A Meatless Dominion: Genesis 1 and the Ideal of Vegetarianism

Created in the Image of (a Particular) God

These three verses have been among the most frequently cited in Christian history with regard to the development of a theological anthropology. One is hard pressed to find an in-fluential theologian who has not built his or her theology of the human upon the notion that humans beings bear (or at least originally bore) the “image of God.” Moreover, contemporary systematic theologies invariably draw upon the phrase when addressing the doctrine of the human person.

But what does the phrase mean? Historically, the dominant interpretation of the phrase was what contemporary scholars refer to as the “substantive interpretation” (Cairns: 116–19; Grenz: 142–61). This reading focuses on the essential similarities between God and humans and the essential differences between humanity and the rest of creation. For theologians such as Augustine, these similarities and differences come down to two human faculties: reason and free will (Augustine: XII.24).

In his examination of the historical development of the doctrine of the image of God, Stanley Grenz maintains that the roots of the substantive interpretation lie not in the Priestly creation narrative but rather in Hellenistic philosophy (Grenz: 143). He notes the propensity toward the substantive view in Irenaeus, whose influence is evident in subsequent theologians (Grenz: 145–52). In the East, these include Clement of Alexandria, Gregory of Nyssa, and finally John of Damascus. In the West, Augustine set a firm groundwork for a substantive interpretation. He argued that the image of God, which entails rationality and freewill, sets humans over the nonhuman creation (Augustine: XII.24). Grenz traces Augustine's in-fluence through Aquinas, who ascribed at least an aspect of the image of God to all humans on account of their rational soul. After a lull in the substantive interpretation with early Reformers like Luther and Calvin, subsequent Protestants returned to this view (Grenz: 153–73).

As Grenz's overview suggests, the substantive interpretation is historically normative. However, modern biblical scholars have questioned the exegetical validity of this view. J. R. Middleton argues that “most patristic, medieval, and modern interpreters typically asked not an exegetical, but a speculative, question: In what way are humans like God and unlike animals?” (Middleton 2005: 18–19). For these theologians, the image of God signaled how humans were similar to God and different from animals. And, as Douglas John Hall notes, “‘different' almost invariably implies ‘higher,' ‘nobler,' ‘loftier,' ‘better'” (Hall: 90).

Many contemporary biblical scholars have challenged this speculative reading on two fundamental levels (for exceptions, see McKeown: 27; Sarna: 12; Waltke and Fredericks: 65; Reno: 52–53). First, scholars such as Middleton and W. S. Towner argue that the syntax of Genesis 1 suggests a functional interpretation of the image of God—an interpretation in which humans bear the image of God in order to fulfill some role within the Earth community (Middleton 2005: 24–29; Towner: 341–56). The authors and redactors of Genesis 1 connect the object created to the purpose for its existence. God creates a “dome in the midst of the waters” so that it can “separate the waters from the waters” (Gen 1:6); God creates the “lights in the dome of the sky” so that they “separate the day from the night,” provide “signs and for seasons and for days and years,” and “give light upon the earth” (Gen 1:14–15). Following this pattern, God creates humans in God's image so that they might have dominion over all non-human life on the earth (Middleton 2005: 53–55).

Second, this functional interpretation is further solidified by the cultural milieu of the ancient Near East. In other texts from that socio–historical context, an image of a god—typically reserved for a royal figure—served as the mediator through which that god accomplished his or her work on earth (Middleton 2005: 93–145). In contrast to other ancient Near Eastern views, however, in Genesis this royal role is democratized inasmuch as all humans bear the image of God (Fretheim: 46–48).

From these exegetically sound arguments, it follows that, in the words of Ellen van Wolde, “The human being is created to make God present in his creation” (Wolde: 28). But how should humans fulfill this role as the image of God? What should exercising the dominion implied by the image of God look like?

Terrance Fretheim notes the issue that, while so much theological thought has focused on what the word “image” entails, less emphasis has been placed on the God behind the image. If the image denotes a functional role of humanity—to make God uniquely present in God's creation—then it is essential to consider the particular God whose image humanity bears (Fretheim: 48). It is, however, important to note that there are disparate portrayals of God throughout the Bible (Johnson: 176–78; Dick: 262). As a point of clarification, my focus in on Elohim in the Priestly creation narrative.

To consider adequately the character of Elohim, it is essential to consider Genesis 1 in its wider cultural context. Israel's familiarity with cosmogonies from the ancient Near East makes the similarities and differences between these myths and the Priestly creation account noteworthy. The differences are particularly noteworthy, as they suggest places where the Priestly authors/redactors intended to distinguish their mythology (and thus their worldview) from that of their neighbors—for example, in democratizing the image of God (Moberly: 50–54; McKeown: 12). As Bill Arnold argues, the author of Genesis 1 “was familiar with Egyptian and Mesopotamian cosmogonies and intended to present an alternative worldview” (Arnold: 30). To understand this alternative worldview, one must understand the cosmogonical worldviews with which the text contrasts.

The Enuma Elish, a Babylonian cosmogony, provides an example of such a worldview. This account depicts Marduk's defeat of Tiamat and his resulting enthronement over the other gods (who commissioned him to battle with Tiamat). Marduk uses Tiamat's corpse to create the earth. Marduk then uses the blood of Tiamat's son and consort, Kingu, to create humans. The purpose for the creation of humans is the service of the gods: “He shall be charged with the service of the gods that they may be at ease” (see the translation in Wolde: 189–94).

There are a number of differences between the Priestly narrative and the Enuma Elish (see Cotter: 10). As one example, in Genesis humans are created to share in Elohim's rule as opposed to be slaves to the gods—a point at which Genesis also differs from the Epic of Atrahasis (Middleton 2005: 133; Brueggemann: 79: Fretheim: 65, 77). Among the most significant of these differences is that the Enuma Elish represents a cosmogonical motif in ancient Near Eastern literature: a chaoskampf or “combat myth.” In this motif, a deity battles against external forces (such as chaos) and, through this violent struggle, imposes order upon the world (see Mid-dleton 2004: 341–55). In the Enuma Elish, the order of the world emerges out of war and murder. Indeed, the earth itself is made from a divine corpse, and humans are made from a slain god's blood.

There are themes of combat with chaos in the Hebrew Scriptures (Middleton 2004: 343–44). In Genesis 1, however, there is no struggle against chaos. (I do not intend by this claim to argue that God creates “out of nothing.” The presence of something that is tohu wa–bohu in Genesis 1:2 grinds against an ex nihilo interpretation. However, there is no hint of struggle between God and this something. God does not need to conquer it. God simply orders it.) Rather, as Middleton notes, “God's relationship to the world predates the origin of violence, which is portrayed as beginning with human disobedience in Gen 3” (Middleton 2004: 352; also Arnold: 30– 32). Unlike the Enuma Elish, the act of creation in Genesis 1 does not burgeon out of violence (Bauckham 2012: 183–84). In fact, even those creatures which typically symbolize the necessity for Chaoskampf (like the tanninim or “dragons”) are, according to Middleton, “part of God's peaceable kingdom” (Middleton 2004: 352–53). God's act of creation is an act of sovereignty that includes other creatures in the creative process. Whereas Marduk creates by violently conquering all other powers, Elohim creates by peacefully enabling other powers and giving them their own space to be and become.

The significance of this difference is of particular import for the doctrine of the image of God. If the image of God entails that humans make God present in a unique way in the world by sharing in the divine rule; and if the God whose image humanity bears establishes creation without violence and by enabling others to be and to become, then the doctrine itself does not justify human violence towards animals. Indeed, such violence strikes against the character of Elohim (Middleton 2004: 354). If this claim is accurate, the reader should expect some evidence of nonviolent dominion. And, if one reads past verse 28, one gets exactly this evidence.

Dominion and the Eating of Animal Flesh

The notion that the image of God entails a nonviolent and other–affirming relationship between humans and nonhu-mans is further solidified in the Genesis text. Ironically, one of the central terms upon which this claim hinges is “dominion,” a term historically reserved for the more negative aspect of the Judeo–Christian tradition (see White; Santmire: 1–7). There is in fact a double irony, because the term “dominion” even exceeds the “stewardship” interpretation in which humans must be wise keepers (and utilizers) of the nonhuman world (see Bauckham 2010, 2–12). Beyond both despotism and stewardship, “dominion” in Genesis 1 suggests a human rule that God intends to establish—a nonviolent Earth community.

This claim may strike readers as odd, given that the Hebrew words behind the English terms “subdue” (kabash) and “dominion” (radah) often carry a violent, military connotation (Middleton 2005: 51). However, four points must be made here. First, and for the purpose of this article, only the term radah refers to animals. The term kabash refers to humanity's task regarding the Earth. Hence, even if kabash has a violent connotation, it would refer to cultivation of the Earth, not humanity's rule vis–à–vis nonhuman animals.

Second, as Towner notes, the organization of Genesis 1 suggests that the authors/redactors intend the terms kabash and radah to reflect “the Creator's own strong, universal, and loving ‘dominion'” (Towner 2005, 247–48). David Cotter offers a similar assessment:

Thus, radah must be understood in the context of the juxtaposition between Elohim and other deities such as Marduk. It follows that radah should be read not as a violent rule—a rule that would mirror a chaoskampf—but rather a rule that is peaceful and other–enabling.

Third, while radah often occurs in passages dealing with warfare and slavery, it is frequently used in a manner that is modified by a negative adjective. That is, on occasions (e.g., Lev 25:43) those who rule are warned not to rule “ruthlessly” (perek). The addition of this adjective suggests that the connotation of radah itself is not necessarily negative. Indeed, in 1 Kings 4:24, the rule (radah) of Solomon results in peace. Given these claims, I am in agreement with Middleton, who maintains that the meaning of both radah and kabash does not entail the violent images evoked elsewhere in scripture (Middleton 2005: 50–54).

Fourth, and perhaps most significant, the intended meaning of radah must be understood in terms of the subsequent verses. Genesis 1:29–30 represents another common ancient Near Eastern motif: a primordial age of peace (see Wester-mann: 164–65). Gerhard von Rad notes that, in this motif, there is “no shedding of blood within the animal kingdom, and no murderous action by man!” He continues to suggest that the text thus entails “a limitation in the human right of dominion” (von Rad: 61).

But von Rad may be revealing a problematic assumption here. The nonviolence implied by Genesis 1:29 does not limit dominion; it defines dominion. Indeed, Genesis 1:29 is the closest in–text exegesis we have of the Hebrew term radah in the Priestly creation narrative.

If verse 29 exegetes radah, then, as Claus Westermann notes, human dominion “cannot mean killing them for food” (Wester-mann: 159). As Richard Bauckham states, because “neither humans nor animals are carnivorous,” it is the case that “human dominion over other living creatures involves no conflict. Its exercise ensures that there is no competition for living space or resources. All is peaceable” (Bauckham 2012: 183–84).

Significantly, then, radah not only contraindicates despotism, it also goes beyond a mere stewardship of the nonhuman world. Humanity's rule is to lead to peace, and humans are to embody this peace first and foremost in the manner in which they rule. They are to image Elohim's enabling and other–af-firming rule, not the violence of Marduk. There is no hint that this rule is about wise stewardship over the gift God has given humanity. Instead, humanity bears a responsibility on behalf of other members of the community of life.

Given the importance of Genesis 1:29 for understanding how the authors and redactors of Genesis 1 intend the term radah, it is immensely surprising that so many theologians and biblical scholars, in their exposition on terms such as “image of God” and “dominion,” underplay or ignore the verse (for exceptions, see Rogerson: 24–26). Douglas John Hall, whose work is instrumental in understanding the image of God as loving dominion, never cites the verse (Hall: 246). Likewise, Middle-ton posits that the image of God provides an ethical framework through which one can rethink human engagement of creation. Still, he does not explore this link between a restricted diet and humanity 's radah (Middleton 2005: 52). In his introductory text to the Hebrew Scriptures, Brueggemann addresses Genesis 1:26–28 and the notion of the image of God, but he never mentions verses 29–30 (Brueggemann: 418).

These omissions may be innocuous enough, given the limited (or extremely broad) focus of the authors. However, verses 29–30 are also frequently side–stepped or altogether ignored in commentaries on Genesis. For example, Russell Reno, in his contribution to Brazos' theological commentaries on scripture, offers no theological significance whatsoever to the verses. Reno does, however, offer an implicit significance of verse 29 in reference to Genesis 9:1–3 (Reno: 124). Similarly, Arnold completely bypasses verses 29–30 in his exposition on Genesis. Cotter also avoids them with the sole exception of noting their place in an outline of Genesis 1 (Cotter: 11). Towner (2001) completely skips over them in his commentary on Genesis 1. McKeown also largely overlooks them—espe-cially in his commentary (McKeown: 64). In his theological reflections, however, he notes that verse 29 highlights the theme of “seed” in primeval history (McKeown: 218). More significantly, he notes that the nature of humanity's rule—that of harmony—is “underlined by the indication that the animals are not a source of food at this stage, but they and the human beings eat green plants and the produce of the trees (1:29)” (McKeown: 228). McKeown offers no further theological (or ethical) reflection—this brief explanation exhausts his engagement of the passage.

There are exceptions to the dearth of engagement of the dietary verses of Genesis 1 (Fretheim: 219). In many cases, however, this engagement is extremely limited and unclear. For example, regarding both verses 29 and 30, Nahum Sarna writes,

Sarna notes the presupposition of the text and traces it forward to the eschatological vision of Isaiah. Yet he makes no claims concerning the ethical import of this presupposition.

Perhaps I am reading too much into verse 29 and therefore placing too great a burden on authors to engage the passage in their examination of humanity's rule. The question: Do I overstate my case that Genesis 1:29–30 qualifies radah in a morally significant manner? After all, Westermann argues that these verses speak to divine provision for creatures as opposed to divine prohibition against the consumption of meat (see Westermann: 25–26). While it is true that Genesis 1 includes no explicit prohibition against the consumption of meat, the prohibition is implied by the Priestly postdiluvian re–creation account, which contains both striking similarities to and differences from Genesis 1.

Dominion, “Fear” and “Dread,” and Meat–Eating

Bill Arnold writes, “The new, post–diluvian cosmic order begins as the old has done, reverting essentially to a pre– creation state” (108). The similarities are clear. God's act of creation once again begins with a world of water. As with the first creation account, God brings forth land, blesses humans, and commands them to “fill the earth.”

But there are significant differences as well. As Arnold notes, “The new order is not altogether the same as the old, since it also involves an alteration of the food chain” (Arnold: 109). The human diet gets a significant new source of protein. This dietary allowance, which suggests that God did not grant humans nonhuman animals as a food source in the first creation narrative, represents a shift between the first order and this new postdiluvian order (see Matthews: 401).

What is the reader to make of this shift? Sarna offers a positive reading: “Man's power over the animal kingdom is confirmed and enhanced” (Sarna: 60). Sarna recognizes the shared peaceful vision Genesis 1 and Isaiah 11 (Sarna: 13–14). However, ironically, he also maintains that dominion is “confirmed and enhanced” (better?) when that vision is obliterated in the postdiluvian re–creation account. In a similar fashion, Arnold argues that God's provision of meat re–establishes “God's will that [humans] represent [God] on earth by exercising dominion” (Arnold: 109).

Sarna and Arnold read the re–creation narrative of Genesis 9 in a positive light. The divine will comes to fruition, and human dominion is confirmed and enhanced. Such a positive assessment strikes against my claim that Genesis 1 exegetes radah (dominion) with a vision of nonviolence (more specifically, vegetarianism). My interpretation of radah in light of Genesis 1:29 would suggest an absence or warping of dominion rather that its confirmation and enhancement. Which reading bears the evidence of the text?

In answering these questions, it is important to note another difference between the creation account of Genesis 1 and the re–creation account of Genesis 9: the absence of the word radah. While the text reaffirms the divine blessing of humans and the mandate to fill the Earth via procreation, it does not reaffirm humanity's dominion over nonhuman animals. Nor does it reaffirm the command to “subdue” (kabash) the earth.

There is no mention of dominion in Genesis 9. In its place, new terms appear: mowra' (“fear”) and chath (“dread”). These terms bear a consistently negative connotation in biblical literature. Because the radah that leads to peace of Genesis 1 is replaced by such unpleasant qualities, I concur with McKeown's claim that a “sinister” shift is afoot in this passage: “The language of 9:2 in contrast to 1:28 holds the tension between the benevolent Creator with his willingness to bless all his creatures, on the one hand, and the effect of human rebellion with its power to sour relationships, on the other” (McKeown: 64). Human dominion in Genesis 1 entailed the absence of violence toward nonhuman animals. Humans could domesticate the animals (see Middleton: 51), but this domestication was not for the purpose of food; it was for the purpose of communal peace.

To the point: In Genesis 9, the word radah disappears just as God gives human permission to eat the animals. The best conclusion from this evidence is that the original radah of humanity is compromised by a new created order in which, in the words of Cotter, “God gives humanity an outlet for its violence” (Cotter: 59–60). As von Rad writes, “The relationship of man to the animals no longer resembles that which was decreed in ch. 1. The animal world lives in fear and terror of man” (von Rad: 131). Norman Habel captures these notions when he writes, “Humans are now transformed into beings that terrify the rest of the animal world…. Clearly, this tradition reflects an extreme reversal of the peaceful memory of Eden and the prophetic dream of lions, lambs and humans dwelling in harmony” (Habel: 107).

Far from enhancing or confirming human dominion over nonhuman animals, Genesis 9 suggests that dominion is no longer possible. Something has changed in the created order, which requires a departure from radah and a “sinister” shift to “fear” and “dread.” The peaceful community that exempli-fied the peaceful and other–affirming rule of Elohim in Genesis 1 becomes a community worthy of the chaos exemplified in Genesis 6. Indeed, if there is a chaoskampf in Genesis, it occurs in Genesis 6–9, not Genesis 1. And from this cha-oskampf comes a war–torn community.

It is imperative to make one parenthetical (but essential) point here. I am aware of the scientific issues implied by the protological claims of Genesis 1 (see McLaughlin 2014: 93–94). I am not here advocating creationism. Nor am I arguing that there was a historical era in which predation did not exist among mammals. There is simply no responsible manner to maintain this position (see Southgate). However, I tend to accept the view that Genesis 1 appears as an escha-tological hope rather than a historical reality (See Bauckham 2010: 24; Rogerson: 22–23).