Parashat Noach: When the Giants Brought the World Down

Every time we return to Parashat Noach, the images of the Flood feel unsettlingly familiar: a world overwhelmed by violence, a humanity that seems to have lost its way, and, amid the devastation, someone entrusted with the task of building an ark. 

But before the Flood, and even before the Creator calls upon Noach, the Torah offers us several passages that caught our attention when we studied them together in our Thursday Torah Class at 5:30 p.m. (Yes, consider this a little advertisement for the class!). I found myself lingering over these verses, and I would like to explore them further in this commentary on the parashah.

I am referring to the passage about the Nefilim, a word commonly translated as “giants,” or sometimes understood to refer to extraordinary beings endowed with superhuman powers. They appear in Chapter 6, near the very beginning of the story of humanity.

In Bereshit—Genesis 6:4, we read:

הַנְּפִלִ֞ים הָי֣וּ בָאָ֘רֶץ֮ בַּיָּמִ֣ים הָהֵם֒

“The Nefilim were on the earth in those days…”

This seemingly incidental detail appears just before the account of the Flood. The same verse continues:

וְגַ֣ם אַֽחֲרֵי־כֵ֗ן אֲשֶׁ֨ר יָבֹ֜אוּ בְּנֵ֤י הָֽאֱלֹהִים֙ אֶל־בְּנ֣וֹת הָֽאָדָ֔ם וְיָלְד֖וּ לָהֶ֑ם הֵ֧מָּה הַגִּבֹּרִ֛ים אֲשֶׁ֥ר מֵעוֹלָ֖ם אַנְשֵׁ֥י הַשֵּֽׁם׃

“…and also afterward, when the sons of the powerful (bnei ha-Elohim) came to the daughters of humankind and they bore children to them. These were the mighty men (gibborim) of old, men of renown.”

Here is where the complication begins: the expression bnei ha-Elohim has been the subject of considerable exegetical debate. Depending on how we translate and interpret the word Elohim—which can refer to God, gods, angels, judges, or powerful rulers—commentators have generally divided into two camps. Some understand the expression to refer to celestial beings, angels, or the sons of God; others interpret it as referring to human leaders, the sons of the powerful or the ruling class.

Targum Onkelos, Rashi, Rambam, and more firmly reject the interpretation that these were the sons of God. They understand the expression as referring instead to the sons of powerful men.

The verse speaks of the gibborim, the mighty ones, and the anshei hashem, the men of renown. It introduces them into a world in which boundaries seem to have blurred, a world in which, shortly afterward, God will look upon the earth and see that human wickedness has taken hold of people's lives.

Why does the Torah mention the Nefilim—the giants—just one verse before the story of the Flood?

Rabbinic tradition paused over this very word: Nefilim. And in it, our sages found a key to understanding something far more profound than the extraordinary stature of these beings. It is worth noting that the word Nefilim is related to the Hebrew root nafal, meaning “to fall.” This is no minor detail.

Ibn Ezra, writing in the twelfth century, explains:

“They are called Nefilim because the heart of whoever sees them falls at the sight of their extraordinary height.”

Ramban, writing in the thirteenth century, offers another interpretation:

“Rashi explains that they were called Nefilim because they fell and brought the world down with them. This interpretation appears in Bereshit Rabbah, the collection of midrashim that, in a sense, fills in the gaps and addresses the spaces the biblical text sometimes leaves open. The masters of language also explained that they were given this name because the human heart falls with fear in their presence.”

Let us pause and consider what these interpretations suggest.

First, the Nefilim make the hearts of those who behold them fall. Their overwhelming power inspires fear in those who feel diminished in their presence. Then, the Nefilim themselves fall, because unchecked power, when it becomes intoxicated with its own greatness, ultimately collapses under the weight of its arrogance and disregard for others. Finally, they bring the world down with them, because no system can endure the abuse and manipulation of power indefinitely.

Three falls. Three dimensions of the same story.

The first takes place in the hearts of ordinary people. The giants' power lies not only in their physical strength but also in the fear they inspire. Those who look at them may come to feel small, helpless, and doomed to lose before the struggle has even begun. Before any actual confrontation takes place, an inner defeat has already occurred.

Some forms of power depend precisely on this: making others doubt their own abilities, teaching them to lower their eyes, and eventually convincing them that nothing can ever change. Intimidation is most effective when it succeeds in taking root in the consciousness of those who suffer under it.

One of the great dangers of our time is becoming accustomed to such things: to rulers who subject us to their will, to wars reduced to numbers, to the dead becoming statistics, and to hatred becoming just another feature of everyday confrontation. Perhaps the Flood begins long before the waters reach our necks—when we stop being shocked by cruelty and dehumanization becomes part of our everyday language.

But our tradition does not stop there. The Nefilim also fall. And they bring the world down with them.

Bereshit Rabbah develops this interpretation with extraordinary force. In explaining the name Nefilim, the midrash teaches that they brought the world down, fell from the world, and filled the world with the dead as a result of their immorality.

And it is within this landscape that we arrive at the Flood.

Here we encounter one of the most difficult questions in this parashah. If the Nefilim brought the world down, who ultimately suffers the consequences of that fall?

The biblical narrative portrays a deeply corrupt humanity, and the midrash connects the giants with the destruction that precedes the Flood. Yet the catastrophe extends far beyond those directly responsible. Beneath the waters disappear countless other beings whose responsibility we do not know, lives we cannot simply place in the same category as those who wielded power and inflicted harm.

The question of the Flood is also a question of justice: How do we make sense of a destruction that reaches everyone when responsibility is not shared equally? Some bring about the fall. Many others are caught in it.

And yet, when the time comes to pay the price, the world does not always preserve those distinctions. The consequences of violence can sweep far beyond those who set it in motion. An entire society may find itself exposed to decisions made by a handful of people. This is both the promise and the peril of democracy: we exercise our free will, but we must also live with the consequences of our choices, both good and bad.

And then Noach appears.

Amid this narrative, the Torah introduces a distinction: “But Noach found favor in the eyes of Adonai” (Bereshit—Genesis 6:8). Bereshit Rabbah connects Noach with the words of the Psalms: “Happy is the person who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked.”

The midrash presents Noach as someone who did not surrender to the momentum of inherited violence. He was someone who resisted the prevailing code of his time. The text does not tell us that he organized a rebellion against the powerful or succeeded in putting an end to the corruption of his generation. It tells us something else: that he maintained an ethical distinction, that he did not walk the same path.

Perhaps he did so in the very simplicity with which the Torah portrays him. But simplicity and integrity are not weaknesses. Sometimes, it seems, we do not need to stand out or make grand gestures. We simply need to choose what is right.

In a society that has lost its boundaries, preserving that distinction is essential. Refusing to participate in wrongdoing, refusing to accept as normal that which degrades others, is itself an act of responsibility.

The Torah tells us that the earth was filled with hamas—violence, injustice, and corruption (Genesis 6:11). It is not describing isolated acts of violence, but an entire society in which violence had permeated collective life.

We may not be as far removed from that reality as we would like to believe. And if we are tempted to take a more apocalyptic view of the world, we need only look at the news: earthquakes, torrential rains, rising waters, and overflowing rivers wreaking havoc in different parts of the world. For a moment, the biblical image of the Flood ceases to be a distant scene from the ancient past. Water once again reminds us of our vulnerability and of the importance of preparing for threats to human life.

Not every flood is the result of human failure, and not every tragedy can be prevented. But the precautions we take, the decisions we make, and the solidarity we are capable of building can change the fate of many people. Our ability to maintain our ethical bearings and to join together in strong, cohesive communities in the face of the giants of our time may, once again, make all the difference. Like Noach, we may be able to stand apart from the prevailing culture and choose another path.

The Flood of our time has many names. It is antisemitism. It is arrogance and the absence of empathy for those who suffer. It is ignoring the poor and dispossessed—or, worse still, punishing them simply because they are foreigners or different. It is turning our backs on education and failing to provide care for the sick. These are precisely the opposite of what the Torah and our tradition demand of us.

An ark needs walls to protect life. But the ark we build today should not be like Noach's, which left the rest of humanity outside.

Perhaps the task of our generation is to build an ark that protects without confining, that shelters without isolating.

And when the waters finally recede, may we ask ourselves not only whether we managed to save ourselves, but also what kind of humanity we managed to preserve—and what kind of world we helped make possible for those who will come after us.

Shabbat Shalom umevorach.

Rabbi Gustavo Geier