For a lot of people, the moment you mention the universe coming from some higher, transcendent Mind, the knee-jerk reaction is to roll their eyes and think back to Sunday school stories they’ve long outgrown. Genesis usually gets tossed aside as something quaint, if not downright incompatible with the punchy, hard-won truths of modern science.
(*The is an excerpt from “Does the Universe Paint God Out of the Picture?” by Luke Baxendale. This is part one of four in the book.)
I want to confront that tension head-on. For centuries, Genesis 1 has sparked both curiosity and controversy, especially regarding how it might (or might not) fit with what we know about the cosmos. Here, I invite you to step back and see this ancient story from a new perspective, one that might help bridge the tension between biblical tradition and our modern scientific understanding. The aim isn’t to mash theology and science together, but to keep them clear and in conversation—so the two aren’t conflated, and so the door stays open to the notion of God.
The first time I read Genesis 1, I was immediately drawn to the poetic nature of the creation story. As a young teenager, I marvelled at the way it described the formation of the world in six days, with God creating light, the heavens, the earth, and all living creatures. However, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of confusion and unease as I tried to reconcile the story with my understanding of modern science.
Have you ever read Genesis 1? Read as a strictly scientific account, it doesn’t make sense. Where does the light come from on the first three days if the sun, moon, and stars aren’t created until the fourth day? How was there evening and morning without the sun? That all seems like a problem. We are also told that God separates the waters with a “firmament” (KJV), but last time I checked, there isn’t a solid dome-like structure up in the sky holding the rain back. Nothing seems to make sense.
Growing up, I had learned about the Copernican Revolution, the Big Bang Theory, the gradual formation of stars and galaxies, and the evolution of life on Earth over billions of years. The Genesis account, with its seven-day timeline, seemed to be in direct conflict with these scientific explanations. I began to wonder how I could make sense of both perspectives, and whether it was even possible to do so.
I discussed my struggle to understand Genesis with others and discovered that many shared similar concerns. Some proposed that the seven days in Genesis should be interpreted metaphorically, representing lengthy periods rather than literal 24-hour days. Others pointed out that the Bible was written thousands of years ago, in a time when people had a limited understanding of the natural world, and so it shouldn’t be taken as a scientific textbook. I became acquainted with various interpretations of Genesis, with three main perspectives in the church being:
- Young Earth Creationism: This view posits that the “days” in Genesis are literal 24-hour periods, leading to the belief that the earth is approximately 6,000-7,000 years old.
- Old Earth Creationism: This view interprets the “days” in Genesis as long periods of time, potentially spanning millions or billions of years (2 Peter 3:8 comes to mind—“With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day.”) This view attempts to harmonise the biblical account with modern geological and astronomical findings.
- Framework view: This perspective perceives the creation story as a literary and theological construct instead of a chronological account of events. This interpretive approach seeks to understand the creation narrative on its own terms, emphasising the importance of reading the text within its literary and historical context, paying close attention to its genre, structure and original purpose.
Of all the perspectives, the framework view made the most sense to me. It emphasises the need to understand Genesis in its original context—its culture, language, and time—rather than imposing modern scientific paradigms onto the text. While digging deeper, I discovered The Lost World of Genesis One by John H. Walton, an Old Testament scholar and professor emeritus at Wheaton College. His deep dive into Genesis within its ancient Near Eastern setting helped me see just how layered the text really is. By the end of this part of the book, I hope to demonstrate how apparent conflicts between Genesis and modern science can be reconciled through a more accurate interpretation of the text.
Contextualising Creation: Exploring Biblical Meanings in an Ancient Framework
Within Scripture, a fundamental characteristic of God is His identity as the Creator. Acknowledging God as the Creator means recognising a purpose behind the existence of the universe and everything within it—it’s not a coincidence. You and I are not a coincidence. This conviction radically influences how we perceive ourselves and our surroundings. If we embrace the notion of God as Creator, it leads us to question the ultimate nature of the world, whether it is more like a machine or perhaps something of a dwelling place for God. It also raises questions about the creation account itself: is it a literal manufacturing process or a deeper, conceptual message? Furthermore, recognising God as Creator naturally leads us to reflect on the deeper questions of life—our existence, purpose, and what it all means in connection to Him.
Genesis 1 kick-starts our understanding of the biblical teachings regarding God as Creator. This passage, although simple in its majestic expression and encompassing scope, has become the subject of intense debate. It is anything but transparent.
The first step in understanding Genesis is acknowledging its audience. Genesis wasn’t written directly to us; it was written for the Israelites. God chose to reveal Himself to Israel and, through them, to the rest of the world. This means the text reflects the language, culture, and worldview of an ancient people—elements that can feel foreign to us today. To truly grasp its meaning, we must bridge this cultural and linguistic divide.
Translating Genesis, or any ancient text, isn’t just about finding equivalent words in another language. It’s about understanding the culture behind the words. Language and culture are inseparable, so explaining biblical ideas often requires reconstructing the context in which they were written. This involves interpreting ideas from their original context and fitting them into our own, without allowing our modern biases and assumptions to alter the intended message.
Take hospitality as an example. In biblical times, hospitality wasn’t just a nicety, it was considered a social obligation and even sometimes a sacred duty. Stories like Abraham welcoming three visitors in Genesis 18 illustrate how essential this practice was. Offering food, shelter, and protection wasn’t optional, even for strangers. Compare this to modern Western attitudes where inviting strangers into your home might seem risky or unwise. To understand the biblical lessons on hospitality, we need to appreciate its cultural significance in the ancient Middle Eastern world. Only then can we better appreciate the underlying message of compassion, generosity, and the sacred responsibility to care for others that these stories convey.
Likewise, when we crack open Genesis 1, it’s tempting to read it through the lens of our modern ideas and assumptions. But to truly get what the text is saying, we need to pause, take a step back, and imagine hearing these words as the original audience did thousands of years ago. This means we need to step into their world—the ancient Near East.
It’s an invitation to look beyond the pages of the Bible and explore the stories, writings, and beliefs that shaped their culture. It’s about understanding how they thought, how they saw the world, and the frameworks they used to make sense of life. The more we enter their mindset, the clearer the text becomes. Suddenly, we start catching layers of meaning that aren’t immediately obvious to a modern reader. And in doing so, we get closer to what the author was really saying, and why it mattered so much to the people who first heard it.
To be clear, when we look at ancient texts, it’s not about expecting them all to sound the same because they’re from the same period. At the same time, it’s not about thinking they’re all completely different, either. The Bible is a perfect example of standing out from the crowd. It’s seen as God’s way of revealing Himself, which is quite different from what you might find in texts from Mesopotamia or Egypt. Egyptian stories often revolve around the afterlife and gods ruling over people, which is a sharp turn from the adventure-packed tales and divine meetings you read about in stories from places like Mesopotamia, Assyria, and Babylonia. It’s critical to understand that within any particular time, culture, or even specific city, a variety of perspectives existed and were articulated through their literary works. Despite these variances, through the study and comparison of ancient cultures’ literary outputs, we can unearth shared themes and insights, while also valuing the unique characteristics that differentiate them.
For instance, let’s step into the world of the ancient Israelites by re-examining what kingship actually meant to them. In the ancient Near East, kings didn’t just rule, they embodied divine authority. Think of how the Egyptians and Babylonians framed their kings: as divinely appointed mediators between gods and people—a perspective shared, to some extent, by Israel. However, while Israel’s neighbouring cultures often idealised their rulers as god-like figures, biblical texts present kingship with a more grounded, and sometimes critical, lens.
Despite the differences, if we really want to understand what kingship meant to Israel, comparing them to Egypt and Babylon makes much more sense than reaching for today’s political narratives. This is because Israel, Egypt, and Babylon were all part of the ancient Near East, sharing not just geographic proximity but also similar social, economic, and political contexts. In contrast, modern ideas about leadership, such as democracy or even monarchy, have evolved through various cultural and societal changes that are far removed from the realities of the ancient Israelites. Comparing ancient and modern concepts can lead to misunderstandings, where we might accidentally apply our current views to a society with entirely different principles and beliefs. It’s clear that examining how Israel interacted with its neighbours in terms of kingship and governance reveals more about its culture than comparing it to today’s political systems.
And to be clear, our goal in studying ancient literature is not to determine if Israel took ideas from the texts familiar to them. Instead, we recognise that there were common beliefs and understandings throughout the ancient world. Our interest lies not in how Israel was influenced by its neighbours, but in acknowledging that Israel was an integral part of this broader cultural environment.
Now that we’ve clarified this, let’s take a fresh look at Genesis 1 to interpret it more from the Israelites’ perspective. After all, it was to them that God was speaking directly.
Genesis One: Understanding Cosmology Through an Ancient Lens
Genesis 1 is ancient cosmology, meaning it does not seek to describe cosmology using modern terminology or address contemporary questions. Modern cosmology aims to understand the universe’s origin, evolution, and large-scale structure through the lens of physics. But recognising Genesis 1 as a product of ancient cosmology allows us to understand that the text’s primary purpose is not to offer a scientifically accurate account of the origin of the universe. By reading Genesis 1 as ancient cosmology, we can appreciate its deeper themes and enduring significance without the misplaced expectation that it should align with, or be judged by, the standards of modern science.
For instance, without the advantage of telescopes, the Israelites were entirely unaware of Earth’s journey through space or the immense disparity in distance between the sun and the moon. They regarded the sky as a partially solid structure, strong enough to restrain the celestial waters. Their view of the universe matched that of other ancient peoples and was very different from how we see it today. God, it appears, did not deem it necessary to correct their perceptions.
When I first encountered the Genesis creation account as a teenager, I made the common mistake of reading it through the lens of modern science, expecting to find Big Bangs and biological evolution lurking behind every ancient metaphor. This approach is known as concordism, which aims to provide modern scientific explanations for the details in the text. Concordism seeks to harmonise the biblical account of creation with contemporary scientific knowledge regarding the origin and development of the universe. Proponents of concordism argue that the descriptions in Genesis 1, despite being rooted in an ancient context, can be interpreted in a manner consistent with our current understanding of cosmology, geology, and biology. This is an attempt to “translate” the culture and text for the modern reader. However, the issue is that we cannot, nor should we, translate their cosmology into ours. John H. Walton clarifies why:
“If we accept Genesis 1 as ancient cosmology, then we need to interpret it as ancient cosmology rather than translate it into modern cosmology. If we try to turn it into modern cosmology, we are making the text say something that it never said. It is not just a case of adding meaning (as more information has become available) it is a case of changing meaning. Since we view the text as authoritative, it is a dangerous thing to change the meaning of the text into something it never intended to say.”[i]
Trying to force Genesis 1 into alignment with modern science doesn’t elevate the text, it distorts its purpose. It makes sense that God would communicate in terms and concepts that resonated with the people of that time, allowing them to grasp the text’s essential message without tripping over unfamiliar scientific ideas. God’s goal in Genesis 1 was never to hand out technical explanations to the Israelites; He was content for them to retain their ancient cosmology. Details like the earth’s shape, the sky’s structure, or the placement of stars weren’t the point. By speaking their language, literally and figuratively, God could highlight deeper truths without burying them beneath scientific details that neither they, nor frankly we, would fully grasp. Nowhere in the Bible does God drop scientific insights disconnected from the surrounding culture; not once does scripture offer scientific knowledge that wasn’t already circulating in the ancient Near East.
Old World cosmic geography is primarily derived from the observations and experiences of ancient civilisations as they sought to make sense of the world based on their limited vantage point. They didn’t have the scientific tools we have today, so if water comes down, well, surely there must be some up there, so they all thought in terms of cosmic waters in the sky. And if it doesn’t come down all the time, then it makes sense to think that something must hold the water back, something somewhat solid. Many ancient civilisations believed in the existence of a solid dome or vault that enclosed the Earth, known as the firmament. Similarly, noticing that water also springs from the earth led them to imagine that there must be great waters beneath us as well. To explain the stability of the earth amidst these waters, they came up with ideas like the earth floating on a cosmic ocean or being held up by giant pillars. They were trying to make sense of the world through fairly logical paths.
It is also worth noting that the way we think about the “natural” world today is shaped by a modern mindset that separates the natural from the supernatural. But in ancient Near Eastern cultures, including the Hebrews, this division simply didn’t exist. Their world wasn’t neatly sectioned into biology here and the divine over there; instead, the sacred pulsed through every facet of existence. There was no idea of “natural laws” quietly churning away, indifferent to the god’s or God. Anything that happened, from rain shower (Leviticus 26:4), healthy crops, a child’s birth (Genesis 1:28), was seen as the direct expression of divine will; they were blessings, consequences, tangible moments of God’s involvement. Even the chaos of storms or earthquakes was often read as divine speech or judgment (Nahum 1:3-5). The cosmos wasn’t some machine running on autopilot; it persisted only because God was actively sustaining it. Let God withdraw, and their world would unravel straight into chaos.
There is nothing “natural” about the world in biblical theology, and maybe there shouldn’t be in ours either. I see God as deeply involved in how the world works. The laws and mechanisms science uncovers aren’t replacements for Him, but showcase the brilliance of a God who designed the universe to run the way it does. That doesn’t mean He’s micromanaging every detail, but rather that He sustains it through the very laws and processes He set in motion.
As a brief digression, it’s interesting that the laws of nature reveal themselves through mathematics. That alone suggests the universe has a built-in intelligibility. Einstein once remarked, “The most incomprehensible thing about the universe is that it is comprehensible.” What Einstein found incomprehensible was this correspondence between human reason and cosmic reality. Why should abstract mathematical concepts conceived in our minds match the fundamental patterns of nature? The universe could have been messy, random, or based on principles forever hidden from us. Yet instead, it follows elegant “rules”—laws that our minds are somehow able to grasp. The same equations that describe an apple falling from a tree also predict the orbits of planets and even the warping of spacetime near black holes. For Einstein, this hinted at something deeper: a harmony, a beauty, an underlying rational structure to reality itself. And he was not the first to notice. Four centuries earlier, Galileo had written in The Assayer that the universe is like a great book, “continually open to our gaze,” but one written in the language of mathematics, a language we must learn if we hope to read it. This rational intelligibility—the way the universe yields to logic and mathematics with a surprising elegance—seems, at least intuitively, to point toward a rational source. It resonates with the idea of a creative and purposeful intelligence underlying the cosmos.
Returning to the main point, the ancient Hebrews would never have considered addressing how things might have come into existence from a “natural” scientific perspective, nor what “natural” processes God might have employed. For instance, Genesis 1:24 states, “Let the earth bring forth living creatures,” followed by the conclusion in the very next verse, “So God made the animals.” These are modern issues imposed on the text and not reflective of issues in the ancient world’s cultural context. Their narratives were rich with meaning, focusing on the relationship between the Creator and the creation, and the role of humanity within this cosmos. We should not expect the text to cater to our contemporary curiosities, nor should we distort the text’s information to force it to answer the questions we are eager to explore. To impose our scientific expectations on these texts is as misguided as demanding a poet explain the physics behind the sunset they so artfully describe.
The Function-Centric Approach of Ancient Cosmology
A close study of ancient texts, archaeology, and historical cultural practices makes one thing clear: ancient cosmology was profoundly function-oriented, not material-focused. For those societies, existence was defined less by what something was made of, and more by the role it played within the larger order of things. Their creation stories aren’t preoccupied with the building blocks of the universe, but rather with questions of purpose, order, and the web of relationships that hold everything together.
Take, for example, the Babylonian creation myth, the Enuma Elish, considered one of the oldest known literary works. This epic tells the story of the creation of the universe, gods, and humanity. Throughout the narrative, the theme of “order versus chaos” plays a central role. The cosmic battle between Marduk and Tiamat symbolises the triumph of order (Marduk) over chaos (Tiamat). When Marduk defeats Tiamat and fashions the world from her remains, it signifies the establishment of a structured and orderly universe.
The text also sets forth a hierarchical relationship between gods and humans, with humans created to serve the gods and execute their will in order to maintain order and ensure the proper functioning of society. Similarly, the ancient Egyptians perceived the cosmos as a well-ordered system, in which each deity was responsible for overseeing a specific aspect of the natural or social order. The Egyptians engaged in elaborate rituals and ceremonies to honour the gods and ensure their continued favour, seeking to maintain the delicate equilibrium that they believed underpinned the very fabric of the universe. The pharaoh, as the earthly representative of the gods, was seen as the linchpin of this well-ordered system.
Now fast-forward to our modern, materialistic worldview. Today, when we think about existence, we tend to focus on what something is made of. We talk of something existing because of its physical properties—its atoms, molecules, and tangible form. Creation, then, becomes a process of assembling or fabricating something material. But the ancient mind looked at creation very differently. Their focus wasn’t on materiality but on function. For something to truly “exist,” it had to have a role or purpose within an ordered system. Without function, something might as well not exist at all.
To illustrate this, John Walton gets his reader to imagine different kinds of non-material creation, like creating a curriculum, causing havoc, or crafting a masterpiece. In such cases, the verb “create” transcends materiality. Although a curriculum ultimately assumes a material form (e.g., books), its creation chiefly entails organising ideas and thoughts, a primarily non-material process. If a curriculum’s ontology is functional, then its creation would require function-giving actions.
To genuinely understand a creation account from the ancient world, we must assume their interpretation of “creation” as we read the text. Those in the ancient world believed something came into being not by virtue of its material properties, but rather by virtue of its given function within an ordered system. Take water, as an example. Today, we reduce it to H₂O—a sterile chemical formula. But for the ancients, water obviously wasn’t described by its chemical properties, but was understood through its life-giving functions: purification, sustenance, and fertility. To the ancients, water existed because of what it did, not because of what it was made of. Within this functional ontology, an object might physically be there but still lacking true existence until it served a purpose. For the ancient Hebrews, creation was less about manufacturing raw material and more about assigning the world with meaning.
To offer another analogy, think of assembling a symphony orchestra. You can painstakingly craft every instrument: violins, trumpets, drums, and sure, you may argue the “orchestra” now exists at some base, physical level. But without sheet music, there’s no sound, no story, just silent potential. Even then, the music requires a conductor to transform scattered notes into a living performance. And if there’s no one to witness the concert, does the orchestra truly exist in any meaningful sense, or is it just an empty gesture?
The point of this analogy is that you could define “existence” at different milestones along the way. In a functional ontology, all the steps mentioned are crucial for defining existence. However, unless something is integrated into a working, ordered system—often one that is useful to people—it does not fully exist yet. The actual creative act is to assign something its functioning role in the ordered system. In the mind of an ancient Hebrew, that is what brings it into existence.
From this vantage, it’s revealing to look at ancient cosmologies—Sumerian, Babylonian, Egyptian—and find strikingly similar threads. These creation stories often begin in a state of chaos: an unformed, inert, and undifferentiated expanse. Take Egyptian mythology, for example. Many Egyptian myths describe the world emerging from the primeval waters of Nun, a boundless and formless abyss. This watery void represents a state where nothing is separated or defined—a singularity of potential waiting to be shaped. The Sumerians, too, saw the universe’s origins in a murky mass swamped in darkness, where earth and sky were utterly fused. In this primordial state, there were no resources, no rituals, and no structure—just a vast, chaotic expanse.
This motif isn’t unique to Egypt or Mesopotamia. The Greek myth of Chaos also describes the cosmos beginning as a “formless void”. From this emptiness emerged deities and primordial forces that gradually brought structure and order to the universe. Across these cultures, there’s a shared narrative: creation involves moving from disorder to an organised system, often through the intervention of divine or supernatural forces.
A further similarity in ancient creation accounts is the presence of primeval waters, which symbolise the chaotic and formless state before creation begins. In Egyptian mythology, the concept of the primeval waters is closely related to the emergence of the primeval hillock or mound, which symbolises the first piece of land that emerged from the watery abyss of Nun, marking the beginning of the creation process. In Egyptian texts, these primeval waters are designated as “non-existent,” a key indicator they held a functional ontology too.
What also marks these ancient stories is their preoccupation with separation, particularly with dividing heaven from earth. In Egyptian mythology, this act is attributed to Shu, the god of air and light. Shu separates Nut (the sky goddess) from Geb (the earth god), creating space for life to flourish between them. Similarly, in Mesopotamian mythology, we see this theme in the Enuma Elish. Here, Marduk defeats Tiamat, a chaotic water goddess, and splits her body to form the heavens and earth—a cosmic body broken for life to begin. The Sumerians also imagined an initial unified chaos where earth and sky were indistinguishable until divine forces intervened to separate them.
What is striking, and perhaps easy to miss, is that for these Near Eastern accounts, creation was not the miraculous appearance of stuff out of thin air. The “raw material” had always been there—messy, unbounded, unusable. True creation was the imposition of order and purpose, the transformation of the inchoate into the intelligible. What mattered was not material, but function: existence began when something found its place and purpose in the system.
This stands in sharp contrast to the modern Western mindset, which is relentlessly obsessed with substance: we define existence by what things are made of, not what they do or mean. We might even pride ourselves on our reductionist rigour—breaking the world into manageable pieces, probing its physical origins, but in doing so, perhaps we lose sight of what ancient myths saw so clearly: that to truly exist is to have purpose, to be part of an ordered, living system. For them, the material was always secondary to the meaningful. The boundary between existence and non-existence depended on purpose and function, not merely physical being. What I hope I have emphasised is that our materialistic view of existence is just one way of looking at things. The ancients had a completely different perspective. While modern Western culture focuses on analysing “how” things came to be, digging into processes, mechanisms, and physical laws like we’re studying a machine, ancient cultures were more holistic. They asked “who” and “why” questions, focusing on the interconnectedness of the world. To them, the cosmos was more like a kingdom or temple, ruled by intention and relationship. Although they believed their gods created the material world, the material origins were not their primary concern.
Purpose Takes Precedence: The Function-Oriented Cosmology of Genesis 1
Let’s turn our attention back to the creation story in Genesis and examine whether it aligns with the function-oriented cosmology commonly found in the ancient world.
“In the beginning, when God created the heavens and the earth…” These iconic words from Genesis 1:1 have shaped millennia of thought about creation. But what if we’ve been reading them through a lens that misses their deeper meaning?
The traditional translation of Genesis 1:1 as “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth” is problematic. The Hebrew phrase “בְּרֵאשִׁית” (berēʾšît) should not be translated as the absolute “in the beginning”, but rather as a relative clause “in the initial period that/in which…” So, Genesis 1:1 is more accurately translated as “When God began to create the Heavens and the Earth…” or “In the initial period that/in which God created the heavens and the earth…” This translation is more in keeping with the grammatical precedent, contextual fit of Genesis 1, and aligns with the Hebrew text’s lack of definite article. The implication of this is that the traditional “in the beginning” translation can imply metaphysical assumptions about the nature of time and the universe’s origin. In contrast, the relative clause translation better fits the overall context of Genesis 1, which describes a series of creative acts, rather than an absolute beginning point.
Having clarified this, what does “Create” really mean in Genesis 1:1?
The Hebrew verb בָּרָא (bārā), often translated as “create,” is central to understanding Genesis 1. Interestingly, this word is used exclusively for God’s actions in the Old Testament—not for human activity—and always in contexts that highlight divine power to bring about something new and purposeful. For example, in Psalm 51:10, when King David asks God to “create in me a clean heart,” he’s not talking about the creation of a physical object but a deep, spiritual transformation. Similarly, Isaiah 43:1 describes God “creating” Israel as His chosen people, emphasising a communal identity and destiny.
John Walton goes as far as to say that within the Old Testament, no clear example explicitly demands a material perspective for the verb. This suggests that, to the ancient Israelites, bārā implied setting everything in its rightful place and for a specific function within God’s overarching design. This is the most “literal” understanding.
Now, I don’t want to be misunderstood: saying that Genesis 1 isn’t an account of material origins doesn’t mean God isn’t responsible for material origins. The real question Genesis 1 raises isn’t whether God created the material world, but rather what kind of creation story it’s telling.
John Walton offers an insightful translation of Genesis 1:1: “In the initial period, God created by assigning functions throughout the heavens and the earth, and this is how He did it.” This view aligns with ancient perceptions of creation as naming, separating, and defining roles within an orderly framework. Consider, for example, a playwright who carefully crafts a script, assigning distinct roles and functions to each character in a play, ensuring that every individual contributes to the overall narrative and message. Similarly, God orchestrates the elements of creation in Genesis 1, assigning specific functions and roles within an ordered system, ultimately weaving together a cosmic story. These creative activities were accomplished during the seven-day period that the text refers to as “the initial period”.
If Genesis 1 were about material origins, we might expect it to begin with absolutely nothing. But if it’s about functional origins, it would start with a world lacking purpose. That’s where the Hebrew words tōhû (תֹּהוּ) and bōhû (בֹּהוּ) come in, used in verse 2 of Genesis 1, often translated as “formless and void” or “empty and desolate.”
The use of tōhû (תֹּהוּ) and bōhû (בֹּהוּ) appears in other Old Testament passages, such as Isaiah 34:11 and Jeremiah 4:23. In these contexts, the terms point towards utter desolation and chaos brought upon places like Edom and Judah as a result of God’s judgment. Tōhû is also used in Isiah 45:18 to underscore that the creation of the earth was no cosmic accident. Here, tōhû underscores that God formed the world not to remain formless and lifeless, but deliberately shaped it as a home teeming with life. Unlike ancient Near Eastern creation myths that might depict the world as a byproduct of divine conflict or accident, this passage affirms the purposeful intention of the Judeo-Christian God in crafting a world suited for humanity and other forms of life.
The contexts in which tōhû and bōhû appear throughout the Old Testament, as well as the words and phrases used alongside them, suggests a state of non-functionality—a world existing without a clear purpose or role. This implies that before the creative acts of Genesis 1, the world wasn’t necessarily lacking stuff, but lacking structure and purpose. This aligns with other ancient Near Eastern creation stories, where bringing order to chaos is a central theme.
Dawn of Creation: Exploring the First Three Days of Genesis
Now that we have laid the groundwork, it’s time to delve into the nit and grit of Genesis 1, starting with the creation narrative’s first three days. During these initial days, we witness the establishment of crucial functions that set the stage for the rest of creation.
Day One (Genesis 1:3-5)
On the first day of creation, God introduced light. Interestingly, this process reaches a key moment in verse 5, the concluding verse for the day’s account: “God called the light ‘day’ and the darkness He called ‘night.’ And there was evening and there was morning—the first day.” Interestingly, in the context of the ancient Near East, light was perceived as a condition, akin to darkness. The ancient Israelites did not conceive of light as a physical thing, like we understand it today in terms of photons and waves. Rather, they saw light and darkness as periods or realms. So, when light was brought forth on the first day, it wasn’t about creating a substance. Rather, the focus was on organising and defining these states—light and darkness—by naming them “day” and “night” and giving them structure.
As we think about this further, if something connected with light is named “day,” then it seems to me that it refers not to light itself but to the period of light, as that is one meaning of “day.” This notion introduces us to the rhetorical device known as metonymy, where a noun is extended to encompass a related idea. Thus, the author—traditionally Moses—might have intended for us to interpret the word “light” as signifying a period of light. This interpretation leads to the understanding: “God called the period of light ‘day,’ and the period of darkness He called ‘night.’”
Adopting this perspective for verse 5 invites a re-evaluation of verse 4, where “God separated the light from the darkness.” These distinct periods are subsequently named day and night in verse 5. If “light” symbolises a period of light in both verses 4 and 5, then it’s consistent to apply the same interpretation to verse 3: “God said, ‘Let there be a period of light.’” Since the entity brought into existence is a period of light, distinguished from a period of darkness and named “day,” it appears reasonable to view day one as delineating the recognition and rhythm of time through the allocation of purpose to the cycles of light and darkness.
In summary, the focus of day one is God instituting the basic framework for the progression of time. This establishment on the first day underscores the significance of rhythms and cycles in the natural world. The day-night cycle is the most fundamental rhythm governing both human and animal behaviours. By instituting a rhythm to time, God lays the foundation for life to exist within a structured environment.
Day Two (Genesis 1:6-8)
In the second day of creation, it’s easy to skim over phrases like “God made the expanse,” but what exactly is the “firmament” or “expanse” mentioned in this passage? And why was it so significant?
In the ancient Hebrew context, the word for firmament, “rāqīa”, likely referred to something much different than what we picture when we think of the sky. Ancient cultures in the Near East often thought of the sky as a solid dome or structure, holding back waters above the earth. This concept might sound strange to us, but it made perfect sense to people living in a pre-scientific world. In antiquity, people routinely believed that the sky was partially solid, and if the Hebrew term is to be taken in its normal contextual sense, it indicates that God created a solid dome to hold up waters above the earth.
But before we rush to reconcile this imagery with our modern understanding of the atmosphere, remember that genesis wasn’t written as a scientific manual. The original audience lacked the scientific knowledge we have today, so we shouldn’t try to retrofit the Genesis account to align with contemporary scientific knowledge. Its purpose isn’t to explain the physical mechanics to how the universe works, but to express a theological message about God’s purpose in creation. Whether or not the firmament is a “solid dome” in literal terms really isn’t the point.
So, what was important to the people hearing this story for the first time? For them, the firmament symbolised a system for regulating rainfall, a life-giving and life-threatening force. Rain was everything in the ancient world. Too much, and you’d face destructive floods. Too little, and crops failed, leading to famine. The firmament, then, was seen as a regulatory mechanism for rainfall, a critical element of the weather system upon which the balance and order of life, especially human life, depended. Although there may be no literal firmament, it symbolises how the ancient audience perceived the world around them. So, on the second day of creation, God arranged the weather system to ensure Earth could support life.
Day Three (Genesis 1:9-13)
On the third day, the continuing theme of separation plays a prominent role, which is then manifested in two distinct ways:
- Separation of land and water: in Genesis 1:9-10, God gathers the waters together to allow dry land to appear. This act of separation creates a distinct boundary between land and water, making it possible for the land to support vegetation and become a home for both humans and animals..
- Separation within vegetation: in Genesis 1:11-12, God commands the earth to bring forth vegetation, including plants that yield seeds and fruit trees bearing fruit with seeds. This act creates a clear separation among different types of vegetation. Each plant and tree are designed to reproduce according to its kind, maintaining order and balance within the ecosystem. This distinction ensures the sustainability of plant life and provides a diverse array of food sources for other living beings.
In short, day three is very much related to the provision of food.
In Ancient Egypt, the Nile River was crucial to the civilisation’s survival. Its annual flooding deposited rich, fertile silt, helping crops to grow. This cycle of flooding and renewal was symbolised by the primaeval hillock, representing the fertile soil emerging after the Nile’s inundation. This symbol embodied the concept of dry land’s emergence from waters, a recurring theme in Egyptian cosmology and closely linked to food provision. The appearance of dry land and the growth of food were seen as a cosmic re-enactment of the original creation act, where the earth surfaced from “primordial waters”.
To the ancient Hebrews, the emergence of dry land was also likely associated with the growth of food. In his book Genesis 1-11: A Commentary, Claus Westermann highlights the importance of day three as the moment when dry land and vegetation appear, creating a habitable environment for humans and animals. So, day three captures the awe of the ancient world concerning the process through which plants grow, produce seeds, and give rise to new generations of the same species. The cycle of vegetation, the principles of fertilisation, and the blessings of fecundity were all regarded as the wondrous provisions of food, indispensable for human survival.
Summarising Day One to Three
In summary, the theological significance of the first three days of creation in Genesis can be understood as God ordering the essential framework for the progression of time, weather, and the land with its food sources.
Later in Genesis, this ordered world is disrupted by a flood—a catastrophe that reverts a part of the earth to a chaotic, nonfunctional state. As the waters recede, dry land reemerges, and God makes a poignant promise: “As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease” (Genesis 8:22). Here again, we find the same three pillars—food, weather, and time—woven into the narrative, but in reverse order. Moses, the author, demonstrates a keen awareness of the significance of these fundamental categories in the operation of the world.
I hope I am not overemphasising myself, but as we unravel each day of creation, it’s important to recognise that our focus shouldn’t be fixated on the scientific factuality of the Bible’s use of old-world science. While it is true that some scientific framework must be adopted, we must remember that all scientific frameworks are dynamic and subject to change. Scientific understanding is a fluid process, with new discoveries continuously refining, correcting, and expanding upon previous knowledge. Considering this ever-evolving nature of science, it is logical for God to communicate deeper truths using the framework familiar to the audience of the time, using concepts and language that they could grasp. By doing so, God emphasises the deeper theological meaning that transcends material origin, rather than potentially overwhelming the audience with complex scientific information they (or us) may not understand. This approach keeps the creation story relevant across different generations and cultures. It emphasises the timeless connection between God and His creation, along with the order He introduced, rather than the scientific framework employed at the time of writing.
The wisdom tucked away in the pages of the Bible gives us a unique way to look at the world. Think about how we use language in everyday life; when we say, “It’s raining cats and dogs,” we don’t mean it’s literally raining animals, but the phrase instantly conveys the idea of a heavy downpour. Or consider statements like, “The sky is blue” or “The sun sets in the west.” Scientifically speaking, the atmosphere scatters light, and the Earth’s rotation creates the illusion of a setting sun, but that doesn’t make these phrases any less meaningful or true in context. Similarly, when the Bible talks about the world, it might not match up with today’s scientific textbooks, but that’s not the point. Think of an impressionist painting of a sunset next to a photograph: they look different, but both capture the beauty of the same scene from different angles. The difference isn’t about conflicting versions of truth but about the richness of perspective. The theological insight offered in Genesis 1 emphasises that God is the orchestrator of these functions and the sustainer of the world, independent of how we perceive the mechanics.
The Genesis of Functionaries: Examining God’s Work on Days Four to Six
The creation story unfolds in two strikingly distinct acts. In the first three “days,” the narrative is all about setting the stage: creating structures, dividing light from darkness, shaping land and sea, and crafting the environments essential for life. Then, beginning on the fourth day, the focus shifts to filling those spaces. The barren stage transforms into a bustling theatre of life: lights are hung in the sky, creatures populate the earth, seas, and air, and the world comes alive.
What’s particularly intriguing is the symmetry that emerges between these two halves. The first three days establish order, while the latter three days inhabit that order—a kind of poetic mirroring. This balance isn’t just an aesthetic flourish; it hints that maybe we shouldn’t take the “seven days” too literally. Instead of reading it as a day-by-day account, ancient Hebrew scholars often see the seven days as a way to organise the story into themes, each “day” highlighting a different act of creation. This emphasis on symmetry suggests that the seven days are not intended to be interpreted as actual 24-hour periods but rather serve as a literary framework to convey deeper messages.
| Time realm | Day 1: Separation of light and darkness, designating days | Day 4: Creation of sun and moon, inhabiting and governing day and night |
| Sea realm | Day 2: Separation of water from land, designating sky and sea | Day 5: Creation of birds and fish, filling the sky and sea |
| Land realm | Day 3: Separation of land from water and population of plants, designating land and sea | Day 6: Creation of land animals and humans, filling the earth |
Day Four – Genesis 1:14-19
The account of the fourth day acts as a theological echo to the creation narrative of the first day. The scripture does not delve into the physical makeup of the “lights” in the firmament, also referred to as “celestial bodies.” Instead, it emphasises their placement in the firmament—a term that meant the total expanse of the sky, inclusive of the sun, moon, stars, and planets.
According to ancient interpretations, these celestial bodies were given specific, important functions: they separate day from night, continuing the division of light and darkness established on the first day; they provide light to the earth; and they serve as markers for “signs, seasons, days, and years.”
The creation on the fourth day follows a clear and orderly progression. First, God issues a decree (verse 14), outlining the roles and functions of the celestial bodies. Then, He brings them into existence (verse 16), ensuring they are designed to carry out their assigned purposes. Finally, God places these celestial bodies within the firmament (verse 17), setting them in their proper positions and activating their roles within the cosmic order.
Day Five – Genesis 1:20-23
On the fifth day of creation, God creates the living creatures of the waters and skies. The focus is on fish and birds, which are tasked with filling their environments and populating their respective domains.
One interesting aspect of the fifth day’s account is the mention of “great creatures of the sea” in verse 21. The Hebrew term used here is “tanninim,” which could refer to large marine creatures or, in some contexts, even mythological sea monsters. The author deliberately returns to the verb “bārā” (to create), which has not been employed since verse one, suggesting a heightened significance of these creatures within the narrative.
In ancient Near Eastern myths, the cosmic seas were often populated with creatures symbolising chaos and disorder. These beings were perceived as threats to the established order, representing forces that needed to be vanquished and restrained. However, the Genesis account diverges from these stories by presenting an alternative perspective. Instead of engaging in cosmic warfare or conquest, the text communicates that these “great creatures of the sea” are simply part of God’s ordered creation, not adversaries that must be defeated and kept at bay.
By highlighting these creatures in the creation account, the author emphasises that all living beings are under God’s authority. Unlike other ancient stories that often depict cosmic conflict, the fifth day of Genesis celebrates the order established by God, presenting a unique worldview that sets it apart from other ancient stories.
Day Six – Genesis 1:24-31
On the sixth day of creation, God introduces land creatures, with their primary role being to reproduce and fill the earth. When verse 24 says, “let the land produce living creatures,” it isn’t aiming at a scientific explanation. In the ancient world, land and mountains were often thought of as the birthplace of animals. It’s a bit like a theatre stage—while the stage doesn’t create the actors or the story, it sets the backdrop where everything unfolds. In the same way, verse 24 portrays the land as the setting where animal life begins and thrives. Animals live, breed, and survive on land—it’s the natural environment they come from. And so, on the sixth day, land creatures are introduced.
The story then turns to the creation of human beings. Like fish, birds, and animals, humans fill the earth—but unlike them, they’re given a distinctive role: to subdue and rule over the rest of creation. More than this, they share a unique bond with God, bearing His image. They are also characterised by their relationships with each other, being designated male and female.
This image of God is the defining attribute, the central theme of the passage. Everything else in creation relates to humanity, and humanity in turn serves creation as God’s vice-regents. To bear God’s image is to be entrusted with a godlike function in the world He has placed us in.
In other words, God intends for humanity to rule in a manner consistent with His own rule, continuing the work of ordering and subduing the earth for its proper functioning. This isn’t just gentle caretaking; it’s a bold calling to shape, direct, and nurture creation so that it flourishes as God intended.
A Sacred Pause: The Seventh Day and Its Implications
At first glance, the seventh day might seem like an afterthought, just a footnote urging the Israelites to keep the Sabbath. Materially, it might seem less impressive than the grandeur of planets and ecosystems. But functionally, the seventh day is the crescendo.
Here, the text tells us that God rests. Which is strange, after all, since when does an all-powerful deity need a nap? Did God get tired, lose steam, or make a mistake? What does divine rest entail? Many of us think of rest as taking a moment to recover from work, activities, or stress. It’s a deliberate break from routine and exertion, a disengagement from the cares, worries, and tasks of life. For me, rest sounds like taking an afternoon nap. But for the ancients, rest was what happened when chaos had been subdued, and sufficient order established. Rest meant stability, the moment when a builder lays down their tools and the house becomes a home. For God, it meant the cosmos could now run the way it was always meant to. As John Walton put it, “This is more a matter of engagement without obstacles rather than disengagement without responsibilities.”[ii]After creation, God takes up His rest and rules from His residence. The rest described here isn’t exhaustion, but enthronement.
This is where the Hebrew notion of “shalom” comes in, a state of peace, wholeness, and flourishing. The pre-creation chaos (“formless and void”) is seen as a discordant disharmony, as something not yet as it should be. So now that God has brought sufficient order, He can reign. God’s rest is not laziness but the ceasing of striving against disorder. Shalom is the new normal, space for life to thrive as it was meant to.
The theological understanding we draw from Genesis 1 is that God is the author of order. Ultimately, it is God who has ordered the world for good: materially, functionally and spiritually. The laws of physics, the pull of the tides, even the elegant mathematics behind nature’s patterns—these aren’t accidental but intentionally sustained. This is why Sabbath matters. It’s more than rest; it’s a living symbol of shalom—the wholeness and peace God intends for all creation. When we keep the Sabbath, we’re not just hitting pause on our busy schedules. We’re tuning our lives to the original rhythm of creation, honouring God’s handiwork, and daring to hope for the coming restoration—the world healed, made right, as it was always meant to be.
It’s important to be clear: when we’re unsettled by the world’s chaos, such as suffering, pain, or illness, the biblical narrative doesn’t shrug its shoulders. It insists that disorder and brokenness aren’t how things are meant to be; they’re the fallout of humanity’s rebellion, the ripple effects of sin and the work of corrupt spiritual forces. The story doesn’t gloss over these realities, it names them, explains their roots, and holds out hope for their eventual undoing.
So, what does it mean to “keep the Sabbath”? It’s not just permission for a lazy day. Yes, rest is part of it, but it’s also about stepping back and acknowledging who’s really in control. For the Jewish tradition, this meant pausing all work, a deliberate act of trust in God’s provision. For all of us, Sabbath is a chance to step back and acknowledge that God is ultimately in control, not us. By observing the Sabbath, we return to the truth that the Creator, not us, holds the universe together. It’s a weekly invitation to release our grip on control and reconnect with God’s design for order, peace, and wholeness. In choosing rest, we’re not just recharging, we’re reminding ourselves that, amid the chaos of life, there’s a deeper shalom we can trust in.
The Genesis Creation Story: A Concluding Exploration of Its Timeless Significance
Hopefully, you should now appreciate that the Biblical creation account in Genesis 1 is far more layered than a straightforward reading suggests. When we place it in its ancient context, its message—and how its original audience would have understood it—looks very different from the simplistic interpretations often promoted today.
First, Genesis 1 describes the functional origins of the world, not its material beginnings. Second, the seven days of Genesis 1 have no bearing on discussions regarding the age of the earth. This conclusion stems from an analysis and interpretation of the Genesis text within its ancient context. While many young-earth proponents defend their view out of a perceived obligation to uphold the Bible’s authority, the biblical text itself does not demand a young-earth perspective. Consequently, there is little reason to maintain this stance. Believers who are prepared to consider unpopular positions and explore alternative interpretations in an effort to defend the Bible’s reputation may find solace in the fact that Genesis 1 does not conflict with scientific evidence supporting an old earth. This realisation may offer comfort to some.
The third key point is that understanding Genesis 1 as a story about functional origins doesn’t rule out God’s role in material creation. It’s just that material origins weren’t the focus for ancient Hebrews. Nevertheless, they would not have doubted God’s role in the material origins.
Fourth, we must consider the intended audience of the text. Genesis wasn’t meant as a secret codebook of future scientific discoveries, it was written for an ancient people. There is no instance in the Old Testament where God imparts scientific knowledge beyond the understanding of the Israelite audience. If God consistently communicates using terms and concepts familiar to the Israelites, why should we expect to find modern scientific insights hidden within the text? For those who value the Bible, there is no need to force it to “speak science” in order to uphold its credibility. As an ancient document, Genesis 1 should not be burdened with material ontology, nor should we search for scientific information between the lines. At the same time, we must avoid reducing Genesis 1 to mere literary or theological expressions. In recognising that the text does not provide scientific explanations, Genesis 1 poses no conflict with contemporary scientific thought.
Fifth, it is crucial to acknowledge that while we have tackled some apparent tensions between Genesis 1 and modern science, the creation account in Genesis delivers a level of understanding that transcends the scope of scientific inquiry. While science unpacks the physical nuts and bolts of reality, its scope is deliberately limited: it answers the “how,” not the “why.” Genesis resounds with the intuitive message that beyond the tangible, material realm lies an overarching purpose. The structures of the cosmos are not coincidences; they exist for a reason.
At its core, the Genesis creation story insists that God is the ultimate cause, regardless of whatever secondary causes and processes can be identified through scientific investigation. Acknowledging this doesn’t mean closing the door on science. Quite the opposite. Believing the universe is ultimately an act of God only heightens the value of scientific inquiry, because it gives us another lens of understanding. Empirical science, by its nature, cannot prove or falsify ultimate causation or purpose. Science is not designed to define or detect a purpose, although scientists may rationally infer a creative purpose underlying the universe.
When materialists claim that nothing exists beyond what material sciences can reach, no purpose or ultimate meaning, they are akin to a fish insisting that only water exists, with no air (despite the fact that they could not breathe if the water were not oxygenated by air). Genesis isn’t metaphysically neutral. It affirms a purpose, seen through functions, while leaving open the exact processes of how material origins came about. Keeping this sense of purpose at the heart of our beliefs ensures that God’s role remains central, regardless of which descriptive mechanisms are considered. Since Genesis is thoroughly teleological, God’s intention and activity take centre stage, almost to the exclusion of everything else. Walton explains:
“Whatever empirical science has to say about secondary causation, [it] offers only a bottom-layer account and therefore can hardly contradict the Bible’s statements about ultimate causation. Whatever mechanisms can be demonstrated for the material phase, theological convictions insist that they comprise God’s purposeful activity… The text looks to the future (how this cosmos will function for human beings with God at its centre) rather than to the past (how God brought material into being). Purpose entails some level of causation (though it does not specify the level) and affirms sovereign control of the causation process.”[iii]
Consequently, Genesis 1 proposes that creation itself flows from intelligence. It proposes a mindful presence behind the universe’s order and physical laws. That’s a world apart from the view held by many atheistic materialists, who argue that the universe occurred “on its own” and is somehow self-explanatory. That’s naturalism in a nutshell—the philosophical stance that the entirety of nature can be explained solely through natural elements and events, governed by consistent and discoverable laws. It does not invoke any mindful or transcendent origin for these laws or phenomena—they either always existed, sprung up from nothingness and/or self-organised. From this viewpoint, the universe’s complexity and beauty aren’t results of intentionality, but outcomes of blind natural processes that self-evolved from near-nothingness (however defined). In this framework, there is no mindful origin to nature; it just is.
But even the most sophisticated naturalistic explanations for the universe lean on some pretty bold assumptions. At their heart, they propose that the universe’s elegant mathematical structures arose without reference to any guiding mind or conscious source. This perspective attributes the universe’s existence and characteristics to a series of random, unguided events driven by laws that either always existed or spontaneously self-created, effectively reducing the cosmos’s emergence to mere happenstance.
The Cognitive Processes Behind Ancient and Modern Perspectives
Finally, and I think this is worth adding, we can also explore the perspectives on creation in both ancient and modern contexts through the framework of left/right brain cognitive functions. The brain is split into two hemispheres, known as the right and left brain. Even though specific regions have functional strengths, it’s crucial to acknowledge that the brain functions as a unified system. The operations of the brain aren’t strictly divided between the ‘left-brain’ and ‘right-brain’. The two hemispheres don’t work in isolation. For instance, language, often attributed to the left brain, also involves the right brain in comprehending context and tone. While the left-brain processes mathematical equations, the right brain assists with comparisons and approximations. This is important to note since a simplistic interpretation that assigns specific functions to each hemisphere, such as the right hemisphere being responsible for ‘X’ and the left for ‘Y’, tends to overlook the complexity and interconnectedness of our brain structures. The hemispheres are inherently interlinked and always operate cooperatively, meaning all cognitive tasks involve both hemispheres.
However, while this is said, it’s essential to acknowledge the distinct manner in which each hemisphere perceives the world. Each hemisphere still has its areas of expertise. The left hemisphere is generally associated with focused attention and excels in categorisation, abstraction, and analysis. On the other hand, the right hemisphere is typically connected with a more expansive, vigilant attention, favouring a holistic, intuitive, and creative approach. This perspective implies that each hemisphere has its preferred mode of attention, areas where it takes the lead in information processing.
The left hemisphere is known for its analytical and linear thinking, which aligns well with the modern scientific approach that seeks to understand the universe through material explanations. This mechanistic mode of thought is essential for investigating the physical properties and components of the universe, as it excels at breaking down complex systems into smaller, more manageable parts. In the context of the creation narrative, you might suggest that the left hemisphere prefers to understand the mechanisms by which the universe was formed, probing the natural laws and processes governing its development.
On the other hand, it is said that the right hemisphere excels in holistic, intuitive, and relational thinking, which resonates with the ancient perspectives on creation, with their emphasis on function and order. This mode of thought appreciates the overarching narrative and purpose of the cosmos, acknowledging the role of intention and meaning in the universe’s existence. The right hemisphere perspective emphasises the interconnectedness of creation, recognising the significance of the cosmos as a unified, purposeful whole. Its holistic approach values the relationships between elements and their roles within the larger system, akin to the ancient worldview that saw the cosmos as a living thing, such as a body, a kingdom, or a temple.
Arguably, the main message from Genesis 1, at least for the ancient Israelites, is how God shaped the cosmos into His “cosmic temple”. In the ancient Near East, temples were viewed as miniature models of the universe. Genesis flips that idea on its head: the universe itself is the temple. Creation isn’t just about stuff being made; it’s about the world being ordered to work together as a dwelling place for God, and we are central to that narrative. If we want a full understanding of the creation narrative, we need to integrate both perspectives. While the focus on material origins offers valuable insights into the physical properties and processes that shape the universe, the “functional” approach reveals the deeper purpose and meaning underlying the cosmos. The Genesis narrative invites us to consider the ultimate purpose of our existence and to appreciate the cosmos as an awe-inspiring testament to the creative power of an intentional Creator.
[i] Walton, J.H. The Lost World of Genesis One: Ancient Cosmology and the Origins Debate, 16.
[ii] Walton, J.H. The Lost World of Genesis One: Ancient Cosmology and the Origins Debate, 72.
[iii] Walton, J.H. The Lost World of Genesis One: Ancient Cosmology and the Origins Debate, 117-119.
