The Ethics of the Fall: Restoring the Divine Image through the Pursuit of Biblical Wisdom

The Wisdom of the Imago Dei

Due to its creativity, which accounts for its lack of uniformity, biblical scholarship has demonstrated that one can interpret the creation narratives in several ways. As Richard Briggs correctly observes, “every interpretation is relative to some framing set of concerns,” and “no single framing set of concerns is self-evidently the right one for reading Scripture” (119). For the purpose of this analysis, I am taking an intertextual approach that is influenced especially by the theological insights of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Emil Brunner, Martin Buber, and Jürgen Moltmann. Drawing on the claims that God created, that God created ex nihlio, and that God created conscious beings in God's image, I propose that the imago Dei is manifest—or God is imaged—when two or more people freely self-limit for the sake of engaging in authentic relationship.

The Bible opens with the notice that, in the beginning, God created (Gen 1:1). Interpretations of this brief phrase have played a critical role in discerning the nature of God's image or character. With regard to idea that God created out of nothing (ex nihilo), Karl Barth acknowledges that neither Genesis 1 nor Genesis 2 specifically advances this principle. As he notes, it is a later theological construct meant to clarify the ramifications of God's activities, and therefore, God's attributes (Barth: 103; see also Childs: 40–41; Kelsey: 185–90). While Barth goes on to contend that “its antithesis—the mythological acceptance of a primeval reality independent of God—is excluded in practice by the general tenor of the passage as well as its position within the biblical context” (103), David Kelsey offers a more pragmatic reason for its acceptance, one that directly corresponds to the underlying intentions of this study. It does not serve “as the basis for a cosmology,” but as the basis for how one is to respond to God and to God's creation (186; see also 190–92; Brunner: 7–9). Thus, for Brunner, the principle that God created out of nothing is paramount because it implies that God, as “the One who determines,” was “determined by none” (9–10). As Bonhoeffer reiterates in his volume, Creation and Fall, this affirms that God acted freely in God's decision to create (1997: 32–36, 61–62). And yet, God did not use this freedom to impose God's self. Rather, God freely chose to limit God's self in order to create. Building on the idea that “God and the world are not identical,” Brunner contends that in creation, “God does not wish to occupy the whole of Space” alone (20). Instead, through an act of what Moltmann refers to as “divine self-humiliation” (1993: 87), God “wills to make room for other forms of existence” (Brunner: 20). In so doing, God freely limits the divine self on behalf of creation.

These tenets are critical for understanding the culmination of the creative process depicted in Genesis 1. In verse 26, God states, “Let us make humanity in our image and according to our likeness.” This divine wish is fulfilled in verse 27: “God created humanity (hā'ādām) in his image. In the image of God he created it. Male and female, he created them” (see Gen 5:1–2; 9:5–6). Informed by what some have interpreted as an internal conversation that God has with the divine self in verse 26 (“let us create … in our image”; Hamilton: 133–34; Patrick: 15–16; White: 124), verse 27 indicates that God's image necessarily consists of, and therefore requires, a plurality—in this case, male (zāk̲ār) and female (nĕqēb̲â). This plurality of personhood is echoed at the beginning of the chapter, where the masculine “God” ('ḥlōhîm; v 1) and the feminine “Spirit of God” (rûaḥ 'ḥlōhîm; v 2) are named as two of the entities involved in creation. When it comes to humanity as the image of God, therefore, Buber rightly observes that “In the beginning is the relation—as the category of being … as a model of the soul; the a priori of relation; the innate Thou” (78).

In sum, Genesis 1 indicates that God is imaged only when two or more are gathered in the freely self-limiting relational character of God (cf. Murphy: 173–77). This corresponds to the words of Jesus, whom the authors of the New Testament regard as the image of God (John 1:1–3; Heb 1:1–3; Phil 2:5–8). In Matthew 18:20, he states, “where two or three are gathered in my name,” or my character (Wright 1998: 116), “I am there among them.” The implication of this requirement is that an individual neither posses the divine image as a substance of his or her own being, nor images God in isolation. Rather, the imago Dei is manifest only in relation (Bonhoeffer 1997: 64–65; Barth: 228–30; MacDonald: 314–20; Sexton: 187–206). In the words of Moltmann (1993: 218), while “the self-resolving God is a plural in the singular, his image on earth—the human being—is apparently supposed to be a singular in the plural.” Consequently, the “one God, who is differentiated in himself and is at one with himself, then finds his correspondence in a community of human beings, female and male, who unite with one another and are one.” Such an account serves as an important corrective to what E. Gerstenberger critiques as “the heightened sense of ‘I’ in modernity,” which he partially traces “to Old Testament origins” and “the anthropological doctrine of” individuals “‘being in the image of God’” (287).

The Freedom and Vulnerability of the Imago Dei Modeled by God

Informed by the model of divine freedom promoted in Genesis 1, Bonhoeffer advances the idea that true freedom is found only in limitation. Thus, for Bonhoeffer (1997: 63, 87), true freedom is encountered when one is “free-for-the-other.” Freedom “is not something that people have for themselves;” it “is not a quality that can be uncovered; it is not a possession.” Rather, “it is a relation and nothing else” (Bonhoeffer 1997: 62–63). More recently, Brené Brown has provided concrete language for what it means to be free-for-the-other. Referring to it as “vulnerability,” she explains that it involves uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure (Brown: 34). What is astonishing about the creation narratives is that God models vulnerability in the presence of humanity in Genesis 2. In so doing, God demonstrates what it means to freely self-limit in order to engage in authentic relationship with others.

After a detailed description of the “paradise” that God created (Gen 2:4b–14), there is an unsettling fracture in the text. God takes a risk that requires emotional exposure and results in uncertainty when God observes that it “is not good (lō'-ṭôb̲) for humanity (hā'ādām) to be alone.” Put simply, God recognizes that something in God's creation is amiss. This statement is a direct response to Genesis 1:26–27, where humanity (hā'ādām) images God only when it exists in community. This does not mean that the male (zāk̲ār) and the female (nḥqēb̲â) are not good in and of themselves. At the conclusion of Genesis 1, God determines that all of creation is “very good” (ṭôb̲ mḥ’ōd; v 31). However, humanity (hā'ādām), which images God as a plurality, is “not good” in isolation. In this regard, Gerhard von Rad is correct when, citing Ecclesiastes 4:9–11, he contends that Genesis 2 defines solitude “very realistically as helplessness” (82).

In response to this governing problem, God again serves as a model. In this case, God models what it means to be a participant in the divine image. Rather than solving the dilemma at hand, God co-creates with the man in order that they may find a solution together (cf. Hamilton: 175). According to the text, God fashioned every animal and brought it to the man “to see (lir'ôt) what he would name it” (v 19). However, a suitable helper was not found (v 20).

If we suspend our judgment for a moment and enter into the fabric of the narrative, the impact of this apparently lengthy encounter comes to the fore. God modeled vulnerability by presenting options “to see” how the man would respond. In other words, God approached the man with a listening heart. This enabled God to take on the perspective of the man, and thereby demonstrate what it means to empathize with him (see Epley et al.; Chambers & Davis). In spite of the fact that the man continued to reject God's suggestions, God did not become impatient with the man, God did not impose God's will upon the man, and God did not disengage from the man. Instead, God freely limited God's self and thereby made space into which the man could enter and participate. God fashioned, and the man named. In so doing, they created life together. Buber captures the impact of this encounter well: “Yes, in the pure relationship you felt altogether dependent … and altogether free … created—and creative. You no longer felt the one, limited by the other; you felt both without bonds, both at once” (130; see Coats: 228). The consequence of imaging God, therefore, is the wisdom that facilitates right discernment between good and evil. The product is justice, which is the herald of creativity and life. This reading stands in stark contrast to that of R. N. Whybray, who claims that though God “is apparently the omnipotent creator of the world and of everything that it contains, he shows himself to be afraid of his own human creatures and to be constantly taking steps to ensure that they do not deprive him of his authority and put themselves on an equality with him” (4). On the contrary, in Genesis 2, God's decision to pursue an image-bearing partnership with humanity is predicated on the type of vulnerability that demands courage. The same is required of humanity if we are to image God in the present.

In the end, the image of God is manifest in a healthy power dynamic (see Coats: 236). As Anthony Giddens has demonstrated, power is neither an object nor a social resource. Rather, power is a phenomenon that is administered through social resources, which include such things as money, the means of production, and knowledge. A healthy power dynamic exists when these resources are shared (see Lehman: 453–65). This enables individuals to administer power in a dialectical or relational way. The result, according to G. W. Coats, is the capacity for “a creature to participate in the creative process itself” (228). By contrast, a healthy power dynamic collapses, and tyranny emerges, when an individual or a group of individuals takes possession of a large proportion of social resources at the expense of others. Under these conditions, creativity and even life itself are lost.

As Upton Sinclair illustrates in his book, The Jungle, at the turn of the 20^th century, the economic sphere in the United States was characterized by tyranny. As one would expect, bosses controlled a number of social resources embedded in the economic sphere, including money and the means of production. What made their power particularly tyrannical, though, is that they also controlled labor. Due to the size and desperation of the labor force, bosses could hire and fire at will. If a worker refused to abide by their exacting and often nefarious demands, bosses could find a willing replacement without trouble. The genius of early labor unions is that they enabled members to collectively claim authority over their own labor, and thereby administer power through it. In so doing, they set the stage for a more balanced power dynamic. This is not to say that God was fully imaged in the economic sphere as a result, or that God is fully imaged in the economic sphere today. Nevertheless, it does reflect the ethical implications of one's decision to pursue or to reject the divine image as I have presented it above. The negative consequences that ensue for humanity and the rest of creation when God is not imaged suggest that the fall in Genesis 3 was the direct result of humanity's decision to forsake the imago Dei.

The Fall as the Collapse of the Divine Image

In 1 Kings 3, God defines a wise heart as one that is able to discern between good and evil. Yet, immediately after creating the man, God issued the following prohibition: “From all of the trees of the garden you may eat. But from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, you shall not eat from it because,” as a consequence, “on the day that you eat from it, you shall surely die” (vv 16–17). Traditionally, the fall has been read as humanity's transgression of a divine boundary intended to restrict human understanding. After reviewing the history of interpretation from Augustine to Bonhoeffer, Robert Saler concludes that most commentators viewed the “knowledge of good and evil” not as “a lacuna that hinders Adam and Eve's rational capacities,” but as an attempt by the ancient author to encourage “readers to understand humanity's choice to eat from the tree as a substitution of human reason, apart from God's guidance, for a trust that is superior to such reason” (279; see also Coats: 231, 236–37; von Rad: 82–83, 88–90; Wenham: 63–64, 87; Westermann: 334–37). Thus, Bonhoeffer contends that the fall was the result of sitting “in judgment on God's word instead of simply listening to it and doing it” (1997: 108). Citing Immanuel Kant, Saler goes on to characterize “the Enlightenment's reading of Genesis 2–3 as a felix culpa, a ‘happy fall,’” because it moved humanity “beyond the peaceful simplicity of ‘nature’ (symbolized by the garden),” and opened the door for human reason to flourish—as frustrating and painful as that might be (281–82). In other words, the fall represented “an advance over Edenic epistemology in that possession of rationality independent of subservience to instinct is the only mode of reasoning appropriate to fully realized human nature” (Saler: 282; see also Bechtel; Dragga).

While these readings have value, they are challenged by the encounter that immediately follows the announcement of the divine edict in Genesis 2:16–17. There, God and the man engage in the process of discerning that which is good and that which is not good together as they search for a suitable partner. Contrary to Bonhoeffer's emphatic assertion that Adam could not have known what good and evil were before the fall (1997: 85; see also 87), this transaction suggests otherwise. The man did have access to the knowledge of good and evil while interacting with God. By participating in this process, God and the man embodied the type of wisdom that Solomon requested. It involved a listening heart—one that demands from all parties the type of vulnerability that will contribute to the manifestation of God's image. Indeed, prior to the fall, the man and the woman also contributed to and participated in the imago Dei. Genesis 2 closes with the notice that though the man and the woman were naked, they felt no shame (v 25). For Bonhoeffer, “nakedness is revelation” (1997: 122). By contrast, “shame always seeks to conceal” (von Rad: 91). As God demonstrates in the divine encounter with Adam in Genesis 2, “shame-resilient cultures nurture folks who are much more open to soliciting, accepting, and incorporating feedback” (Brown: 64). Thus, while von Rad defines shame as “the loss of an inner unity,” it seems better to understand it as the loss of an outer unity between the I and the Other (85).

Before the curtain draws on the stage of Genesis 3, we are told that though the man and the woman were nude (‘ărûmmîm; 2:25), the serpent was shrewd (‘ārûm; 3:1). The irony of this statement becomes apparent when the drama begins. While two, and even a third (Matt 18:20), were gathered at the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, they were not imaging God. In each case, the individuals involved did not freely embrace their limits. As a result, they operated out of a culture of scarcity (Brown 24–28), and tried to take possession of the knowledge of good and evil in isolation and for themselves. In its attempt to redefine God's prohibition, the serpent seeks to take possession of God's word. Accordingly, “it purports to be the power that stands behind God's word and from which God then draws God's own power” (Bonhoeffer 1997: 107). In addition to erroneously adding to God's word by stating that the divine command included a prohibition against touching the fruit (cf. Gen 2:17; see von Rad: 88; Wenham: 73), the woman attempts to take possession of God's image by defining it in a way that runs contrary to its depiction in Genesis 1 (Bonhoeffer 1997: 108). There, God is imaged in a freely self-limiting plurality, not in the possession of knowledge. Finally, the man remains silent. In his silence, he tries to take possession of the entire situation (see Higgs: 639–47; Parker: 729–47). Based on his subsequent response to God, it seems that he, in his posture of disengaged observation, was already critiquing the situation at hand and formulating an excuse. The blame he casts on “the woman” whom God gave him (v 12) is a renunciation of culpability, and consequently, a refusal to recognize his limit.

Read in this way, the fall depicts the collapse of God's image. It is not the transgression of a divine boundary instituted by a tyrannical God that is inexplicably subverted in 1 Kings 3. Nor did it “render all of humanity's rational capacities fully beholden to sin and thus incapable of any righteous action” (Saler: 277). Instead, the “fall” symbolizes the attempt to take possession of the knowledge of good and evil in isolation, and consequently, without a listening heart (see Prov 18:1–2). Nevertheless, the result is sin—the likes of which are manifest in what Buber refers to as an I-It experience. Using the social resource of knowledge for one's self and on one's own terms, the individual reduces the Other to an action in the past, to a single attribute of its being, and/or to a means to an end (Buber: 62–64, 67–69). At last, the Other becomes an object that I seek to control based on my own definition of that which is good and that which is evil that I impose upon him or her. In the words of Henri Nouwen, “ever since the [fall] … we have been tempted to replace love with power. It seems easier to be God than to love God, easier to control people than to love people” (59; see also Willard: 23). The result is the disruption and disintegration of Buber's definition of the “pure relationship” cited above, where those involved “no longer felt the one, limited by the other” (130). As Bonhoeffer notes, in the I-It experience, “a human being can only hate the limit. A person then desires only, in an unbounded way, to possess the other or to destroy the other” (1997: 99; see also 115, 122–23).

When all lines of communication are dismantled and our vulnerability is used against us, grace is forfeited and our nakedness becomes our shame. Indeed, immediately after the man and the woman took possession of the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil, they recognized they were naked and sought to conceal themselves from each other and from God (Gen 3:7–8). Whereas the divine image produces creativity and life, the consequences of its collapse are objectification and control, for the “creature who controls the knowledge of good and evil controls the power to determine the destiny of his subjects” (Coats: 230). The result is death (Gen 2:17). As Moltmann contends, when “life's gifts are grabbed and monopolized by a few, the merciless distribution struggle begins.” Accordingly, “in these conflicts we ourselves are always ‘the good,’ and the others are always on the side of ‘wickedness.’ The only either-or, friend-enemy relationships exist,” and “the end of them is death: the death inflicted on other people” (1992: 125; see also Bonhoeffer 1997: 143). Reflecting the condition of the characters in Jean-Paul Sartre's play, No Exit, when one becomes naked outside the safety of authentic relationship, other people are “hell” (23, 29–30).

As the creation pericope draws to a close in Genesis 3:22, God engages in another internal dialogue (Patrick 19–20). In many ways, the crux of this passage rests on how one understands the function of the preposition “from” (min) in the phrase “the man is like one from us (mimmennû) with regard to knowing good and evil.” Similar constructions in the Hebrew Bible indicate that this preposition serves as a partitive marker, indicating that the man is part of or like the divine “us” with regard to knowing good and evil (see Judg 17:11; 1 Sam 17:36; 2 Sam 9:11; 2 Chron 18:12; Obad 1:11). This interpretation results in the common translation, “See, the man has become like one of us (one from among us), knowing good and evil” (nrsv; Waltke & O'Connor: 213–14). On the basis of this reading, Derek Beattie concludes that the veracity of the serpent's claim in Genesis 3:5 is confirmed, and a divine lie regarding humanity's immediate physical death articulated in Genesis 2:17 is exposed (Beattie: 10; see also Moberly: 13; Whybray: 4–5). It is important to note, however, that the preposition k- is the “common particle of relation” that “describes comparison and correspondence” of the following types: (a) “agreement in quantity or measure”; (b) “agreement in kind … manner or norm”; and (c) “correspondence or identity” (Waltke & O'Connor: 203). Thus, if humanity stood in relation to God with regard to the quantity, kind, manner, or norm of knowledge, one might expect the phrase, kāmônû “like us.” Written in this way, the grammar would reflect and thereby call to mind the serpent's statement in verse 5, where he assures the woman that she “shall be like God (kē'lōhîm), knowing good and evil” if she consumes the fruit.

An alternative function of min not only resolves this dilemma and reflects the “playfulness” of this preposition (see, e.g., Gen 27:28, 29), but it also anticipates the outcome of Genesis 3 and corresponds to the concerns expressed at the beginning of Genesis 2. As an ablative, min can designate the “movement away from a specific beginning point” (Waltke & O'Connor: 212).

Rendered as such, the meaning is quite different: “Behold, the man has become like one (who is) away from us with regard to knowing good and evil.” Similarly, it may serve as “a privative marker,” signifying “what is missing or unavailable” (Waltke & O'Connor: 214). In this case, the phrase would read, “Behold, the man has become like one (who is) unavailable to us with regard to knowing good and evil.” In either case, the connotations are the same. In the attempt to take possession of the knowledge of good and evil for one's self and on one's own terms, the individual acts in isolation, and therefore, away from the freely self-limiting relationality of the divine image. Put simply, in isolation, humanity is incapable of imaging God. Bringing the narrative full circle, by Genesis 3:22, humanity has returned to its condition portrayed at the outset of Genesis 2, which God deemed “not good.” As Sartre articulates so well in his play, The Flies, the result of one's “vaunted freedom” is isolation “from the fold.” As with the conclusion of Genesis 3, “it means exile” (118).

Returning to the Garden in Genesis 18

In spite of the fall, or perhaps in response to it, God continues to call humanity back to the place in the garden where God recognized that it was “not good,” where God spoke, where God acted, and where God made space for the Other to participate without shame. In so doing, God continues to call individuals into the divine image by modeling the type of relationship that invites vulnerability. A banner example of this is found in the encounter between God and Abraham in Genesis 18. After God reveals that Sarah will indeed bear a son, the reader is offered another window into God's internal thought process. In verse 17, God asks the divine self, “Shall I hide from Abraham that which I am doing?” Because God wants Abraham and his house to “keep the way of Yahweh, to do righteousness and justice” (v 19), the implied answer is, “no.”

Like others, I have routinely equated God's “righteousness and justice” with the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah that occurs in the chapter that follows. For von Rad, the “reason for God's amazing intention” expressed in Genesis 18:17–19 is this: “Abraham has the position of teacher for his descendants, and the event at Sodom will contain a special admonitory significance for all time” (210). Similarly, T. Bolin concludes that, “the absence of ten righteous people in Sodom underscores the depth of the city's corruption and justifies its destruction.” Consequently, one of the narrative's governing principles is ratified: “Yahweh is just” (Bolin: 55). Clearly unsatisfied with this line of reasoning, Whybray concludes that the account “raises a serious question about God's justice,” and ultimately reflects God's “dark side” (5). According to Walter Brueggemann, a later author attempted to mitigate such a conclusion by introducing the exchange between God and Abraham in Genesis 18:16–32. The author's intention was to cast Abraham as a “theological teacher” who articulates a more palatable version of righteousness and justice than the moralistic and retributive version presupposed by Yahweh who, as “a childish, score-keeping litigant,” destroys humanity when it is disobedient (Brueggemann: 168, 171). When read through the lens of the wisdom of God's image and God's drive to model it for God's people, however, an alternative interpretation seems more appropriate.

As Solomon demonstrates in the legal proceedings depicted in the second half of 1 Kings 3, the administration of justice requires a listening heart in order that good may be discerned from evil. As Genesis 18 unfolds, God again demonstrates that the way of Yahweh involves a listening heart. In addition to “going down and seeing” if the actions of Sodom and Gomorrah warrant the outcry associated with them (vv 20–21; see Exod 2:24–25; 3:7–8), God takes council with Abraham (vv 22–33). Thus, Whybray's suggestion that Abraham takes all of the initiative in this exchange is without merit (6). The alteration of the divine plan is due in part to God's approach (see Exod 32; Num 14; Amos 7; Briggs: 123). When read in light of several long-standing theological traditions regarding God's character, this exchange should invoke a sense of wonder. Indeed, at the conclusion of 1 Kings 3, all of Israel “wondered at the king,” not because they saw “that the wisdom of God was in him” (nrsv) as most translations of this passage report, but “because they saw that the wisdom of God was in his approach (b̲qirbô) to administering justice” (v 28). It is the vulnerable approach that gives flesh to God's righteousness referred to in Genesis 18:19. It is by means of this approach that God is imaged, and, consequently, the way of Yahweh is kept and justice prevails.

From Genesis to John

The narrative arc of this discussion culminates in what might be the most explicit call to return to the garden in the Bible, namely, John's depiction of the events that occurred outside Jesus' tomb after the resurrection. As N. T. Wright and others have pointed out, the author of John intentionally alludes to the creation narratives in Genesis by introducing the scene with the report that it occurred “on the first day of the week” (John 20:1; see also v 19). In addition, the author includes the notice that Mary supposed Jesus was a gardener. For Wright, these details are “best interpreted” as marking “the start of God's new creation” (Wright 2003: 440; see also Siliezar: 174–79). Coinciding with the trajectory of Genesis 2, this new creation comes to fruition with the restoration of the divine image in the encounter between Mary and the resurrected Jesus.

The curious note that Mary did not immediately recognize Jesus can be accounted for by the fact that her vision was obscured by the very things that led to the collapse of the divine image in Genesis 3. In this way, it corresponds to John's symbolic use of darkness throughout his Gospel (see Koester: 123–52). For one, Mary's vision was mediated by her own expectations of what Jesus was supposed to be, and the disappointment revolving around what she imagined was his ultimate fate (vv 11–13). As Buber explains, the “relation to the Thou is unmediated. Nothing conceptual intervenes between I and Thou” (63). By contrast, “only It can be put in order. Only as things cease to be our Thou and become our It do they become subject to coordination” (81). Additionally, Mary's vision was shrouded by the cultural constructs and expectations revolving around gender that were imposed upon her. The impact of this limitation is underscored in verse 15. Calling to mind the way in which the man defended himself at the expense of his companion in Genesis 3:12, Jesus initially refers to Mary as “woman” (gunai). “Thinking it was the gardener,” Mary said, “If it is you, oh lord (kurie), who removed him, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” In more literal terms, the tears that stemmed from disappointed expectations (v 11) and a head lowered in submission before her male counterpart (v 15) prevented Mary from being present with Jesus. With a single word, however, Jesus subverts the tools employed to take possession, and restores the divine image. Jesus calls Mary by name (see R. E. Brown: 1009–10). In so doing, he exposes his own vulnerability and invites hers in. No longer is there control or coordination. Instead, there is relation. In so far as Jesus is the new Adam as Paul contends in Romans 5:12–21 and 1 Corinthians 15:20–49, in this I-Thou encounter, Mary is the new Eve.

Conclusion: In Pursuit of the Divine Image

Informed by these accounts, the center of the garden takes on the character of performance art that is regularly played out in life. In it stands the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Its fruit is not to be consumed. Instead, it is to be contemplated. When this occurs among two or more people who freely self-limit for the purpose of fostering relationship, wisdom is born. When wisdom flourishes, justice prevails because good and evil are rightly discerned through listening hearts. All the while, the tree of life, which Bonhoeffer (1997: 83–84) equates with God, stands at the center of this process, imaged by those who are participating in the “pure relationship.” The scene calls to mind Proverbs 8, where the dance between God and Wisdom draws one to the center of the garden, from which all creation and life spin forth. The unwavering temptation, however, is to act alone, isolated in one's own desire to control. In this way, I agree with Briggs' assessment of the purpose of this text: “It seems that Gen 3 is not an explanation of fallenness at all or yet a mysterious demonstration that the fall turned out to be a good thing really.” Instead, “it is the simple yet profound affirmation that the world in which we live is caught between the tension of being the good creation of God and also the fractured world that we experience” (124–25).

What is compelling about reading Genesis 3 as a subversion of the divine image described in Genesis 1 is that it demands action. “The encounter with God does not come to man in order that he may henceforth attend to God,” writes Buber (164). As Jesus says to Mary at the tomb, “Do not cling to me” (John 20:17). Instead, the “encounter with God” comes in order that one “may prove its meaning in action in the world.” This is so because “all relation is a calling and a mission” (Buber: 164). Hence, Jesus co-missions Mary, the woman, as the first emissary of his gospel (v 17).

In addition, if Jesus' resurrection marks the beginning of God's new creation and “the reaffirmation of [its] goodness” as Wright contends, I affirm his conclusion that the “gift of the Spirit is there to make us the fully human beings we were supposed to be” in order that we may fulfill the “mandate to look after the garden,” and “reflect God's wise stewardly image in creation” (2008: 210–11). In this way, the call to action is not limited to one's relations with others, but includes one's relations with the entire natural world. And yet, the demand remains the same. “Spirit is not in the I, but between I and Thou,” observes Buber. “It is not like the blood that circulates in you but like the air in which you breathe. Man lives in the spirit when he is able to respond to his Thou…. It is solely by virtue of his power to relate that man is able to live in the spirit” (89). Thus, in the creative, life-giving encounters among humans, and in the creative, life-giving encounters between humans and the rest of creation, Spirit does not stem from the self, but is present when those involved freely self-limit in order to relate (see Buber 57–59).

In the end, neither God, nor wisdom (as Ecclesiastes makes exceedingly clear [see, e.g., 1:16–18; 2:12–17; 7:16; 9:13–16]), nor Spirit, nor others, nor even the natural world may be possessed if God is to be imaged. Rather, they are to be encountered with a listening heart. As Bonhoeffer notes, the “first service that one owes to others in the community involves listening to them…. [T]he ministry of listening has been entrusted to them by the one who is indeed the great listener and in whose work they are to participate.” As opposed to the silent “listening” of Adam to which God refers in Genesis 3:17, we are called to “listen with the ears of God that we may speak the word of God” (1996: 98–99).