Both Sam and Russ believe that the Biblical creation narratives intend to convey the general literal truth that God created the material universe. This understanding of an intended literal meaning is consistent with a priori beliefs about God. Neither seems persuaded that the writer meant for the text to be read mythically by the original readers. It isn’t transparently mythic in literary style: it uses ordinary words and ordinary syntax; it makes sense when read literally. The reason for invoking True Myth is, I suspect, the difficulty in reconciling details of the narratives with evidence (e.g., creation of trees prior to the sun). This difficulty might be resolved if we no longer read the details literally.

Sam suggests instead that our literal readings may be faulty. Exegetes have gotten themselves into trouble before by making unwarranted assumptions about the meaning of the text. For example, how often have we heard that the “firmament” of heaven in Genesis 1 refers to a solid disk above the sky – evidence of a primitive and erroneous cosmology? But then you read verse 20: “and let the birds fly above the earth in the firmament of the heavens.” The writer must have understood the heavens the same way we do: the sky itself, not something above the sky. The firmament idea was Aristotelian, not Biblical; the Medievalists were overly persuaded that Aristotle knew what he was talking about scientifically. Now the word formerly translated as “firmament” is usually rendered as “expanse,” which is a better fit with the Hebrew. Here is a case of Biblical exegesis and empirical science converging on the same understanding.

Perhaps “formless void” wasn’t a primal chaos that God systematically organized – an interpretation based on ancient pagan and Greek cosmogonies – but something else altogether. Perhaps “man” in Genesis 1 refers not to our species but to a predecessor on the evolutionary tree. Maybe the “sons of God” in Genesis 6 are the biologically modern humans, as Sam mythically speculates in his comment on the “Christmas at Sir Toby’s” post here. Perhaps all the seeming contradictions and conflicts will eventually be resolved through a convergence of better exegesis and better science; perhaps some things will retain their indeterminacy.

The implication, though, is that the author didn’t have a complete understanding of the text he was writing. That wouldn’t be surprising, inasmuch as the creation events themselves would have been overwhelming for either an eyewitness or a recipient of special revelation. However, the text just doesn’t have the mystical “feel” to it that, say, portions of Daniel and Ezekiel have. As Russ points out, when the writer uses ordinary words like “earth” and “man” in seemingly ordinary sentences, the original readers would likely have assumed that these words were meant to convey their ordinary meanings.

Russ proposes that the author may have wanted to emphasize certain metaphysical implications embedded within the creation event itself; e.g., by noting in passing that the stars are inanimate objects rather than gods. If the creation narrative was written or edited long after the events it describes took place, then the text can highlight events in the creation that would prove to have particular significance later; e.g., that the same God who created the whole earth also set aside a portion of the earth for Israel. In a similar way paleontologists go into great detail in describing the fossil record for certain subspecies of extinct primates because humans eventually descended from them. It seems plausible that the writer/editor would have intended to emphasize details within the narrative that the readers would have found particularly significant theologically. Still, the concrete sequence of the creation events remains problematic, especially if we assume that the words of the text retain their ordinary meaning as well as their symbolic significance for subsequent Jewish history.

So: did the writer assign extraordinary meanings to seemingly ordinary words and phrases, rendering the text deceptively uninterpretable to its original audience? Or was it enough for the writer to affirm God as creator, after which he was at liberty to insert whatever details best supported his theological and rhetorical agenda? We’re still stuck, I fear.

Russ observes, as did Peter W., that the creation narratives don’t just stand as isolated texts at the beginning of the Bible; they point forward to Abraham, to Israel, to the Law, to the Messiah. Genesis 1 no longer merely reaffirms an a priori belief in a creator-God; it’s also embedded in a long book and an even longer tradition. For the Christian, what the creation story meant when it was written may be less important than what it meant to Jesus and John, Paul and Peter. When, for Christians, Genesis 1 derives its fullness of meaning from texts like John 1 and Revelation, then it seems to me they’ve entered into the mythical world of Barth (as I understand him). An outsider to the Christian canon and tradition would never find in Genesis 1 a reference to the Word as someone who was with God and who also was God. To interpret Genesis 1 through the lens of John 1, to see in the creation a foreshadowing of the new creation, is to immerse oneself in an all-encompassing story that goes far beyond a naïve a priori theism into a self-contained reality. And it still doesn’t solve the problem of the inconsistent details – unless in this alternate reality the details don’t need to be reconciled any more.