Archetypes of the Eternal: How the Bible Foretells the Story of Us All.

We live in an age dominated by materialistic reductionism—a worldview in which everything is interpreted solely through the lens of matter. According to this view, all phenomena must be explained in physical, measurable terms. But science—and by extension, materialism—is fundamentally limited. It is confined to the quantitative; it can describe the size, position, or mass of an object, but it cannot tell us anything beyond those measurable attributes.

In fact, science is not even equipped to affirm the existence of an object. How would one scientifically prove that something exists? Take a measuring ruler—a basic scientific instrument. Its purpose is to measure, not to affirm the ontological status of the thing it measures. No scientific tool can establish that something is; it can only provide data about that which is already presupposed to exist.

It is man, not science, who affirms existence. It is the human mind that makes the fundamental philosophical judgment: “This object is.” This affirmation precedes any scientific investigation. Even a seemingly simple statement like “This table is there” falls outside the realm of science. Science can tell us the table's dimensions, weight, or composition, but not that it is—that is a metaphysical assertion, not a scientific one.

There is an ancient echo of this idea in the Book of Genesis. One of Adam’s first acts is to name the animals. Why is this act so significant? What does it mean to name something? In our materialistic and pragmatic West, we often overlook the profound symbolic meaning of such acts. Naming is not just labelling—it is an act of recognition, of affirming identity and essence. It is a metaphysical act. This shall be explained throughout.

And herein lies one of humanity’s greatest errors: the belief that pragmatic utility is the only value. The Enlightenment, often hailed as a triumph, may in fact have been our greatest regression—for it severed our connection to deeper truths, to the metaphysical foundations that once gave science its meaning and man his purpose.

Before we can answer what it truly means to name something, we must first examine the fundamental difference between modern science and traditional cosmology. Traditional cosmologies did not seek to explain reality in terms of atoms, energy, or mechanical causality. Instead, ancient cultures perceived the world through spiritual principles—angels, demons, mythical sea creatures at the world’s edge. For them, reality was not a cold, neutral structure of matter, but an enchanted realm infused with meaning. Everything—objects, events, places—carried symbolic and spiritual significance.

In this way, science and traditional cosmology represent two radically different ways of understanding the world. The scientific worldview interprets everything in terms of utility and material function. It reduces reality to meaningless matter governed by blind causality. By contrast, the traditional worldview sees every event, object, and moment as the visible expression of an invisible, spiritual truth.

Take, for example, the concept of light. From the perspective of modern science, light is typically described in technical terms—photons moving in wave-particle duality, structured by physical laws, measurable in units and equations. This explanation offers a mechanistic description of light, but it says nothing of its meaning.

In contrast, within traditional cosmology, light might be seen as a symbol of divine revelation, clarity, or transcendence—something that illuminates not just the physical world, but the soul. One interpretation speaks of how light functions; the other speaks of what light signifies.

However, from a religious or spiritual perspective, the question “What is light?” yields a very different answer. Light is seen not merely as a physical phenomenon, but as a symbol—emblematic of the spiritual nature of man, or of man's role as a mediator between the heavens (the spiritual realm) and the earth (the material realm).

Before exploring this symbolic interpretation further, it's important to recognize that these worldviews pose fundamentally different kinds of questions. The scientific mindset asks: What is this thing made of? How does it function? In contrast, the spiritual or traditional perspective might ask: What does this thing mean? What higher truth does it reveal or embody?

These perspectives, in my view, are not simply a matter of right or wrong. Rather, they are mutually exclusive modes of perception, each revealing a different aspect of reality. Science and spirituality are two lenses—each capturing a slice of the whole. To claim that science alone describes the totality of reality is, as I have argued elsewhere, a flawed and limited view. After all, science cannot even affirm the ontology of an object—that is, it cannot assert that a thing exists in any fundamental sense. And surely, if anything belongs to the realm of “reality,” it is the very fact that something is.

Thus, we find ourselves dealing with two distinct worldviews—each with its own assumptions, methods, and aims. One seeks to explain function and mechanism; the other seeks to reveal meaning and purpose. Neither can be reduced to the other, and together, they illustrate the layered complexity of human understanding.

The purpose of this reflection is not to resolve the tension between these two worldviews—scientific and traditional—nor to claim that one is superior to the other. Rather, it is to show how each perspective fundamentally shapes our perception of reality. The traditional perspective, in particular, invites us to see the world not as a meaningless arrangement of atoms, but as the physical manifestation of deeper metaphysical truths.

Returning to my earlier point, before introducing these two distinct modes of perception, I asked: What does it mean to name something?
To name is to assign meaning. It is an act of interpretation and elevation. In the biblical tradition, Adam’s naming of the animals in the Garden of Eden was not a trivial task—it was a sacred act. To name is to act in the image of God, uniting the heavens (the spiritual) with the earth (the material). A name, after all, is nothing more than a collection of symbols—inscriptions into matter. And yet, through language, we perceive meaning in these otherwise arbitrary forms. This very act of interpretation is the fusion of spirit and matter.

Is it merely symbolic—or is it profoundly significant—that Adam’s first task is to name the animals? Naming requires speech, and speech requires breath. And breath is itself sacred: in the Genesis narrative, God breathes life into Adam. To breathe, then, is to animate matter with spirit; to speak is to give meaning to the world. In this way, naming is not just linguistic—it is ontological. It is the act by which man, through divine likeness, imbues creation with meaning and purpose.

To conclude this section: science, for all its power, has clear limits. It cannot perform even the most basic metaphysical act—affirming the existence of an object. Science is confined to the realm of measurement; it quantifies matter, but it cannot speak to being itself. It is man—and man alone—who bridges the gap between heaven and earth, between spirit and matter. Through his breath, through the Word, man acts in the image of God. And to act in the image of God is to mediate between the spiritual and the material, to infuse the world with meaning.

I have become convinced that these stories - metaphysical truths - are eternal and recurring truths, that play out across all domains of extrapolation: they play out on the individual level, when for instance maturing and coming to consciousness. They play out in history, for instance the Copernican Revolution - wherein man understood that he wasn’t in the “middle of the Universe”, and thus “was naked” after eating from the tree of knowledge, namely science. I think that these stories are eternal stories that always play themselves out - and shall do so - until the end of time.

In Biblical cosmology, the words “heaven” and “earth” as quoted in the verse above, can no longer refer to what we now call “heaven” and “earth” from our scientific perspective. Instead, the concept of “heaven” refers to the upper spiritual half of reality; whereas, the term “earth” refers to the lower material half. The implications of these concepts will then trickle down to every level of human experience to redefine all things in the context of the Bible. When considered from an ancient human perspective, the words ‘heaven’ and ‘earth’ refer to the two halves of the cosmos. This polarity completely encompasses reality, which makes it the secondary cause of all manifestation. In other words, everything in this universe was made from a combination of ‘heavenly’ and ‘earthly’ components.

In the Bible, raw ‘earth’ refers to matter without meaning, and pure ‘heaven’ refers to spiritual meaning without corporeal existence. As strange as this duality may seem to modern sensibilities, this way of framing reality is self-evident from the spiritual perspective because it directly addresses the following questions: “What does it mean?” and, “What spiritual truth does it embody?” So, it is not surprising that the basic polarity of this cosmology is meaning and matter.

According to the spiritual worldview, the whole universe can be described in terms of the intercourse between ‘heaven’ and ‘earth.’ This joining of spiritual and corporeal realities–called knowledge–is the most fundamental notion in biblical cosmology. In fact, every single phenomenon can be interpreted according to this pattern.

How the Copernican and Scientific Revolutions (and the rise of Scientism) mirror the narrative structure of the Fall — an eternal meta-cognitive truth.

The story of Genesis—and, by extension, the entire biblical corpus—can be understood as a collection of meta-truths that continually re-enact themselves in every moment of human experience.

These narratives play out repeatedly on multiple levels: individually, socially, globally, and even across the entire span of human temporal existence. In this sense, the Bible operates at a meta-cognitive level, offering insights not just into historical events or moral teachings, but into the very structure of human consciousness and reality.

Take, for example, the Genesis account of the Fall.

God commands Adam not to eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, warning that death will follow. Yet Adam and Eve eat the fruit, their eyes are opened, and they become aware of their nakedness.

This story is not merely about disobedience or moral failure—it symbolises the process of acquiring knowledge, particularly the dangers of pursuing material understanding at the expense of spiritual awareness.

Consider the Copernican Revolution, which revealed that humanity does not occupy a central place in the universe. This scientific breakthrough can be interpreted as a modern reiteration of the Fall. Before it, humans existed in a metaphorical Eden—a state of relative innocence, imagining themselves at the centre of a purposeful, spiritually meaningful cosmos. But as scientific discovery expanded the boundaries of human knowledge, that worldview shattered.

Our “eyes were opened” to a vast, indifferent universe, and our previous understanding was exposed as naïve. Like Adam and Eve, humanity became “naked” in the face of this new reality—stripped of spiritual certainty, cast into existential exile.

In this way, the biblical narrative mirrors the psychological and philosophical consequences of the scientific revolution. Although science has locally challenged traditional cosmologies, it has, paradoxically, affirmed the Bible’s relevance on a deeper, symbolic level. The Fall story—like many others in Scripture—captures humanity’s ongoing struggle to reconcile material knowledge with spiritual truth, to understand the divine through the lens of finite human perception.

Thus, the statement in Genesis that “their eyes were opened” after eating from the tree finds a modern analogue in the post-Enlightenment world, where the pursuit of scientific knowledge has left many with a sense of metaphysical disorientation.

The story of Genesis, then, is not a relic of ancient superstition—it is a timeless, metaphysical account that continues to resonate.

It, like the rest of the Bible, tells enduring truths—not empirical or materialistic ones, but meta-cognitive ones that reflect the deeper structures of human experience and understanding.

Humanity’s purpose can be summed up in a simple yet profound formula: to inform matter with meaning and to express meaning through matter. This idea underpins all human activity — from reproduction and technology to governance and science — all of which involve bringing meaning into the material world or using material things to convey meaning.

In the story of Genesis, it is written that God created humans in His image — “In the image of God, He created them.” This statement reveals a profound truth about the role of humanity in the universe. According to biblical cosmology, human beings are meant to serve as mediators between heaven and earth, channels through which the knowledge of God flows into creation. In this sense, humanity is a microcosm of God. To say that Adam was made in the image of God means that human beings are symbols of the Creator within creation — embodiments of divine knowledge in the world. Although humans are made from dust — matter — we are also endowed with spirit, with heaven. We are physical creatures, yet we are called to reflect the divine. To be made in the image of God, then, is to bridge the material and the spiritual. Humanity’s purpose can be summed up in a simple yet profound formula: to inform matter with meaning and to express meaning through matter. This idea underpins all human activity — from reproduction and technology to governance and science — all of which involve bringing meaning into the material world or using material things to convey meaning.

Genesis further illustrates this idea with the image of God forming man from the dust of the earth and breathing into him the breath of life. This merging of earth and breath — body and spirit — is echoed in human speech: when we speak, we breathe. Speech becomes the vehicle of meaning, language, and knowledge. Thus, the Genesis story presents a metaphysical vision rooted in the union of heaven and earth, spirit and body. Humanity’s role in creation is to unite these realms — to give meaning to matter and express meaning through it. This is the essence of what it means to be made in the image of God.

This idea applies even to language itself—to words. Words are nothing more than symbolic inscriptions, grounded in the material world. Yet, they speak to us. They carry meaning, conveying something beyond the physical—something of the "light," or the spiritual nature of man. According to the biblical account, God created both the heavens (the spiritual realm) and the earth (the material world). Humanity stands as the mediator between these two realms. We are physical beings, formed from the earth, yet we possess a spiritual essence, tied to the heavens.

In ancient biblical cosmology, there’s a strikingly profound way of understanding matter—not just as physical substance, but as something deeply symbolic. Matter was seen along a spectrum of density, from the most dense and dark (like Earth) to the most immaterial and luminous (like light itself). And the reason for this isn’t just about physical weight or opacity—it’s metaphysical.

In this framework, dense matter blocks light. And what is light? In Genesis, the first words spoken by God are: “Let there be light.” But this isn’t just about photons—it’s spiritual. Light, in biblical cosmology, symbolizes the divine, the spiritual, the animating essence of creation. So when matter blocks light, it’s not just a physical event—it’s symbolic of the way the material can obscure or distance us from the spiritual.

Human beings, then, are extraordinary because we represent a union of the material and the spiritual. We are made from the dust of the Earth, yet animated by the breath of God. We sit at the intersection—able to reflect the light, but also at risk of being lost in darkness.

This is why, in ancient cosmology, matter and darkness are linked, and why the sea—the chaotic, deep, heavy waters—was often associated with evil or danger. It’s not just because it’s physically perilous, but because it represents the murky depths of spiritual obscurity.

And here’s something striking: consider a glass of clean water. It’s transparent. It lets light through. Why? From a modern materialistic view, it's just physics. But through the biblical lens, that transparency is deeply symbolic. Water sustains us physically, yes—but also spiritually. It allows light to pass through, not just because of its chemical structure, but because it reflects its role in creation: it is both life-giving and light-bearing.

So when we drink clear water, we’re not just hydrating the body—we’re engaging with something that symbolizes the harmony between the material and the spiritual, between necessity and transcendence.

The same idea applies to buildings, to bedrooms, to architecture itself. Why do we have windows? Sure, the biological answer is that we need sunlight to regulate our circadian rhythms. But there’s a deeper truth too: windows invite light. They break the barrier between inside and outside, between the man-made and the divine. A window lets the sun shine in, and in doing so, reconnects us with something higher.

We could live in a room with artificial lighting, a perfectly enclosed space—but we don’t. We crave the natural light of the sun. And that’s because the sun, in this symbolic world, represents more than just a ball of gas—it’s the source of light, and thus, of spiritual renewal. It wakes us up, not just physically, but spiritually.

The structure of the cosmos, then, is not random or arbitrary—it’s infused with meaning. The physical and the metaphysical are intertwined. The density of matter, the clarity of water, the light of the sun—all of it points beyond itself, toward a deeper truth that modern materialism has forgotten.

And so consider water—not just as a substance we consume, but as something symbolically rich. Water, in its clearest form, is transparent. It allows light to pass through. And this isn’t just a physical property—it’s a metaphysical statement. Water sustains human life, but more than that, it reflects the very structure of what it means to be human. We don’t just need water biologically—we need what it represents.

Light shines through water, and light, in biblical cosmology, is the spiritual essence—the divine presence. So when we drink clear water, we are taking in not only physical sustenance, but something that bears the image of spiritual clarity and openness. In this sense, water becomes a symbol of spiritual sustenance. Its transparency signifies a kind of purity, an openness to light, a receptivity to the divine.

We might even say: we need water because it lets the light through. Its physical clarity mirrors the spiritual clarity we’re called to seek. In contrast to the dense darkness of the earth or the chaotic depths of the sea, water exists in a kind of middle ground—fluid, life-giving, and open to illumination. It represents spiritual distance not in the sense of separation, but in the sense of space—space for light to dwell, to travel, to touch us.

The same applies to air. Air too is invisible, transparent. It allows light to move through unimpeded, and it is the very substance we breathe. Breath is life—given by God in the Genesis account—and the air we breathe is both materially vital and symbolically rich. Just as we drink clear water, we draw in unseen air, and in doing so, we participate in something beyond ourselves. Air, like water, holds the quality of spiritual openness—it does not obstruct the light.

So you begin to see a kind of metaphysical hierarchy: Earth is dense and dark, blocking light. Water is clearer, more fluid, more open to light. Air is even less dense, invisible, freely moving, light-bearing. And above all is light itself—pure, weightless, spiritual.

This cosmology doesn’t just describe the elements of the world—it reveals something about the nature of being itself. It calls us to re-enchant the ordinary, to see the divine signature in the transparency of water, in the breath we draw, in the morning sun that wakes us. It reminds us that we are not just bodies—we are beings made to receive light.

This is why, I believe, we find the stars in a dark night sky so profoundly beautiful. It's not just aesthetics—it's metaphysics. The stars shine as points of light piercing through the vast darkness. And in that contrast, something deep within us stirs. Why?

Because the darkness represents pure matter—cold, inert, indifferent. But the stars? The stars are light. And in ancient cosmology, light is not just physical illumination—it is spiritual. It is divine. It is the echo of “Let there be light.” When we look up at the stars, we are reminded—whether we realize it or not—that we are not merely material beings. We are spiritual beings, called to mediate between the material (earth) and the divine (heavens).

This is why stars move us. Why do we find them beautiful? Because their light resonates with the spiritual hunger inside us. Their glow against the backdrop of nothingness reminds us of something more—something transcendent. The stars don’t just decorate the night sky—they declare something. They declare that the spiritual still breaks through the darkness. They are silent witnesses to the truth that we are not alone in a cold universe. That the cosmos itself bears witness to the spiritual dimension.

I believe this deeply. I believe this is absolutely true. How could it not be? And yet, we've been trained by materialism to look up at the stars and see only distant balls of gas—objects, data points, measurements. We’ve been told not to read meaning into them. But meaning is already there. We don't give the stars significance—they reveal it.

The stars exist not only to light the night, but to remind us of who we are. That we are called to be mediators—creatures formed of dust, yet touched by the divine. Their purpose is symbolic, metaphysical. Their light is the spiritual sustenance of man.

And so, when we look up and see stars in the dark, it’s not just beautiful—it’s sacred. It’s a whisper from beyond the veil: you are more than matter. You are made for light.

One of Adam’s first tasks in the Garden of Eden is to name the animals. At first glance, this might seem like a simple or even mundane act—but it holds immense symbolic meaning. To name something is not just to label it—it is to reveal its identity. Naming is an act that unites the material with the spiritual.

Think about what a name is: a sequence of symbols—sounds, letters—that we, as humans, interpret and imbue with meaning. That act of interpretation is what makes naming so powerful. It’s not just about the physical animal—it’s about recognizing its essence, its place in creation. And this is precisely what Adam, made in the image of God, is uniquely able to do.

Adam is the mediator between heaven and earth—the spiritual and the material. And language is the tool by which he fulfils that role. In biblical cosmology, it is language—not mere instinct or sensation—that separates man from the animals. Only man can unite divine principles with earthly realities through speech.

And how does he speak? Through breath. God breathed life into Adam—He breathed spirit into matter. And through that breath, Adam speaks. To breathe is to do what God did at the beginning of time: to infuse matter with spirit, to bring meaning into being. Without breath, we cannot speak. Without speech, we cannot name. And without naming, we cannot fulfill our mission as spiritual-material mediators.

So Adam’s naming of the animals is not trivial—it’s sacred. It is the first instance of man lowering heaven into earth, of embodying his divine role.