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Judaism and Ecology:
A Theology of Creation
Daniel B. Fink
Congregation Ahavath Beth
Israel
Keep two truths in your
pocket and take them out according to the need of the
moment. Let one be “For my sake the world was created.”
And the other: “I am dust and ashes.”
The endeavor to formulate a systematic environmental ethic
is quite new to Judaism. For most of Jewish history, our
sacred texts—from Hebrew Scriptures to Talmud to
medieval philosophical, legal and mystical literature—have
dealt with ecological issues incidentally, as they arose.
Ecology was not a discrete area of inquiry; it was, instead,
an integral part of the weave of relationships between
God, humanity in general (and Israel in particular), and
the rest of the natural world. Furthermore, Jewish positions
on environmental issues have never been monolithic. In
this, they reflect the multivocal nature of our tradition’s
texts and worldview. Still, contemporary scholars seeking
a normative Jewish perspective on questions central to
earth ethics can find much of interest in what is known
as “the account of creation” (ma’aseh
b’reishit) set forth in the first two chapters
of Genesis and subsequent generations of commentaries
on these texts. For the most part, Jewish teachers have
resisted the tendency to read the Torah in a static, literalist
manner. The Genesis narrative describes an ongoing process,
for as the Jewish liturgy affirms, God renews the work
of creation daily. Humans occupy a unique niche in this
dynamic picture of God’s world. We are both a part
of nature and apart from it.
Consider the order of the creation in the first chapter
of Genesis. Humanity is not formed until the sixth day,
after light and darkness, water and dry land, plants
and animal life. We are clearly the final act of the
Creator. But what does this suggest about our place
in the cosmos? The Babylonian Talmud recounts a debate
over why God created humanity last of all the living
beings. One Rabbi suggested that people were the pinnacle
of creation. He compared God to a king who prepared
a fantastic feast and, after all was readied, invited
the guest of honor. Thus, God made the entire natural
world for the sustenance and enjoyment of humanity.
Then, a second sage offered a very different response:
“Adam was created at the end of the sixth day so
that if human beings should grow too arrogant, they
may be reminded that even the gnats preceded them in
the order of creation.” According to this perspective,
humanity is more or less a divine afterthought.
This is the same tension expressed in Simcha Bunam’s
aphorism about keeping two truths in one’s pockets.
A Jewish earth ethic recognizes humanity’s unique
power to use nature’s bounty to our benefit. At
the same time, it reminds us that each part of God’s
creation has its own intrinsic value. As the great medieval
Jewish philosopher Moses Maimonides states in his Guide
to the Perplexed, the Torah affirms after each day’s
creation, “God saw that it was good.” Such
praise is not reserved for humanity. Indeed, the biblical
narrator declares that upon finishing, “God saw
all of the works of creation and behold, they were very
good.” The text goes out of its way to emphasize
the value of each plant and animal. Therefore, Maimonides
concludes, “All the other beings have been created
for their own sakes, and not for the sake of something
else [e.g., humanity].”
If human prerogatives are counterbalanced by the assertion
of nature’s intrinsic value, what can one make
of the somewhat infamous verse where God tells the first
humans to master the earth and take dominion over all
the living things? Contrary to the critique of Lynn
White and many others, mainstream Judaism did not interpret
this as a divine carte blanche to exploit nature without
remorse. Nine hundred years ago, Rashi, the most distinguished
commentator on the Torah, noted that the Hebrew word
for “take dominion” (v’yirdu)
comes from the same root as “to descend” (yarad).
Thus, he declares: “When humanity is worthy, we
have dominion over the animal kingdom; when we are not,
we descend below the level of animals and the animals
rule over us.” We are preeminent only when we act
in keeping with the highest standards of responsibility.
Abusing the rest of the creation is a sign of debasement
rather than dominion. To cite a modern example, if we
destroy human life on earth through nuclear accident
or war, the cockroaches will, in all likelihood, succeed
us as the “masters” of the planet.
Furthermore, the true significance of the mandate given
to humanity in Genesis 1 is not defined until the second
half of the creation account, which is found in Gen
2:4–15. Many biblical critics of the past century
have emphasized the discrepancies between these two
stories, attributing them to different authorial traditions.
However, Jewish tradition—and an increasing number
of literary-minded contemporary scholars—view the
accounts as complementary. Each speaks to an important
aspect of our relationship with the rest of God’s
creation, and the full picture emerges only in the rich
dialectic between them.
While the first account is primarily concerned with
the linear unfolding of God’s cosmic plan to impose
order upon chaos, the second accentuates humanity’s
links with the earth. It introduces the concept of stewardship.
Humans (adam) are formed from humus (adamah).
God set us in the garden and told us to work it and
watch over it. This is what our dominion actually entails.
As the twentieth century German-Jewish scholar Benno
Jacob points out, God’s commandment to watch over
the garden characterizes the land as God’s property,
not ours. Genesis 2 defines the mandate set forth in
the previous chapter. We are guardians of a divine trust.
As the psalmist later reminds us, “The earth is
the Lord’s.”
It is not easy to maintain the proper tension between
human dominion and nature’s integrity. From the
start, God seems to recognize that people will frequently
choose to misinterpret their stewardship as license
to plunder the natural world. Therefore, immediately
after forming humanity, God establishes an essential
constraint on our destructive tendencies, the Sabbath.
This is the crown of creation, a day on which all forms
of work are forbidden. The Rabbis of the Talmud maintained
that although the Sabbath was the last thing God created,
it was meant to be from the start, “first in intention.”
These same sages defined the “work” prohibited
on the Sabbath as any of thirty-nine types of activity
that change the natural order. Once a week then, we
are called upon to refrain from all labor that employs
the things of nature for the achievement of human ends.
The Sabbath is a tangible reminder that the creation
is worth more than any monetary considerations. No wonder
Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel considered this day the
last, best hope of modern women and men who seek a vision
of peace with all things in our profane age of clattering
commerce. Later in the Torah, the principle of the sabbath
day is applied to agricultural policy in the ordinance
of the sabbatical year. Every seven years, the farmer
is required to let his or her land lie fallow, relying
instead upon God’s bounty. We moderns tend to see
this as an early—and sound—policy of soil
conservation. However, it is also one more expression
of the proposition which underlies all Jewish environmental
ethics: we are only tenants on this earth. The land
belongs to God. We are given permission to enjoy the
Creator’s abundant gifts, but we must not waste
or wantonly destroy anything. The Jewish injunction
known as bal tashchit teaches us to live lightly,
conserving earth’s abundance. Indeed, the rabbis
declare that anyone who eats a fruit without saying
the proper blessing of thanksgiving to God is like a
thief, stealing from the Creator.
The creation narrative which opens the Torah has been
the source of a steady stream of commentary, as each
generation has sought to reinterpret it. We continue
to revisit the Garden and explore the relationship with
the rest of God’s creation. Our final selection
is rooted in this tradition. It comes from Koheleth
Rabbah, a collection of homilies based on the book
of Ecclesiastes. It leaves us with a crucial charge:
Preserve this beautiful world for your descendants,
for if you fail to do so, there will be no more chances
to restore it. When the Blessed Holy One created the
first human beings, God took them and led them around
all the trees of the garden of Eden and said to them:
“Behold My works! See how lovely and commendable
they are! Pay heed that you do not corrupt and destroy
My universe, for if you do corrupt it, there will be
no one to repair it after you.”
Daniel B. Fink is Rabbi of Congregation Ahavath Beth
Israel, in Boise, Idaho. He received his Bachelor’s
degree in History and Philosophy from the University
of Virginia, and a Masters of Arts in Hebrew Letters
from the Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati. He is an
ardent environmentalist who enjoys hiking, canoeing,
biking, and kayaking. He is coauthor, with Ellen Bernstein,
of Let the Earth Teach You Torah (New York: Shomrei
Adamah, 1992) and, with Aubrey Rose, Judaism and
Ecology (London: Cassell, 1992), as well as numerous
articles on Judaism and environmental policy.
This article was originally
published in Earth Ethics 10, no.1 (Fall 1998).
Copyright © 1998 Center for Respect of Life and
Environment.
Reprinted with permission.
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