AND GOD SAID, “Let there be an expanse between the waters to separate water from water.” 7So God made the expanse and separated the water under the expanse from the water above it. And it was so. 8God called the expanse “sky.” And there was evening, and there was morning—the second day.
9And God said, “Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place, and let dry ground appear.” And it was so. 10God called the dry ground “land,” and the gathered waters he called “seas.” And God saw that it was good.
11Then God said, “Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds.” And it was so. 12The land produced vegetation: plants bearing seed according to their kinds and trees bearing fruit with seed in it according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good. 13And there was evening, and there was morning—the third day.
Original Meaning
IN 1:1–5 WE ARGUED that the author focuses on a movement from a chaotic (nonfunctional) condition through the setting up of the functions that established an ordered, operational cosmos. This same theme is continued in the next two “days” of creation.
Day Two (1:6–8)
DAY TWO DESCRIBES the setting up of the next function, focusing on the raqiaʿ. Despite the NIV’s attempt to mitigate the meaning of this word through an ambiguous translation such as “expanse” and the attempt of others to make it scientifically precise through the translation “atmosphere,”1 P. Seely has amply demonstrated that the raqiaʿ, structurally speaking, was perceived by the Israelite audience as a solid dome.
As to the solidity of the firmament, the historical context is that all peoples in all parts of the world, including the ancient Near East, from the beginning of history until 200 A.D. (and almost all peoples after that until modern times) believed that the sky, the firmament, was rock-solid.2
This conclusion is not based on false etymologizing that extrapolates the meaning of the noun from its verb forms (which have to do with beating something out), but on the comparison of the lexical data from Old Testament usage of the noun with the cultural context of the ancient Near East—the cultural context of the biblical author. The same result would not be possible using a procedure that puts our scientific understanding in the driver’s seat. Seely concludes with the statement that “defining the firmament as atmosphere is a modernizing reinterpretation of the Bible—indeed, a rewriting of the Bible.”3
The word raqiaʿ occurs only seventeen times in the Hebrew Bible, nine of which are in Genesis 1. But five are in Ezekiel 1 and 10, a description of the solid platform of the chariot throne; these Ezekiel references are clear and compelling. In the remaining three occurrences there is no reference to function (Ps. 19:1 and 150:1, where the raqiaʿ is parallel to “heavens” and “sanctuary” respectively, and Dan. 12:3, where it is parallel to the place of the stars). In Genesis 1 the raqiaʿ is named šamayim (NIV: “sky”) and separates the waters above from the waters below. This combination suggests that the floodgates that are opened in the šamayim that allow the rain to come at the time of the Flood (7:11; 8:2) are related to the raqiaʿ.4 This connection is confirmed in Psalm 148:4, where the waters are described as being above the šamayim, just as Genesis 1 describes them as above the raqiaʿ.
In Israelite texts the clouds come from the ends of the earth (Ps. 135:7). In the thinking of the ancient world, the ends of the earth were where the gates of heaven were. In the Sumerian composition entitled Enki and the World Order, Ishkur, who is the weather god, opens the gates of heaven.5 This was the way Mesopotamians understood where clouds came from. In Mesopotamian cosmology, the ends of the earth refer to the horizon. This is where the gates of heaven are located because the sun is seen as setting there as it goes through the gates of heaven.
Other meteorological phenomena are viewed as kept in “storehouses” (Job 38:22; Ps. 135:7). The word translated “storehouses” can also refer to treasuries that store precious objects as well as royal weapons. Hail, snow, wind, thunder, and lightning are often seen as the weapons God uses to defeat his enemies. Likewise, storehouses serve for the storage of raw materials such as barley, dates, grain, or tithes in general. In the same way God rations out the products from his storehouses as necessary. Cosmic storehouses are not common imagery in the ancient Near East. All of this demonstrates the close relationship between the raqiaʿ and the weather.
In Genesis 1:17 the heavenly bodies are set in the raqiaʿ. This concept can easily be identified in the ancient Near East. In Akkadian literature the levels of heaven are made of various types of stone (and are therefore viewed as solid). In Mesopotamian understanding, the stars were engraved on the jasper surface of the middle heavens, and the entire surface moved. In astronomical texts (Mul-Apin series) the thirty-six principal stars were divided into three segments known as the paths of Anu, Enlil, and Ea. These fixed stellar paths occupied the northern, southern, and equatorial bands of the sky.6 In the omen series known as Enuma Anu Enlil, Anu, Enlil, and Ea established the positions, locations, and paths of the stars.7 In Enuma Elish, Marduk sets up the stations of the stars.8 Thus, the idea of setting the heavenly bodies in a solid background is the common perception.
Additionally note that since the Israelites located the realm of both the birds and the stars in relation to the raqiaʿ,9 there is no scientifically identifiable structure with which it can be identified. As discussed earlier, however (pp. 84–87), it is of little concern what structural descriptions might be used in the communication of God’s creative activity. The text is using ancient conventional thinking about structure to communicate other, more important issues. Nevertheless, it is not accurate to say there is no such thing as a raqiaʿ—there is a raqiaʿ, and it is blue. But it is an observed entity with a function connected to it. It is not a structural entity in our view, though it was in theirs.
The function of the raqiaʿ was to regulate the weather, as is evident from the description of the waters above it.10 In a functional approach, the author has apparently used the cosmological language available to him to describe weather. Given the need to affirm that God created the cosmos with an operational weather system, the setting up of a raqiaʿ would be the logical choice. The intention of the text is not to convey structure but function.
In Enuma Elish we find the closest parallel in the ancient Near East to this concept. There the victor, Marduk, divided the corpse of the defeated chaos monster, Tiamat, into two halves. As Tiamat represents the primordial sea, here two halves now become the chaos waters above and below. Limits and obstacles are set in place so that the waters of chaos are under control. In biblical thinking there is no antagonist, no battle, and no threat. Nevertheless, the sources of chaos are brought under control. The waters of precipitation that can unleash chaos in the cosmos are constrained by means of the raqiaʿ. The waters above, then, are understood as the source of precipitation (as opposed to the scientific attempt to posit the existence of a vapor canopy).11
Day Three (1:9–13)
INTERPRETERS HAVE OFTEN wondered why day three has two elements attached to it: the separation of water and dry land, and the production of vegetation. From a literary standpoint this helps to establish parallelism between days 1–3 and days 4–6. Days one and four are similar, as are days two and five, and days three and six. Just as day three contains two sequences, so day six deals with animals in a first sequence and people in a second.
While these literary observations accurately assess the narrator’s art, they do not fully disclose the nature of the relationship between the two sets. This relationship will be explored in detail in the discussion of days 4–6. For now, however, it is important to understand that the inclusion of two elements on day three is not just a literary nicety. Though the two elements are not closely related in a structural/scientific sense, they are intrinsically related in a functional approach.
Those who approach Genesis 1 as a record of God’s making of things have found day three a mystery, for the text does not suggest any manufacturing work on God’s part. In contrast, the organizing and ordering of the cosmos is clear. The two elements brought together on the third day focus on a cosmos designed to provide for vegetation and agriculture. Soil and water sources on the one hand, and reproduction of plants through seed on the other, represent the crucial ingredients for vegetation. The description focuses on how the agricultural system is set up to function. God made it so plants bear seeds and those seeds grow new plants.
THE TEXT HAS NOW presented three functions God has set up as he brings the ordered cosmos into operation: time, weather, and agriculture. That these three stand as the foundational functions of creation is confirmed after the Flood when God declares that he will never bring back the waters of chaos as he did in the Flood: “As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest [agriculture], cold and heat, summer and winter [weather], day and night [time] will never cease” (8:22).
Moreover, these three are not unique to the biblical perspective. Enuma Elish, in a fragmentary section of tablet 5, contains a similar sequence. Lines 39–40 make reference to the day and the year and are followed up in line 46 by a reference to the watches of the night. In lines 47–52 Marduk creates precipitation accompanied by clouds, winds, and fog. Then in lines 53–58 water sources on earth are set up and dirt is piled up.12 In other words, we see time, weather, and agriculture addressed in order and in functional terms. Before we discuss the significance of the functions, we should say a word about using ancient Near Eastern parallels,
If we are going to “bridge contexts,” we must know what we are bridging from. Thus, we look for ways to understand the ancient Near Eastern culture that may have been the backdrop of Israelite culture. When we explore similarities and differences between the Old Testament and other ancient texts, we are not doing so in order to establish literary dependence (in either direction) or to figure out which is “original.” Nor are we taking up the study to denigrate the Bible or to vindicate it. Instead, we are approaching the texts with an understanding that literature is a window to culture.
There are many significant ways, of course, in which the Israelites were different from their neighbors. Many of these are a direct result of revelation. Thus, their view of the nature of God, the role of humanity, the foundations of ethics, and the methods of worship all distinguish them from other ancient peoples. In most cases, however, if there is no revelation to the contrary, one can logically posit that Israelite thinking was not necessarily different from that present in the cultures dominating the ancient world. This logic is strengthened if the vocabulary or conceptual framework of the biblical texts also show an affinity with ancient Near Eastern modes of thought.
Using this type of analysis on the biblical text does not empty it of its sacredness or its inspiration. It simply recognizes that communication is going to be accomplished as the speaker or author makes effective use of that which is familiar to his audience. In this case, then, using a wide variety of ancient Near Eastern sources can help us to understand the mindset that sees creation in terms of functions.
What does the text intend to teach as it concludes its roster of functions? Most of all, it wants to convey that the creation of these functions was deemed “good” (ṭob) by God (1:10, 12). In order to understand the significance of this assessment, we must capture the essence of this word. Ṭob is broad enough in Hebrew to extend to the moral/ethical realm as well as potentially serving as a comment on the quality of workmanship, to name just a couple of possibilities. In Genesis 1 the meaning of “good” can be judged by asking what “not good” implies. The biblical text knows of one thing that is not good: “It is not good for the man to be alone” (2:18). If this contrast points us in the right direction, as I believe it does, “good” suggests that a thing operates according to purpose.
Did the Israelite experience of these functions of the cosmos suggest that they were good? In each case I suspect that they struggled with the concept. As discussed in the last chapter, they understood that time and the times of life were in the hands of God, yet they felt it working against them as the short years of life passed by. In the same sense they knew that the various meteorological phenomena were in the hands of God. In fact, many of them were counted among Yahweh’s arsenal of weapons when he took on the role of divine warrior. As a result the winds, fire, hail, lightning, rain, and thunder were all wielded by God in purposeful ways.13 Nevertheless, the climate often seemed to act against them. The patriarchs and the family of Elimelech and Naomi all had to cope with famine and drought.
The agricultural process also could work against them. There were many obstacles to be overcome in the planting-harvesting cycle. Whether problems arose from the climate or from agriculture, bad years were all too common. A bad year could wipe out the crop, giving the farmers insufficient food for the coming year, inadequate feed for their livestock, and negligible seed for next year’s planting. It would not take long for this sequence to eventuate in a financial crisis that resulted in the farmer or his family ending up in a debt-slavery condition. Since Israel was largely an agrarian society, these problems did not just affect individual families; rather, everyone suffered. Genesis 1, however, claims that the original creation was not designed to set up a struggle between antagonists (i.e., people and nature).
As a king sets up an administration by which the state will operate, so God is setting up the administrative organs of the cosmos. Time, climate, and vegetation represent the tri-part governing structure of the cosmos (as the executive, judiciary, and legislative branches constitute the means by which the American government operates). They were perfectly conceived and properly initiated in suitable functioning order, though they have now become agents that threaten survival and forces against which we struggle to no avail.
Contemporary Significance
AS WE MOVE NOW to the Contemporary Significance section, we must keep in mind that we cannot always demand imperatives from the text. Often the text is offering information about what we should believe about God rather than telling us what to do. The fact that God has set up the agricultural process may be the basis on which we infer certain responsibilities toward the earth’s ecosystems, but that would be our inference, not the text’s teaching. We may legitimately have an ecologically sensitive theology and support that theology through texts that offer some imperatives (sometimes to be found in the New Testament), but we must carefully distinguish between the text’s imperatives and our inferences by paying close attention to the text’s focus.
Along with time, weather/climate and agriculture are the three functions of the cosmos of most significance to us. They are beyond our control, yet they define our existence.
An article in Time in late summer 1999 offered a summary of the current consensus regarding human evolution. In the last section of the article, the authors suggested that technology had made the continuation of human evolution along the traditional lines unlikely:
During prehistory, only the fittest individuals and species survived to reproduce. Now strong and weak alike have access to medicine, food and shelter of unprecedented quality and abundance. “Poor peasants in the Third World,” says University of Michigan anthropologist Milford Wolpoff, “are better off than the Emperor of China was 1,000 years ago.”
And technology shows no signs of slowing down, which means that even dramatic changes in the natural world won’t necessarily have evolutionary consequences. Argues Wolpoff, “We’re not going to [adapt to] the next ice age by changing our physical form. We’ll set off an atom bomb or set up a space mirror or whatever [to control climate].” . . .
That’s not to say humanity can’t become extinct. A 50-mile-wide asteroid crashing down from space would do it. So could a sudden and thorough collapse of earth’s ecosystem through pollution, deforestation and the like.14
It is interesting how this assessment comes back to the three major functions of Genesis 1 and our ability to control them. Indeed, the conclusion of the article suggests that we are in the driver’s seat by positing a sense of humanistic purpose and self-determination to replace the role the ancients gave to deity: “After millions of years, evolution by natural selection, operating blindly and randomly, has produced a creature capable of overturning evolution itself. Where we go from here is up to us.”15
This sort of “master of our fate” philosophy is not biblical. We should not expect to experience these functions as good any more than the Israelites did, though it is true that technology has given us better ways to cope with them if not to control them. When we seek to control the functions, it is more likely that we would create chaos rather than extend order. This is graphically illustrated in Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein, in which Victor Frankenstein undertakes the task of creation simply because he is capable of doing so. Though he succeeds in manufacturing a working model, he has not thought through what his responsibilities are. The result is not an advancement of humanity but death and destruction. Creating something only in material terms, without having the moral basis or the capacity to control it, will result only in the extension of chaos rather than of order. If being masters of our fate results only in chaos, we are masters of nothing.16
We not only fill our world with chaos, we fill our lives with chaos. God shows himself to be a God of order, while our sin has made us people of chaos. Ravi Zacharias asks whether we as individuals know who we really are:
We all hunger for meaning and judge other lives according to their coherence. Where there is no coherence, there is no meaning. We look for coherence between law and life. We look for coherence between word and deed. We look for coherence between promises and fulfillments. We look for coherence between love and trust. In short, there is a longing to find a connectedness in life.17
We can only rediscover who we are as we come to understand who God is. He is utterly and eternally coherent. When he drew order out of chaos and made the world functional, he created coherence and established meaning for the cosmos and for each life.
ONE AREA TODAY where we are seeking to extend human control of the functions of our world is in the area of cloning. In the 1950s and 1960s, contraception devices made it possible to enjoy sex without procreation. In more recent days, genetical engineering is making it possible to have reproduction without sex.18 Should we, like Victor Frankenstein, carry out scientific reproduction simply because we are capable of it? As that novel makes graphically clear, the scientist may have a very different opinion of success than the product of his experiments. John Kilmer, the Director of the Center for Bioethics, has been quoted as saying, “I have met a lot of people who would like to be cloned. I have not yet met anybody who wishes they had been a clone.”19
The pursuit of knowledge cannot be seen as a neutral thing. Knowledge may be neutral, but its pursuit ceases to be neutral because of those pursuing it.
One cannot have lived in the twentieth century without realizing that acquired knowledge can be employed to the detriment of humankind. The bombing of London or Dresden or Baghdad cannot be separated from knowledge of aeronautics and sophisticated guidance and propulsion systems. The use of Agent Orange to defoliate the forests of Southeast Asia cannot be separated from knowledge of chemicals, their properties, and what results from their use. Knowledge of the structure of the atom led almost inexorably to the crafting of the atomic bomb, almost as if the discovery and development of the destructive power unleashed by the splitting of the atom was part of the original intent of the atomic scientists’ program. Yet it was scientists, not knowledge per se, that turned theory into superheated mushroom clouds. In these cases and countless others, it was not the knowledge that was at fault, but the persons who used that knowledge for destructive and arguably immoral purposes.20
This is the problem when we look to our own potential to control cosmic functions as the path to human salvation. Our ability to advance is often compromised by our human failings of shortsightedness and self-will. As a result, today’s medical ethicists are calling us to wisdom, balance, realism, and sound theology.
A hopeful Christian realism about human life can go far in counteracting the extremes of technological utopias and nightmarish doomsdays which now creep into the genetic discussion. A hopeful Christian vision of what makes human life truly human will encourage those genetic efforts that are even now relieving much suffering and contributing to human wholeness. On the other hand, a wise Christian realism will challenge the biological engineers who are not content with humankind but are ambitiously intent on improving the race. Without any ingratitude for the brilliance of their genetic achievements, some of us believe that salvation lies beyond any human revolution (even the scientific one) and that any human movement that claims ultimacy for its own vision breeds tragedy. Such is the posture of hopeful realism.21
The call to responsibility is clear. God has given us wisdom and with it the ability to explore the world he has given us. There is a difference between harnessing our knowledge and giving it free reign. We rarely succeed in bringing order, but we can easily unleash chaos.
This suggests that knowledge involves risk, not in the sense that attaining it is risky, but in the sense that knowers can do a variety of things with the attained knowledge, and we cannot predict whether they will use that knowledge for good or for evil. But unless we are willing to risk bad consequences, we cannot accomplish the good that someone possessing that knowledge might produce. Put another way, although it may be true that a particular evil might not have occurred if we had not explored such and such an area, it may also be true that a particular evil would not have been averted if we had refrained from exploring that particular area.22
As we bring these general observations to the question of cloning, we must recognize the ethical questions involved in the technology. N. M. de S. Cameron identifies two principal objections: dignity and choice.23 Dehumanization is one step closer when the human product is merely the result of a laboratory procedure. The concept of parents who take responsibility for that which they have procreated can easily be lost in the shuffle. Furthermore, we all know of the psychological damage done to a child when the parents impose their own dreams on the child. Forced to live out the parents’ hopes and recoup their failure, the child can end up frustrated, disturbed, and driven. By cloning, we simply are moving this imposition on a person’s choices further up the line as we make the decisions needed to create the person we desire.
Science cannot be given free reign to do as it pleases, or we will become victims of our own savage curiosity. The warning of Conrad Hyers will serve as a suitable conclusion:
Much of twentieth century literature, not surprisingly, has had the flavor of a tragic sensibility. Following upon the grand dreams of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries’ trust in enlightenment, reason and progress, with all its roseate promises of earthly realizations of the kingdom of God or secular utopias on the horizon, have come a succession of Pandora’s boxes with monstrous new problems and evils to plague us. So noble a heroic vision has awakened to the light of common day or turned into a Frankensteinish nightmare from which there is no waking. The Promethean fire has never burned so brightly and so devastatingly, and the fruit of the tree of knowledge has never been more sweet and more bitter, than in the twentieth century. We seem condemned, like Sisyphus, to roll stones laboriously up the mountainside, only to have them come crashing back down upon us, yet to be eternally flogged onward by the taskmaster within us to inch ever larger, ever more destructive stones up the mountainside. Certainly no age has been in greater need than our own of developing a mature sensibility relative to its own Promethean character, for no age has experienced greater heights of achievement and greater depths of savagery than our own. Stealing the sacred fire is the name of the game for developed and developing nations alike, and Prometheus continues to offer himself as the true hope of the human race.24