And so, in turn, they’re described as dehumanized foreigners (never mind that they were actually the indigenous inhabitants) that are “giants to be slain, food to be eaten, and animals to be killed,” Hamori writes.

Leviathan

What its name means: Coming from a Hebrew word, the name means something like the Twisted or Coiled One.

What it looks like: The primordial sea monster’s form is somewhat left to the imagination, though we get this description in Job:

His sneezes flash forth light; his eyes are like the eyelids of the dawn. 
Out of his mouth go flaming torches; sparks of fire escape! 
Out of his nostrils comes smoke, like a basket with bulrushes ablaze.
His breath could kindle coals; flames come out of his mouth. 
In his neck lodges strength; terror dances before him. 
The folds of his flesh cleave together, hard-cast and immovable.
His chest is hard as a rock, hard as the bottom grinding stone.
When he rises up, gods fear! at the crashing, they are beside themselves. (Job 41:18-25)

The beast evolves dramatically in the book of Revelation, becoming a giant red dragon with seven heads.

What it does: “The sea monster is God’s forever foe, fought and slain in days already ancient to the biblical writers but promising to resurface for another round, destined to be slain again in the most distant future,” Hamori writes.

Psalm 104:26 has a different take: It mentions Leviathan, declaring: “whom you formed in order to play with him.” Is this eternal battle with Leviathan just a game to God? 

Job once more has the most poetic descriptions of Leviathan: 

A sword reaching him will not endure, nor spear, dart or javelin.
He thinks of iron as straw, and bronze as rotten wood.
The arrow cannot make him flee; sling-stones become chaff to him. 
Clubs are reckoned as chaff; he laughs at the shaking of javelins. 

His underparts are like the sharpest of potsherds; he crawls like a threshing sledge in the mud.
He makes the deep boil like a cauldron; he makes the sea like a pot of ointment.
Behind him, he leaves a shining wake; one would think the deep to be white-haired. 
He has no equal upon the earth, a created thing without fear. 
He looks upon everything lofty, he is king over all the proud. (Job 41:12-34)

Mavet (aka Death)

What its name means: Death

What it looks like: He has an enormous mouth to feed his rapacious appetite.

What it does: “Mavet has come up through our windows, he has come into our palaces, to exterminate the children from the streets, the young men from the town squares” (Jeremiah 9:21). 

But you know him better as the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse: He’s the last to come, riding a pale horse. His mission? Kill one-quarter of the Earth’s population.

nephilim

What its name means: The word may mean something like “monstrous births.” It has to do with falling and is used to describe fetuses that are “fallen” — that is, miscarried. 

What it looks like: Hybrids who are the offspring of the daughters of men raped by the sons of God (lower-level divine beings, and not angels, Hamori points out). In one mention in Genesis, the nephilim are also described as giants.

What it does: The name is used to describe an ethnic group of “mighty men” from the land of Canaan.

See also: giant

Qetev

What its name means: Scholars aren’t sure and have translated it in a variety of ways, including Destruction or the Sting.

What it looks like: No description provided

What it does: In one story, he’s a destructive force of nature: “a whirlwind of Qetev, like a storm of mighty overflowing water he hurls down to the earth with his hand” (Isaiah 28:2).

Resheph (aka Plague)

What its name means: We’re not sure, though it’s most often translated as Plague.

What it looks like: Outside of the Bible, he’s a god who shoots poisonous flaming arrows.

What it does: He liked to use fire and lightning to kill people at God’s behest.

Satan (aka the Adversary)

What its name means: Satan is the Hebrew word for adversary.

What it looks like: Forget the red skin, horns, cloven hooves and tail. There’s no real description of the adversary in the Bible. 

Adversaries can make themselves invisible, though (just not to donkeys, apparently).

What it does: The prophet Balaam was doing what God asked him to do — and yet he got a sword-wielding angel called a satan sent to murder him. 

Tip: Ride a donkey. Somehow the donkey, not known as the fastest or most agile of beasts, evades the satan’s attack not once but three times. 

It’s in the story of Job that things take a much darker turn. God and the Adversary (now capital A, in his official role as prosecutor in the heavenly court) decide to punish another innocent man, this time to see if he wavers in his faith to God. It’s some sort of sadistic experiment. 

So, the Adversary summarily kills all of Job’s livestock and most of his servants. As if that’s not enough, he then sends a windstorm to blow down a house, which collapses, crushing all 10 of Job’s kids to death. Oh, and then they throw in some torture for good measure. Job’s body is covered with painful boils from head to foot.

seraph / seraphim (plural)

Much more impressive than their snakelike cousins, seraphim are mentioned in a vision the prophet Isaiah has, where he sees the giant form of God sitting on a throne in the Jerusalem Temple. He’s surrounded by seraphim calling out, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Armies!” (Isaiah 6:3).

What its name means:  The Hebrew word suggests burning; essentially these are “burners.”

Keep in mind that “all translation is interpretation,” Hamori writes. “In this case, translators decide that Isaiah’s heavenly seraphim are unrelated to the deadly seraphim-serpents in other texts — and so they leave the Hebrew word seraphim untranslated only in Isaiah 6. Readers then have the impression that these creatures are unconnected.”

What it looks like: They have six wings. In Isaiah’s vision, two cover their faces; two cover their feet (a euphemism for genitals in the Bible); and two are used to fly. They’ve also got humanoid hands and feet, as well the body of a snake.

What it does: Isaiah stupidly mentions that his lips are “unclean” — so a seraph takes a burning coal and shoves it on his mouth. After performing this horrifying act, “the seraph explains the logic of this assault,” Hamori writes. “It’s to get rid of Isaiah’s sin.”

seraph-serpent / seraphim-serpents (plural)

During the Exodus, the wandering Jews couldn’t catch a break. After they had suffered from dehydration and disease, God sicced a swarm of poisonous snakes called seraphim-serpents on them (Numbers 21:4-9).

What its name means: Again, the Hebrew word roughly translates to “burners.”

What it looks like: This is a much less intense version of the heavenly seraphim. It’s a deadly snake with a bite of burning poison.

What it does: Kill numerous people with its lethal venom. Tip: To cure those who haven’t yet succumbed to the agonizing pain, create a seraph (Moses made his out of bronze), put it on a pole — and, in a bit of sympathetic magic, when the inflicted look upon it, they’ll be miraculously cured. 

spirit

What its name means: The Hebrew word for spirit is ruah, which also means wind or breath.

What it looks like: In 1 Kings, a “spirit — which you’d think by definition, should be disembodied — comes forward from the group and stands before God,” Hamori writes. “It’s only when the spirit crosses into the human realm that it shapeshifts, as if disintegrating into myriad invisible particles that can enter the mouths of four hundred prophets.”

What it does: In 1 Samuel, we learn why Saul gets rejected by God. He’s told to slaughter every last Amalekite — but Saul has the gaul to spare one single life: that of the king. For this, he’s abandoned by God, who chooses David instead. The merciful Saul is punished, “tormented by an evil spirit that ravages his mind, sending him into fits of frenzied violence,” Hamori writes.

When they’re not driving people insane, God’s evil spirits also sow discord, as one does with Sennacherib: “I will put a spirit in him and he will hear a rumor, and he will return to his land and I will make him fall by the sword of his own hand,” God says in 2 Kings 19:6-7. (Sure enough, the king heads home — and is promptly murdered by his sons.)

Is God the Real Monster?

Esther J. Hamori’s book God's Monsters challenges the sanitized interpretations of biblical creatures and forces us to confront a more terrifying and complex vision of God. 

“We’ve seen this God do bad, bad things,” Hamori writes. “He rarely does his own dirty work, instead deploying an array of monstrous creatures to get the job done, and always just the right monster for the moment: seraphim to threaten and intimidate people into submission, cherubim to guard the gateways and periodically to burn down portions of the earth and usher in divine destroyers, the Adversary to condemn and torture the innocent, spirits to gaslight, demons to destroy, and for a good old-fashioned slaying, perhaps an angel (if the angels aren’t too busy dragging people to hell or murdering masses of the earth’s population.”

The God of the Old Testament has long been understood to be a more angry, vengeful and even petty deity, especially when contrasted with the more compassionate figure of the New Testament. But the harsher aspects of God’s character have been whitewashed over time, likely because they make people uncomfortable. Hamori presents God not as a benevolent figure but one who commands a terrifying and violent entourage to enforce his will. In many ways, that makes him the biggest monster of all. –Wally

Descriptions of God’s Body in the Bible

From his massive member to a horned head, there are plenty of references to God having a corporal body in the Old Testament. Some shocking findings from “God: An Anatomy.”

Perhaps the most famous depiction of God is this detail of the Creation of Adam, painted by Michelangelo on ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

What does God look like? 

Most people nowadays probably fall into two camps: those who say God is incorporeal, an entity without form — and those who imagine him as Michelangelo painted him, a powerful if elderly man with a flowing white beard and a penchant for long white robes.  

Those who think of God as bodiless haven’t paid enough attention to their Old Testament, though. In fact, the first clue is right there…in the beginning.

“So God created mankind in his own image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them” (Genesis 1:27). 

That means God is humanlike — or should I say, humans are godlike?

It’s not so strange that God had a body. All his fellow gods did, from his competition in the Middle East to the pantheons of Ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome. 

Add up all the descriptions of God in the Old Testament, and you get a red-skinned, powerfully built older man.

So what does he look like? Take all the Old Testament mentions of God, add them together and here’s what you get, according to Francesca Stavrakopoulou in her 2022 book God: An Anatomy:

A supersized, human-shaped body with male features and shining, ruddy-red skin, tinged with the smell of rainclouds and incense. His broad legs suggest he was accustomed not only to straining, leaping and marching, but sitting and standing resolutely stiff, posing like a ceremonial statue. His biceps bulge. His forearms are hard as iron. There are faint indentations around his big toes, left by thonged sandals. Beneath his toenails there are traces of human blood, as though he has been trampling on broken bodies, while the remnants of fragrant grass around his ankles suggest strolls through a verdant garden. The slightly lighter tone of the skin on his thighs indicates he was most often clothed, at least down to his knees, if not his ankles. Minute fibers of fine fabric — a costly linen and wool mix — indicate that his clothing was similar to the vestments of high-status priests. His penis is long, thick and carefully circumcised; his testicles are heavy with semen. His stomach is swollen with spiced meat, bread, beer and wine. The chambers of his heart are deep and wide. His fingers are stained with an expensive ink, and there are remnants of clay under his fingernails. On his arms are faint scars left from the grazes of giant fish-scales, and the crooks of his elbows, slightly sticky with a salty oil, bear the imprint of swaddling bands, suggesting he has cradled newborn babies. Traces of the tannery fluid used by hide-workers wind in a stripe around his left arm and down to the palm of his hand — a residual substance left by a long leather tefillin strap.

His thick hair is oiled with a sweet-smelling ointment, and shows evidence of careful styling: the hair-shafts suggest it was once separated and curled into thick ropes, while slight marks on the back of his scalp indicate it has been partly pinned beneath some sort of headgear, and his forehead is marked with the faint impression of a tight band of metal. Although his beard reaches beneath his chin, it has been neatly groomed, while his mustache and eyebrows are thick and tidy. The hair on his head and face shimmers — first dark with blue hues, like lapis lazuli, then white and bright, like fresh snow. And one glance, he has the beard of his aged father, the ancient Levantine god El; in another, it is the stylized beard of a youthful warrior, like the deity Baal. His ears are prominent, and their lobes are pierced. His eyes are thickly lined with kohl. His nose is long, its nostrils broad — the scent of burnt animal flesh and fragrant incense lingers inside them. His lips are full and fleshy, his mouth large and wide. It is at once the mouth of a devourer and a lover. His teeth are strong and sharp, his tongue is red hot. His saliva is charged with a blistering heat. The back of his throat is a vast, airy chamber, once humming with life. Below it is an opening of a cavernous gullet. Shadowy scraps of another powerful being, the dusty underworld king, cling to its walls.

The depictions of Yahweh in the Bible are disparate, but some common themes emerge.

Quite a picture, eh? All these details appear in various books of the Old Testament. Here’s a sampling.

God liked to walk in the Garden of Eden with Adam and Eve … before they dared to eat of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.

Walking and Talking With God

Later in Genesis, Adam and Eve have eaten of the forbidden fruit and hide from God when they hear him “walking in the garden.”

Enoch, Noah and Abraham go for walks with God as well — as did Moses. Sure, God showed up as a burning bush when they first met, but after that, “the Lord used to speak to Moses face to face, as one speaks to a friend” (Exodus 33:11). 

Yahweh first showed himself as a burning bush to Moses, but after a while they became good friends and would often take walks together.

Holy Shit! God’s Ground Rules 

With all that walking, God had to be careful he didn’t step in something unpleasant. 

When the Israelites flee Egypt en route to the Promised Land during the Exodus, God declares, “You shall have a designated area outside the camp to which you shall go; with your utensils you shall have a trowel; when you relieve yourself outside, you shall dig a  hole with it and then cover up your excrement, because Yahweh your God walks in your camp” (Deuteronomy 23:12-14). 

Apparently his omniscience doesn’t extend to knowing how to avoid excrement. It’s heartening to know that God steps in shit just like we do. 

The prophet Ezekiel saw God in a chariot supported by hybrid heavenly creatures.

The Cherubim Chariot 

After the Babylonians destroyed and plundered the Temple, the worshippers of Yahweh surely wondered if their god had also been vanquished. So the book of Ezekiel offers up a scene of Yahweh’s escape. He is seated on his supersized throne, using the Ark of the Covenant as his footstool (!). Cherubim (not the chubby baby angels you’re thinking of but four-winged celestial beings with four faces — that of a man, lion, eagle and cherub) perch upon wheels and bear the throne aloft. 

You didn’t want to be on Yahweh’s bad side; he was prone to violent reactions — including stomping people to death.

God’s Stomping Grounds

But God doesn’t only walk and rest his feet. Sometimes he goes on a murderous rampage. Yahweh marches back from a massacre in the enemy kingdom of Edom: “I trampled down peoples in my anger, I crushed them in my wrath, and I poured out their life blood on the earth,” he tells a sentry in Isaiah 63:6. 

“This is a god who has felt the crunch of bones and skulls under his feet; the warm, wet mulch of human flesh around his ankles; the heart spray of blood on his legs,” Stavrakopoulou writes.

In Isaiah’s vision of God, is that a massive robe filling the Temple — or something more phallic?

God’s Genitals on Display

A couple of prophets even boasted of seeing God’s oversized genitals — and yes, this is all in the Bible. Isaiah, in the middle of the 8th century BCE, entered the inner sanctum of the Jerusalem Temple, where he beheld a surprising sight. 

“My eyes have seen the King, Yahweh of Hosts!” the prophet declares in Isaiah 6:1. “I saw the Lord sitting on a throne, tall and lofty! His lower extremities filled the temple!”

But the Hebrew word he used for “lower extremities” was shul, which actually means “genitals,” Stavrakopoulou informs us. (It’s worth pointing out that many scholars argue that the word actually means the hem of a robe.)

So Isaiah is saying he saw God naked — and, um, let’s just say he was impressed. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised to learn that God’s hung. 

Another prophet, Ezekiel, describes a much stranger encounter: He sees God and focuses on what “looked to be his motnayim” — another Hebrew word for genitals, Stavrakopoulou writes. He looks above and below and sees the rest of the Lord’s body engulfed in flames (Ezekiel 1:27). 

I’m not sure why Ezekiel seems hesitant about if he’s looking at God’s groin or not — perhaps all that fire is blinding him a bit — but heavens knows Isaiah had no doubts about what he was seeing. 

The Ancient Egyptian god Min was usually depicted as having a massive erection.

‘The Imposing Erect Virility’ of the Gods

As shocking as this might seem, depictions and stories of gods having erections were common at the time these Bible books were written. A carving of the Egyptian god Min at Luxor Temple, for example, shows the fertility deity with a massive hard-on as he greets Alexander the Great. 

“In the ancient cultures of southwest Asia [Stavrakopoulou’s non-Western-centric terminology for the Middle East], a sizable penis, and even its occasional overt exhibition, did not render male deities less godly, but appropriately divine. The imposing erect virility of masculine gods was vividly celebrated in these ancient societies and the religious literature they produced,” Stavrakopoulou writes. “[T]he penises of ancient southwest Asian gods embodied a conspicuous and powerful hyper-masculinity deemed essential to the ordering, fruitfulness and well-being of the cosmos and its inhabitants.”

Cain, who killed his brother, Abel, might have been God’s son, not Adam’s!

Cain’s Baby Daddy Isn’t Adam…But God?!

Most of us assume that Adam and Eve had children — but if you look at the Bible, Eve declares that Cain at least was actually the offspring of her and God: “I have procreated with Yahweh!” she shouts in Genesis 4:1. 

“The more literal translation of the Hebrew is rarely seen,” Stavrakopoulou writes. “Most renderings of this verse default to a theologically fudged interpretation, so that Eve is merely presented as claiming that Yahweh has ‘helped’ her to ‘acquire a man,’ as any good fertility god might.”

Yahweh, like the Greek gods, who had sex with many unwilling women, could be prone to lust.

God as a Sexual Predator 

In the book of Hosea, God not only has a body — he actually gets it on with a young woman who’s the personification of Israel. 

“Here, Israel is a capricious teenager whose sexual allure so intoxicates God, he falls to scheming obsessively and possessively to make her his wife,” Stavrakopoulou writes. “‘I will take her walking into the wilderness and speak to her heart … and there she will cry out.’ 

“These words betray more than the romantic fantasy of a love-struck deity,” she continues. “God’s language here marks a shift from passion to threat: In claiming he will ‘seduce’ her, he uses a Hebrew expression more usually employed in the Bible to describe the rape of captive women.”

This idea of God as a sexual predator — or even just a sexual being — has been problematic for centuries, and that’s certainly true with our current sensibilities. 

“Theologically, the sexual grooming and graphic violence God inflicts on his young wife is immensely difficult for some modern-day believers to reconcile with their idealized constructs of God,” Stavrakopoulou says. “But for many Jewish and Christian readers, it is more specifically the graphic portrayal of a sexually actively deity that has proved unbearable: It has been mistranslated, dismissed as ‘mere’ allegory, or simply ignored.”

Foreign books are immensely dependent upon their translations — all the more essential for the Bible, a book so many people take literally. That’s what makes this softening of the original message so alarming. 

“In standard modern translations of the Tanakh [the Hebrew Bible] and the Christian Bible, the graphic sexual imagery of these troubling texts is softened or obscured with sanitized vocabulary and clunky euphemisms,” Stavrakopoulou writes. 

Yahweh knew Moses couldn’t handle seeing him all in his glory — so he offered just a peek of his cheeks.

God Shows Moses His Glorious Backside 

Up on Mount Sinai, Moses asks God to reveal himself: “How shall it be known that I have found favor in your sight, I and your people?” he asks in Exodus 33:16-18. “Please, show me your Glory.”

But God says that Moses can’t handle his awesomeness — he’ll only allow him to see his backside. It’s the same term used elsewhere in the Bible to describe the buttocks of an animal, according to Stavrakopoulou. 

God adds that no mortal could gaze upon his face and live. “In its narrative context, it is a capricious assertion, for Yahweh and Moses have already enjoyed a number of conversations ‘face to face’ — and Moses has survived,” Stavrakopoulou points out. 

Like other deities of the Middle East, Yahweh’s body is engulfed in a dazzling aura: He is “wrapped in light as with a garment” and “clothed with glory and splendor.” 

It’s all too easy to think of these descriptions as hyperbolic — but they’re meant to be taken literally, Stavrakopoulou asserts. 

Whether they were literal or beams of light, Moses came back from a convo with God bearing horns.

The Glory of God Makes Moses Horny

“In Exodus, however, God’s luminescent backside clearly gives off something more powerful than a wondrous afterglow. When Moses finally descends from the Holy Mountain, clutching the Ten Commandments, his own face is startlingly transformed,” Stavrakopoulou writes. “But quite how is a matter of some debate, for the ancient Semitic root of the Hebrew term used to describe this transformation probably means ‘horn,’ but is also associated with light. The earliest translations of this peculiar story indicate that, from at least the 3rd century BCE, Moses was understood to have developed horn-like rays of light, so that his face beamed with a divine radiance. Other ancient scholars would assume Moses’ face literally grew horns — a symbol of the divine elsewhere in the Bible — giving rise to startling medieval images of Moses as a double-horned being. Either way, Moses undergoes a bodily transformation so profound that the Israelites cannot look him in the face and are afraid to go near him. Moses’ visual encounter with God has left its mark on him, rendering him more divine than human.”

Poor Moses never entered the Promised Land — but was it God who took the care to bury him?

God the Gravedigger

Moses seems to have been the Old Testament character with the most face time with God. And that lasted right up until the moment of his death. The poor guy — being a favorite of Yahweh doesn’t get you much. Moses dramatically led the exodus of escaped Israelite slaves out of Egypt, delivered the Ten Commandments and wandered the desert for 40 years. Finally, the time has come to enter the Promised Land. But, in a shocking twist, God shows Moses the beautiful sight of their hard-earned payoff — and then tells him to literally drop dead: “Moses, the servant of Yahweh, died there in the land of Moab, at Yahweh’s command. And he buried him in the valley in the land of Moab” (Deuteronomy 34:5-6). 

“In the book of Deuteronomy, Moses’ gravedigger is God himself,” Stavrakopoulou writes. “Appalled by the idea that God could contaminate himself with the impurity of a corpse — even the corpse of so holy a man as Moses — some Jewish and Christian translators corrected what they perceived to be an error in the text: ‘he buried him’ simply became ‘he was buried’ or ‘they buried him,’ leaving generations of readers to assume that mourning Israelites or weeping angels had performed Moses’ mortuary rites, rather than God himself.”

Baal, one of Yahweh’s biggest rivals in the ancient Middle East

God Gets Horny

It’s an image that wouldn’t sit well with most modern Christians or Jews — especially given its connections to the Devil and demons — but one of the earliest descriptions of God describes him as having horns. “God, who brought [Israel] out of Egypt, has horns like a wild ox!” the prophet Balaam declares in Numbers 23:22. 

“In the Western imagination, a horned being tends to conjure images of the diabolical, and the grotesque. From the man-eating bull-headed Minotaur of Greek myth to the cloven-hooved goat-faced Devil of Christianity, horns have long served as a hallmark of horror,” Stavrakopoulou writes. “But in the world of the very ancient gods, horns were the most prestigious and alluring manifestations of divinity, and most deities would be equipped with them.”

Horns were a sign of power, designating that the gods who sported them “were beings of bullish virility and ferocious strength,” Stavrakopoulou explains. 

There’s a horrific description of a fiery God — right before he gobbles up a roasted king of Assyria.

The Nose Knows: God’s Wrath and a Kingly BBQ

“The God of the Bible was particularly proud of his nose,” Stavrakopoulou tells us. “In his lengthy monologue on Mount Sinai, he reels off a list of his best qualities, not only describing himself as merciful, gracious and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, but ‘long-nosed,’ too.” 

This is a way of saying he has deep nostrils, she says — meaning slower breathing, and by extension, being patient and slow to anger. 

But once that temper raged, you didn’t want to be anywhere near him. 

In the book of Isaiah, a seer spies Yahweh in the distance, his nose ablaze, “his lips full of fury, his tongue a devouring fire; his breath an overflowing stream, reaching up to the neck!” (Isaiah 30:27-28). 

What’s God up to? Oh, just sacrificing an Assyrian king upon a pyre and feasting on his charred corpse.

The ancient Levantine deity El

The Ancient Almighty: God’s Golden Years 

Our current image of God as a powerful older man comes from a portrayal in Daniel 7:9-10 from the 2nd century BCE. As Stavrakopoulou states, “God himself remains a picture of perpetual purity: Enthroned, in fiery splendor, and surrounded by thousands of divine courtiers, he is called ‘an Ancient of Days,’ dressed in robes ‘white as snow,’ with hair ‘like a lamb’s wool.’”

Again, this iconography is borrowed from neighboring deities, including El, whom Stavrakopoulou describes as Yahweh’s father — before Yahweh was retrofitted as the sole true god. El’s (and Yahweh’s) gray hair and beard were seen as signs of immortality and wisdom. 

Unseen and Unsculpted: The Theological Dance Around God’s Corporality

When thinking about this article, I realized something that shocked me: While I’ve seen a few paintings of God — Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel depiction of God (looking suspiciously like Zeus) reaching out to Adam springs to mind — I couldn’t think of a single sculpture of him.

Part of this is due to the fact that the mentions of God as having a body in the Bible make many Christians uncomfortable. They want the only depiction of God as corporeal to be that of Jesus. 

“Those troublesome verses in the scriptures attesting to God’s body would be smoothed, smothered or superseded by new interpretive frameworks and some fancy philosophical footwork,” Stavrakopoulou writes. “A favorite tactic employed by early Christian theologians was simply to reduce all biblical references to God’s body to the symbolic.” 

Even further back than that, after the Jerusalem Temple had been rebuilt in the 5th century BCE, Yahweh’s worshippers understood all too well the vulnerability and lack of transcendence of a corporeal god. 

It was around this time one of the Ten Commandments became “You shall not make for yourself a carved image.”

Once a vividly described giant, God lost his body. 

Are there few statues of God because one of the Ten Commandments forbids “carved images”?

And therein lies the main controversy around God: An Anatomy. The book has ignited a theological firestorm, dragging Yahweh off his lofty pedestal and into the gritty, grimy realm of human physicality. Some scholars are applauding Stavrakopoulou’s daring approach, while others are reaching for the nearest exorcism manual.

Biblical scholar Joel Edmund Anderson isn’t holding back. On his blog, Resurrecting Orthodoxy, he accuses Stavrakopoulou of having a “tin ear to the literary artistry and nuance of the biblical texts,” arguing that her interpretations are overly literal and lack proper contextual grounding. 

So, even though many Christians believe everything in the Bible to be literal, they prefer to skip over references to God’s form — it’s all too close to those pagan deities. Team Symbolic has won out; no one really talks too much about God’s body nowadays. It seems that the divine anatomy lesson is one lecture most would rather miss. –Wally