ANALYTICAL INTRODUCTION TO BOOK I
This treatise, as we learn from its opening section, is really the second of those which deal with dreams. The first, which is lost, treated of dreams in which the dreamer’s own thoughts had no part. This second treatise is concerned with dreams in which the mind is inspired and can thus foresee the future. The two examples of this kind are taken from the history of Jacob. The first is the familiar story of the heavenly ladder at Bethel, and this with introductions and digression occupies §§ 2–188. The second is the dream of Genesis 31 in which he sees the different markings of his flock and is bidden to return to his native land. This takes up the rest of the treatise. The first of these dreams is quoted in § 3, the second in § 189.
Philo, after noting the difference of subject between this treatise and the preceding and quoting the substance of the vision (1–3), finds it necessary to discuss the verses which lead up to it. “And Jacob went out from the well of the oath and journeyed to Haran, and he met with a place. For the sun was set, and he took one of the stones of the place and set it at his head and slept in that place” (4–5). The first question is, What is the well? A well is knowledge, which like the well water is hidden and can only be gained by toil (6–8). But from this particular well Isaac did not find water, and this means that full knowledge is beyond us. The more we learn the more we find remains to be learnt (8–11).
But why the “well of the oath”? Because this impossibility of obtaining full knowledge is a truth which everyone can safely affirm without fear of perjury (12–13). But we observe that while Isaac digs four wells it is only the fourth which receives this name (14). So too in the universe and in the man we find three things which can be known in a sense and a fourth which cannot. The world has four constituents—earth, air, water, heaven. We can give some account of the first three, but on the fourth all sorts of theories are held. And here he takes the occasion to mention various views as to the nature of the sun, moon, and stars, nearly all of which can be illustrated from earlier writers (15–24). So, too, with man. Here the four are body, senses, speech and mind, and our partial knowledge of the first three, compared with our complete ignorance of the fourth, is treated in the same way (25–32). The thought may be illustrated from the phrase in Leviticus that “the fourth year is holy and for praise,” for heaven with its music of the spheres and the human mind alike have been created to praise their maker (33–38). This meditation concludes with a censure of those who suppose that the story of the four wells can be taken in its literal sense (39–40).
Haran, as explained already elsewhere, signifies the land of the senses, and it is only right and natural that the soul should sometimes leave the well of boundless knowledge, the world of mind, and take Haran for its refuge, but not for its lasting home (41–45). That is only for the Laban soul, which is contrasted with Jacob as Terah is with Abraham. For while Abraham came out of Haran, Terah died there (45–48). This leads Philo to further thoughts on the subject of Terah. His name means “observer of scent,” and the second part of the name suggests the thought of those who like the hound scent the distant virtue but do not win it, a condition inferior to the best, yet not without value (48–51). The other part of the name, “observer,” reminds us that Terah dwelt in Chaldea before he came to Haran, i.e. that his observation concerned itself with the vanities of astrology, whereas his migration to Haran shews the conversion of the soul to the Socratic principle of “Know Thyself” (52–58). But Terah goes no further, and it is only Abraham who leaves Haran for the highest quest of all (59–60).
And now what is the place which he “lights upon” or “meets”? “Place” apart from the ordinary sense may indicate either the Logos which God fills and in which He stands, or God Himself (61–64). After a short discussion of the text in the story of Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac, “he came to the place … and saw the place from afar,” in which he finds an inconsistency requiring explanation (64–67), he lays down with confidence that in the Jacob story the place is the Logos (68–71).
“The sun was set.” Here the sun is God Himself, whose setting in the mind leaves room for the inferior influence of “words” to take the lead, and some illustration of the symbolism in which the sun or at least light stands for God is given (72–76). But we must note, however, in passing that elsewhere the sun is a figure for other things. Sometimes it stands for the mind (77–78), even for such inferior light as that of the senses, and he reminds us that the sunlight hides the glory of the stars as sense hides the light of true knowledge (79–84). Again it stands sometimes for the Logos (85–86). Yet on the whole the thought of the sun representing God holds the field, and two illustrations of this follow. In the first of these the phrase “expose” (or “hang”) the malefactor “before the sun” is understood to mean that the confession of sin to the all-seeing God is the necessary preliminary to repentance and forgiveness (87–91). The second leads to one of those curious diatribes in which Philo tries to shew that a simple and indeed humane ordinance of the law cannot be accepted literally. The text is that in which the creditor, who has taken the debtor’s cloak as security, is bidden to return it at sunset (92). Various objections to a literal interpretation are raised. Is it worthy of God to legislate on such a trivial matter? (93–94). Why should not the creditor keep the cloak, and what is it a security for? (95–98). Why should it not be restored in the daytime also (99), and even the wording of the ordinance is declared to be absurd if taken literally (99–101). We are therefore driven to the allegorical interpretation that the garment stands for speech or reason, and that those who deprive themselves or others of reason must restore it before the divine sun sets in their hearts (102–114). So then, applying this interpretation to the story, we see the Practiser sometimes illumined by the sun-like rays of God Himself, sometimes left to the less brilliant light of the Logos and finding in that a sufficient blessing (115–117). Before closing this part of the discussion Philo notes that some, while agreeing that the place is the Logos, take the sun to mean mind and sense together, and construe the setting of these as meaning the humble acknowledgement of the inability of human faculties to attain real truth (118–119).
“He took of the stones of the place and slept.” Before we consider the allegorical meaning of this we may note how the story in its literal sense inculcates the duty of simple living, and Philo takes the occasion to deliver one of his frequent commonplaces against luxury (120–126). Allegorically, however, the stones of the place are Logoi, here definitely regarded as spiritual beings, and one stone, apparently the divine Logos itself, serves him for the pillow of his mind, the head of his soul (127–128). From this thought he passes for a moment to compare the story of the same Logos as the instructor and rewarder of Jacob in the wrestling story of Genesis 32, and the lesson to be learnt from the incident of his numbed or shrinking thigh. This concludes the commentary on the incidents which lead up to the dream of the ladder (129–132).
We now pass on to the interpretation of the vision itself. The ladder from one point of view symbolizes the air, the habitation of unbodied souls, some of whom descend into human bodies and become engrossed in earthly things, while others rise above all such. And again, there are higher spiritual beings, the angels, who act as intermediaries between God and man (133–145). But in another sense, the ladder is the soul on which the divine words move up and down—up to draw it upwards, down to help it in its abasement (146–149). Or again, the ladder may show the life of the Practiser, with its perpetual advancing and back-sliding (150–152), or, once more, the oscillations of fortune as we see them in ordinary life (153–156).
“The Lord ‘stood firmly,’ or was established, on the ladder.” These words naturally suggest to Philo his favourite “thought” of the divine “standing” which alone establishes all things (157–159), and he goes on to consider the phrase: “I am the Lord God of Abraham, thy father, and the God of Isaac.” Why “the Lord God” in one case and “God” in the other? Philo, as usual, assuming that Lord represents the sovereign and God the creative and beneficent potency, argues that the Abraham-nature which learns through teaching needs both these, while the Isaac-nature of the self-taught needs only the latter (160–163); and this thought gives him an occasion to extol such allegorical interpretations and to call upon devout souls to seek for them (164–165). Another point in the phrase is that Abraham is called Jacob’s father, while Isaac is not. Again the same principle of the three types, teaching, nature, practice, will help us. While Jacob is still Jacob the supplanter and embodies practice, he is more akin to Abraham. When he becomes Israel who sees God, he will have Isaac for his father (166–172). Other phrases in the divine speech are commented on shortly with devout reflections, of which the most characteristically Philonic are those on the words, “In thee shall all tribes of the earth be blessed,” and “I will turn thee back to this land.” From the first he draws the lesson that the “tribes” in the individual, the senses, are blessed by the virtuous mind within, while the tribes in the wider sense are inevitably influenced for good by the lover of wisdom. On the second he points out that it may refer to the immortality of the soul, which, released from the body, returns to the heaven from which it came.
He now turns to Jacob’s waking words and feelings. A difficult and fantastic explanation is given, of which the main points are (1) that his fear is caused by realizing that God is not in any place, (2) that in the words, “This is none other than the House of God,” “this” is the visible world of sense which is also the gate of heaven, because it is only through our experience of it that we get our knowledge of the world of mind (182–188).
If Philo’s treatment of the ladder dream may seem in parts a feeble perversion of one of the most familiar and beautiful stories in Genesis, his treatment of the dream which follows brings out his gift for extracting striking ideas from the most unpromising material. After quoting the passage Gen. 31:11–13 in full (189), he begins by pointing out that a vision may be granted to men by the ministers of God, as well as by God Himself (190), and that God speaks in different terms, according as He speaks as a sovereign or a teacher or a friend. That Jacob is a friend appears from His addressing him by name, as Moses and Abraham are addressed (191–196). Passing on to the substance of the dream, the rams and he-goats who mount the sheep and goats are two logoi, here no longer spiritual beings but thoughts or ways of thinking which impregnate tender souls inspiring either repentance or a desire for positive well-doing (197–200). These logoi are described as pure white, speckled or varied, ashy-spotted or sprinkled. At the first of these he glances at present only for a moment, and passes on to a consideration of “variegation” as it is shewn in the pageant of the universe and in the world of learning, where the student gathers from each branch of knowledge its various parts and weaves them into a gaily coloured piece of work such as Bezaleel the “variegator” made (201–207). As for the ashy-spotted, while recognizing that literally this means marked with ash-coloured spots, he turns it for the purpose of his allegory into sprinkled with ashes and water, the ritual of purification, thus signifying the abasement of the humble soul (208–210). He notes how all three are symbolized in the high priest, who must first purify himself with ashes and water, who wears both the varied breastplate and the white linen robe, which represents a higher type of detachment from human aims and deceptions (213–218). In contrast with this is the Joseph soul, with its coat of varied colours, which of the three types has only variegation, and even that in a lower sense (219–224). Let us avoid variegation of this kind, and thus frustrate Laban whose wiles are shewn in the next verse of the text, “I have seen all that Laban does to thee,” and that he will be frustrated is shewn by the continuation, “I am the God Who appeared to thee in God’s place” (224–227). These last words carry Philo away on to the distinction between “the God” and “God” or “a God,” the conclusion of which seems to be that, just as in condescension to human weakness God allows Himself to be spoken of in anthropomorphic terms, so He reveals Himself in the form of angels or “gods” (232–236).
The next words are: “Where thou anointedst Me a pillar.” Philo for the moment ignores “anointedst,” and fastens on the word “pillar,” taking it in the sense of a monumental slab. Such a slab is erected or made to stand, is inscribed and is dedicated; and he enlarges on these three ideas, particularly on dedication. The dedication must be to God, and those who dedicate a pillar to themselves are blasphemously affirming the stability of human things, and will, like Lot’s wife, become themselves lifeless “pillars” of salt (244–248). He now deals with the word “anointedst”: since ἀλείφειν means also train for the arena, and the ἀλείπτης is a trainer, he easily gets the thought that to anoint the pillar is spiritually to train in the soul the doctrine which the pillar represents, namely the stability of God. Such a training will also dedicate the soul (249–251), and so also the words “Thou didst vow a vow” is a dedication of the maker of the vow (252–254). The treatise concludes with an exhortation to the soul to learn all these lessons from the Practiser’s story, and thus, as is promised in the last words of the text, return to the land of its nativity (255–end).