The Serpent tempted Eve to be like him-- Not like God

 

The Serpent’s Gospel: How the Knowledge of Good and Evil Separated Man from God

The story of the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden is perhaps the most misunderstood passage in the entire Torah. It is often read as a moral fable, warning of disobedience and sin. But beneath the surface lies something far more profound—a mystical initiation into duality, consciousness, and the human condition itself. The eating of the fruit was not merely an act of disobedience, it was the first step into self-awareness and the beginning of humanity’s exile from the Divine.

The Torah says the serpent told Eve, “You shall be like God, knowing good and evil.” On the surface, this sounds like a temptation to become divine. But here is the paradox: Eve was already divine. She was created in the image of God. Her soul radiated purity. She walked in unity with the Infinite. There was nothing she lacked—so what was the serpent truly offering?

The answer lies not in becoming divine, but in knowing the contrast between the Divine and the non-divine. What the serpent really offered Eve was a new form of consciousness—a dualistic awareness, a human perspective instead of a purely divine one. He was saying, “You can be like God in that you will now know what it is like to be not God. You will gain the ability to see contrast—to perceive what it means to be separate from God and to not be merely a divine being but be an animal soul.” This wasn’t a lie, it was a truth twisted into a trap.

And in that offer was hidden the serpent’s deeper agenda: to drag humanity into his own realm. The serpent is called cunning, subtle, and is described as “the most cunning of all the beasts of the field.” He was offering Eve not godhood, she was already divine and made in God’s image, but instead he offered her beast-consciousness an animal soul. He was saying, in effect, “You are already like God, but wouldn’t you like to know what it’s like to be like me? To know what it is to be finite, to be instinctual, to be self-aware in your separation?”

Eve desired not rebellion, but understanding. She wanted to know where the boundary lay, where God ended, if possible, and where she began. She wanted to “be like God,” not in power or pride, but in awareness of contrast. And so she took the fruit, not in sinful evil, but in an existential yearning to understand the world. That moment was the birth of da’at—not intellectual knowledge, but experiential awareness of good and evil, of divine and non-divine, of God and man, of unity and fragmentation. “And their eyes were opened, and they knew they were naked.”

This was not shame about their bodies, it was ontological exposure. For the first time, they saw themselves as other, or as human rather than divine. They perceived their separation from God. They recognized the line between the Eternal and the temporal, between the Infinite and the dust from which they were formed. This is what the Torah calls “evil”, or the hebrew word “Ra”, not wickedness, but simply being “not-God”. In this deeper language, “good” is the Divine Essence, and “evil” is anything outside that unity of divinity. Evil here is Not immorality, but incompleteness. Not sinful, but fragmented existence. Good and evil in this context is simply the same as saying, God and “not-god”, or divine and not divine or God and man. 

This is the real meaning of the Tree of Da’at Tov vaRa—the tree of “knowledge of good and evil.” It was not about moral laws, but about perceiving the existential divide between Creator and creation. Eve desired to know it. Adam joined her in that knowing. And the moment they did, they fell, not because they became wicked, but because they entered duality. This is not a story of morality for kindergarten lessons. This is a deep metaphysical esoteric mystery being taught here by Moses. And in this teaching, we see this is the first exile. The exile of consciousness. The collapse of consciousness. The fall of Adam and Eve from their divine nature separated from their unified connection with Hashem. Their fall was into an animal consciousness rather than divine consciousness they had.

Before the fall, Adam and Eve lived in perfect unity. After the fall, they lived in havdalah—distinction. And it was in that distinction that shame and fear were born. “They heard the sound of God walking in the garden… and they hid.” Why did they hide? Because they now knew they were separate. Their innocence was gone. The illusion of being one with the Infinite was shattered, and they experienced the terror of being other. They experienced being a human being rather than a divine being made in the image of God.

But here’s the deepest layer: this fall was not a failure. It was the beginning of a journey. In Kabbalistic thought, every descent is for the sake of ascent. The sages teach that Adam fell in order that Mashiach might rise. The serpent tempted Eve not only to separate from God, but to begin the very exile that would one day culminate in a return to unity, but now with full awareness (having experienced separation and unity, humanity and divinity). Before the fall, unity was a gift. After the fall, it must now be earned, but the reward is now greater.

What happened in the fall? The serpent introduced beast-consciousness. Humanity chose it. And now, we walk through history, not to remain in separation, but to transcend it. This is the journey of tikkun, the rectification of duality, the repair of the world, the elevation of the sparks, the return of divine consciousness into vessels strong enough to hold it. The ascent back up the ladder of unity with Hashem.

And in the end, we are told that Mashiach will come, not as someone who avoids the serpent, but as someone who defeats it. He will “slay the Leviathan,” the great serpent of ego and illusion, and reveal a world where duality collapses into unity. Where man is not separate from God, but a vessel that shines with divine light, with full consciousness. With Mashiach Consciousness.

And so, the serpent’s gospel—the gospel of separation, the gospel of becoming beast-like or non divine, was necessary. For only by falling can we know what it means to rise. And now Adam can rectify both the lower world of humanity to which he fell, and connect it to the upper world of divinity to which he returns anew. It was only by tasting exile that we long for redemption. And only by becoming aware of our nakedness, our humanity, can we one day be clothed again in garments of light.

Is Adam Mashiach in Disguise ?

 

What if the Messiah has already come—not in the way religion has popularly imagined, but in a form hidden in plain sight? What if the first man, Adam himself, was not just the archetype of humanity but also the original archetype of Mashiach? What if the story of the Garden, the Fall, and the exile from Eden was not merely the beginning of human history, but also the first act in a cosmic drama of redemption that began long before Sinai and ends only in the dawn of a world we’ve yet to see?

In the Kabbalistic view of reality, everything that exists in the lower worlds is a fractal echo of a higher-dimensional pattern. The Torah we study in this world is a shadow of the supernal Torah of Atzilut. The soul we know as Mashiach—often imagined as a future redeemer—is actually an eternal principle, a spiritual force that was embedded into creation from its very inception. As the sages teach, “The thought of Mashiach preceded the world.” If that is true, then it must have appeared in the very beginning—in the form of Adam.

Adam HaRishon, the “first man,” was not simply a biological starting point. He was a cosmic vessel, fashioned in the image of the divine, placed at the center of creation, and endowed with the soul-root of all humanity. In fact, the Zohar and writings of the Ari teach that every soul is a fragment, a spark, of Adam’s soul. And if Mashiach is the soul that rectifies all others, how could he not be present in the one who contained them all? 

But here lies the tension: Adam fell. He disobeyed. He ate. He descended. If Adam is the Mashiach, does that mean Mashiach fails?

This question haunts the spiritual imagination—but the answer is more profound than a simple yes or no. In truth, every great redeemer in Torah stumbles. Abraham, despite his towering faith, takes Hagar and fathers Ishmael—relying on his own strength to fulfill the promise, rather than waiting for the miraculous child through Sarah. Jacob deceives and wrestles with his identity. Moses strikes the rock and is denied entrance to the Land. David falls with Batsheva. And yet, not one of them is disqualified. In fact, their imperfections are not signs of failure—they are part of a divine pattern. The fall is the descent into the world that needs redemption. The redeemer must enter the exile to heal it from within.

Kabbalah teaches that the worlds of Tohu—primordial chaos—preceded the world we now live in. These chaotic worlds collapsed under the weight of divine light, their vessels shattered, and their fragments fell into the lower realms. The world we inhabit now is called Olam HaTikkun, the world of repair. But what if Adam did not emerge as the first man in a vacuum, but as a remnant from that destroyed world of Tohu? What if he was the redeemer of a prior cosmic cycle, pulled from the ashes of an ancient apocalypse, and placed into a paradise as a kind of final sanctuary?

Genesis says, “And God formed the man from the dust of the earth.” But which earth? If this took place after the collapse of Tohu, then Adam was formed from the ruins of that world. He was not created in innocence, but born from a world already broken. He was the Noah of his age, taken from destruction and placed into a Garden—a dimensional realm that was not merely beautiful but messianic, a taste of the Seventh Day, the Millennial Age of that primordial world.

Adam, then, was not just the first to fall—he was the first to carry the burden of tikkun. His mission was to guard the Garden, to elevate the sparks, to serve as king-priest of a sanctified world. But the ego arose. The serpent whispered. The self fractured. And Adam fell—not as an accident, but as part of the plan. The descent was necessary. The divine light had to shatter further so it could be gathered and elevated over time.

This descent—for the sake of ascent—is the essence of redemption. In mystical language, the redeemer does not rescue from the outside—he becomes part of the brokenness in order to heal it. As the Zohar puts it, “Mashiach sits among the lepers at the gates of Rome.” He is broken with the broken, disfigured with the disfigured, unseen and misunderstood. So too was Adam. And so too, in each generation, is the spark of Mashiach.

But in the end, that spark does not remain buried. The final form of Mashiach does not fall. He rises—not by crushing the world, but by crushing the Leviathan, the primordial serpent, the ultimate ego. In the book of Job, Leviathan is called “king over all the proud”, and in the Talmud (Bava Batra 75a), it is taught that in the days to come, Hashem will slay the Leviathan, and the righteous will feast upon its flesh. This isn’t just a fantasy—it’s a parable of inner transformation. The Leviathan is the final illusion, the cosmic ego that even Adam couldn’t overcome. But Mashiach will.

And when that happens—when the ego is transcended not just by individuals but by humanity as a whole—the cycle of sevens will end. No longer will history repeat in 7-year cycles, 7,000-year epochs, 7 millennia of rise and fall. We will leave the pattern of time itself.

We will enter the 8th Day.

This is the true meaning of the verse: “The harp of Mashiach will have eight strings.” (Arachin 13b). David's harp, the song of Israel, was seven-stringed—just like the days of creation. But Mashiach will play a new melody, one never heard before. Eight is not just the number after seven. It is the symbol of infinity, the breaking of cycles, the birth of something wholly new.

In Torah, the 8th day is the day of circumcision, the covenant beyond nature. It is the day the Mishkan was inaugurated, the day the clouds of glory returned. And in the cosmic sense, it is the day when Olam HaZeh ends and Olam HaBa begins. A world beyond death, beyond struggle, beyond even tikkun.

A world not built on fixing what was broken—but on creating what has never been.

So perhaps Adam was Mashiach in disguise. Perhaps his fall was not failure, but the first step in a journey that leads us all home. A journey that will pass through every shadow, every exile, every death—until the final soul, the final spark, rises… and the harp of eight strings is heard at last.

Revelation of Mashiach ben Joseph and the Star of David

 

There is a symbol that stands at the heart of Jewish identity, mysticism, and destiny—a symbol so ancient and so layered in meaning that it contains within it the entire roadmap of redemption. That symbol is the Magen David, the Star of David. But beneath its popular associations lies a profound spiritual teaching—one that maps the convergence of heaven and earth, soul and body, science and spirit, and ultimately the mysterious union of Mashiach ben Yosef and Mashiach ben David within the soul of Adam, the archetypal human.

The Star of David is formed by two triangles, one pointing upward, one pointing downward. This is not simply a decorative motif—it is a sacred map. The upward triangle represents earth’s yearning for heaven, the drive from below to ascend toward higher meaning. This is the triangle of Mashiach ben Yosef. The downward triangle represents heaven descending into earth, the divine light entering creation with wisdom and love. This is the triangle of Mashiach ben David. Where the two meet—where the triangle from below intersects with the triangle from above—is the very heart of redemption. That intersection forms a six-sided shape: a hexagon, the symbol of Adam, humanity created from both dust and divine breath, embodying the convergence of all worlds. This, then, is the core of messianic consciousness: the heavenly light of David must descend, the earthly effort of Yosef must ascend, and Adam, as Mankind, must become the vessel where the two meet and unify.

Many have heard of Mashiach ben David, the King from the House of Judah, the heir to King David, the one who brings spiritual sovereignty and universal peace. But Mashiach ben Yosef is far less known. And yet, according to many of our greatest sages, including the Vilna Gaon, the Arizal, and the Zohar, Mashiach ben Yosef precedes and prepares the way for Mashiach ben David. Mashiach ben Yosef is not merely a future figure. He is a messianic archetype, an energy, a soul-root that labors deep within the world. His mission is to rectify the physical realm—to build the structures of society, to master nature through ethical science, and to elevate the “fallen sparks” embedded in culture, technology, and human knowledge. He is the hidden righteous one who toils in the exile of the lower worlds, just as Yosef was in Egypt—bringing holiness into systems that appear secular. He is the soul of civilization striving to become a vessel for the divine.

One of the most radical teachings of the Vilna Gaon is that the sciences themselves are a branch of divine wisdom. They are not to be rejected, but redeemed. What we call “secular knowledge”, physics, biology, mathematics, psychology, is in truth the Chochmah Tata’a, the Lower Wisdom. It is Torah in a state of concealment. Mashiach ben Yosef’s role is to rectify this Lower Wisdom, to sanctify science, to align human understanding with divine structure, to elevate civilization so that it becomes a proper vessel for holiness. This is why Yosef in the Torah is not just a dreamer, he’s a governor, an economist, a strategist. He integrates the spiritual with the practical. His descendants are destined to do the same. The Tikkun of science is not separate from spirituality, it is part of the redemptive work. For without the elevation of knowledge, there can be no complete redemption.

When the ascending wisdom of Yosef and the descending light of David meet, they do so in the heart of the Adamic being, the central hexagon of the Magen David, the Star of David. Adam, in Kabbalah, is not merely the first man. He is Adam Kadmon, the archetype of integrated creation. He is the vessel through which all the Sefirot flow. And in the rectified state, Adam becomes the image of God on earth, not as a ruler over nature, but as a conduit of divine unity. In this vision, Adam receives from above, elevates from below, and becomes the place where all separation collapses, heaven and earth become one. This is the goal of the messianic age: the full realization of the Divine Image in man.

Now look again at the Star of David. Surrounding the center are six outer points, each a triangle with two visible sides. Twelve sides in total. These represent the Twelve Tribes of Israel. The tribes are not just historical families, they are cosmic channels. They are the vessels through which both Mashiachs operate. They are the limbs of the Adamic soul, each with a unique role in building the unified structure of redemption. Through the twelve tribes, the light of David spreads. Through the twelve tribes, the wisdom of Yosef is distributed. And through their unity, the redemptive light enters history. This is why the ultimate messianic vision is one of national and cosmic restoration, a unified people, radiating divine consciousness into the world.

When these two messianic forces converge, a new consciousness is born. This is what we call Mashiach consciousness. It is not limited to one man, though it may be expressed through one. It is a collective awakening, a spiritual maturity, a unified soul coming into alignment with its Creator. In this consciousness, science and Torah are no longer opposed, they are two branches of one tree. Physicality and spirituality are no longer in tension, they are two aspects of one reality. The soul of Yosef and the heart of David are no longer divided, they are married in the soul of Adam. This is what the prophets meant when they said, “And I will give them one heart and one way,” and “On that day, Hashem will be One and His Name will be One.” The redemption is not just a change in the world, it is a transformation of consciousness. A shift from fragmentation to oneness.

So what is the Star of David? It is not just a Jewish symbol. It is a sacred technology. A blueprint of the soul, a prophecy in geometry. It teaches us how heaven and earth interact, how two messiahs operate, how Adam is restored, and how the final redemption unfolds, not as a miracle alone, but as a process of inner and outer integration.

And now, the most important question: what does this mean for us? It means that each of us carries a piece of Yosef’s mission, to redeem the lower world, to elevate the knowledge of the nations, to sanctify the secular. It means that each of us is invited into David’s light, to receive Torah, to refine character, to open our hearts to divine presence. It means that we are not waiting for Mashiach to arrive, we are awakening the Mashiach within. By uniting the upward and downward forces in ourselves, we become vessels for that consciousness. We become Adam restored. We become the star. We become partakers in and one with the redemption.