In the previous two episodes we established that the biblical story of the Garden of God was shared, in some way, by the ancient inhabitants of the fertile crescent of eastern Mesopotamia. According to the Hebrew Scriptures, these peoples were descendants of Noah, the tenth in the line from Adam, who lived around 3300 B.C., according to traditional chronological calculations based on biblical narratives, such as those of Archbishop James Ussher and other studies of ancient chronology. Noah lived 950 years, and he witnessed the Flood, which occurred when he was 600.
Some consider the ages mentioned in Genesis to be exaggerated, but scientific studies suggest that in ancient times the Earth’s atmosphere was richer in oxygen and the environment more stable, which could have favored a much longer lifespan. This hypothesis—supported by fossil studies and research on ancient climates—gives scientific credibility to the long years of life described in the Scriptures.
The fertile zone of Shinar, in ancient Mesopotamia, was ideal for human settlement. It had abundant water, vegetation, and conditions that favored the development of life. We know that in that region there were large animals, such as prehistoric elephants, enormous wild bulls, and very large crocodiles. But no evidence has been found of gigantic dinosaurs like those of the Jurassic period, whose colossal size could have prevented or greatly hindered human life as we know it. Science itself holds that dinosaur gigantism was possible due to the high concentration of oxygen in the atmosphere at that time. It has also been observed that many of those prehistoric animals lived longer than their present-day equivalents.
A purer and more balanced environment favored not only physical growth, but also a longer and healthier life for all creation. And if we accept that explanation to justify why animals lived and grew so much, then we can also be willing—not only to believe—but to infer or rationally deduce that human beings, in that same environment, could have had extraordinary longevity. What is presented here is not a baseless assumption, but an educated hypothesis that follows the logic of science and deduces honestly from what we already know. We are speaking of a reality that, if we allow spiritual memory and reason to speak at the same time, is not so difficult to accept.
Only a few generations passed between Noah and the rise of Sumerian civilization, which began to flourish around 3100 B.C., according to archaeological records. This means that Noah’s children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren were the ones who founded those cities—and possibly the ones who participated in the attempt to build the Tower of Babel.
In other words, the inhabitants of Sumer knew the story of the beginning perfectly well, because they descended directly from those who lived it and told it. The French author and historian Georges Roux wrote in his book Ancient Iraq that it is very possible the Sumerians were native inhabitants of Mesopotamia and that their civilization arose out of prehistory itself. That impression from the researcher would support my belief that the Sumerians, too, were descendants of the line of Noah—or of the Sumerian Ziusudra.
In religious terms, we can say that Sumer was the spiritual mother of Babylon and of all subsequent civilizations. When this later culture conquered the region, it adopted both the social structure and the spiritual culture of Sumer: its beliefs, its rituals, its symbols, and its way of conceiving the world. Babylon did not invent the worship of human power—it inherited it.
There was a common consciousness in antiquity, and the Sumerian text of tablet #29.16.422, found in Nippur and preserved at the University of Pennsylvania, makes this clear. The translation of this epic poem—whose hero governed the city of Erech or Uruk, founded by Nimrod, the great-grandson of Noah and grandson of Ham, one of Noah’s three sons, in the fourth millennium B.C.—states:
In those days there was no snake,
there was no scorpion,
there was no hyena.
There was no lion,
there was no wild dog,
there was no wolf.
There was no fear, no terror.
Man had no rival.
In those days the land of Shubur in the east, the place of abundance, of righteous decrees;
Sumer of harmonious language in the south, the wondrous land of the “decrees of the prince”;
Uri in the north, the land that has everything necessary;
the land of Martu, the Amorites in the west, resting in safety;
the whole universe, the people in unison,
to Enlil in one tongue gave praise.
This fragment not only conveys the memory of a time when fear and danger did not exist; it seems to evoke an echo of the Garden of God—an environment of total harmony resembling the original state described by ancient texts, before transgression. That peaceful, united, secure atmosphere was not a cultural invention; it was the reflection of a deep spiritual memory transmitted through generations. Sumerian civilization preserved the image of that blessed time.
The poem also reveals an elevated view of the human being. It says: “Man had no rival.”
It is a phrase that could suggest authority and dominion—but also arrogance. Yet that authority was not new, nor did it originate in man. It was the same authority Adam and Eve had received in the beginning, when they were created to govern God’s creation with His wisdom and justice. That was the part of the Covenant that belonged to man—and that they discarded. The Book of the Life of Adam and Eve confirms that their glory was so great that even angels obeyed man, because his light and his image were a reflection of the divine Source.
Nevertheless, the glory God had given to man was misinterpreted or forgotten. The spiritual understanding that man lost it by breaking his covenant commitment faded. Man no longer saw himself as a reflection of the Creator, but as the origin of his own power.
In the previous episode we saw that among the Sumerians, man was called “Galu,” a word meaning “god is man.” This concept marks a profound shift: there was no longer anyone above man—not even God. The human figure became the center of power, worship, and praise. Proof of this is that their idols were the figure of a man. These were not merely abstract symbols: man became the visible god of his own system. This expression is not accidental. It reflects that that generation understood what it was doing. They were not acting in ignorance, but with full spiritual awareness that they were exalting man instead of submitting to God.
The memory of Eden remained alive in ancient civilizations, though distorted. The environment without fear or danger, the unity of language, the collective praise, even the image of a man without rival—all point to the remembrance of a time when the human being lived in communion with the Creator. But now, instead of seeking to return to that place through submission and reconciliation, they tried to rebuild it in their own way, with their own order, and under their own glory—“god is man.” Thus, the memory of Eden was manipulated and used as the foundation to build a system centered on human power, not on the Voice of God that gave origin to everything.
However, there is something even more revealing: the god to whom that unified praise was offered—in one language—was not the Creator of heaven and earth, but Enlil.
According to the scholar Morris Jastrow, Enlil—also called Bel—was, in Babylonian theology, “the lord of the underworld” and “chief of the fallen spirits.” The ideogram Lil was used to designate a demon in general; therefore Enlil represents the unification of spiritual forces whose activity is concentrated in the earthly and subterranean sphere.
This shows us that humanity’s unity, even before the Tower of Babel, had already been diverted toward the worship of a power that did not come from above. Thus, the unanimous praise of the world was not to God, but to the leader of the conspiracy against God. The serpent had not only spoken—it had already been enthroned.
The ancient Sumerian poem states that praise to Enlil was offered in the four known regions—Shubur, Sumer, Uri, and Martu—in one single language. This statement is not only notable; it directly confirms the account of Genesis 11:1, which declares: “The whole world had one language and the same words.”
The correspondence between both records—one biblical and one Sumerian—cannot be ignored: both traditions preserve the memory of a humanity unified by language and origin. According to the Scriptures, these peoples were the descendants of Noah’s sons, scattered after the construction of the Tower of Babel. From the perspective of the Sumerian poem, “the whole world” was precisely the world known to those ancient civilizations—the same one the biblical text associates with the building of the tower.
According to the Sumerian poem, these civilizations shared a common language, a shared culture, and a unified worship—not of the Creator of heaven, but of a powerful figure linked to the underworld and to the spiritual control of what is earthly. The Sumerian copyist makes clear that this single language was the Sumerian tongue, and that it was the vehicle of universal praise to Enlil—the one whom Jastrow defines as the chief of fallen spirits.
But it was in another poem—still more revealing—translated by the English researcher Stephen Langdon, where the root of the religious system that would dominate the world was exposed:
“Sumer, the great mountain, the fastening of heaven and earth.
Bearing a flash of splendor, from the rising of the sun to its setting,
it teaches the decrees of the earth.
Your decrees are from afar famous and unchanging;
your heart (of Sumer) is deep; man has not discovered it.
As a true form (designed by) earth and heaven it was created,
as an intangible heaven.
Sons of a king, clothed upon a true form.
Descendants of a high priest, whose head is crowned.
You, the high priest, are the lord of the depths,
the divine king who dwells in the sanctuary of heaven.
The king is the great mountain, father Enlil.” (Col. III: 11–19)
In this hymn, Sumer is called “the great mountain, the fastening of heaven and earth.” But this mountain was not the original one—it was an imitation of the true one: the pure mountain where the righteous sons of Adam lived in communion with the Voice of their Creator. There, above, was the Garden of God—the true point of union between heaven and earth.
“The fastening” refers to that sacred threshold between the divine and the human, which later civilizations tried to reproduce. Over time, the central figure of that poem and culture was exalted as “god,” and titles and honors were given to him that belong only to the true God—in an act of substitution that gave birth to a religion based on the distorted memory of a lost spiritual truth.
After the fall, full access to the Garden was closed, but God placed Adam and Eve in a cave at the foot of that mountain, just outside the Garden, in its immediate proximity. This was not a human choice, but a divine arrangement.
That place was more than refuge: it was the point where reconciliation was still possible, where the presence of God could still be perceived and seen. Not made of bricks, but established by the will of God. Not sought by human power, but offered from above as a sacred gate to the man who fulfilled his part of the Covenant.
Cain’s children could see the mountain from afar; they knew that the other sons of Adam lived there, but they could not go up. That mountain was not only geographical—it was a spiritual separation, a boundary traced by purity and obedience. Only those who remained faithful could inhabit that territory of divine closeness, at the edge of Eden.
According to the Book of the Life of Adam and Eve, Adam’s children saw on that mountain the spiritual domain of God. They observed His messengers and knew when they descended or ascended. That is, the connection to the divine had not been completely broken: God’s presence was still visible and real. Their spiritual eyes had been opened again, and that reveals something essential: the human being retains the capacity to see the spiritual world. That capacity was not lost forever; it was dormant due to the transformation from the spiritual body to the physical body. But in that place where God put them, that perception was restored.
Until the days of Noah, righteous men could still see. But when they descended from the divine mountain—when they intermingled with the offspring of the fallen son—that vision was lost, because they chose another foundation.
Centuries later, when that connection with God had already been lost, humanity tried to rebuild the foundation with the Babylonian ziggurat using their own hands. Ziggurats were built as stepped mountains—true stairways to heaven made by man—attempting to reach the heights by their own means. But it was no longer God who manifested at the top; it was human desire to occupy that place. They were human copies of the lost sacred mountain, built with brick and bitumen, without the Voice that guided, and without the Presence that once descended.
The memory of Eden remained, but relationship with the Creator was no longer part of the human plan. Yet reconciliation is still possible. And when the soul aligns again with the Voice, when intention is purified and the heart turns upward, that spiritual capacity begins to awaken again. Not all of us experience it in the same way. In some it is an inner vision; in others a deep discernment; in others a sensitivity difficult to put into words; and for some it could perhaps even be visual.
The fact is that what we now see as through a veil will one day be seen with the clarity of the sun at its highest point. But the spiritual world is there, and it can be seen, felt, or intuited by anyone who walks toward the light. Transformation remains active, even in this very body we inhabit, because the Creator has not stopped drawing near.
The poem says that Sumer teaches the decrees of the earth. But these are not the decrees of the Creator. They had already been rejected, and in their place a new law had been imposed, born of the pride of man’s heart.
“Your decrees are from afar famous and unchanging…” the text says. They became so popular that they spread as forms of government and religion throughout the known world. And then it adds: “Your heart is deep; man has not discovered it.”
This indicates that the origin of those decrees is hidden. They are not understood by the people, but they are accepted and revered. People are being led astray, venerating a source that does not come from the Light, but from the depths of the earth—where Enlil dwells, the god of humanity’s original and primary religion.
The poem says: “As a true form… it was created.” But it is not. It only appears true. It is an illusion: a structure of power dressed in spirituality. We are told of “sons of a king” and “descendants of a crowned high priest.”
That lineage is spiritual, and their father, king, and high priest is Enlil. Here the origin of the spiritual belief of that time is spoken of directly. And then the most unsettling line: “You, the high priest, are the lord of the depths, the divine king who dwells in the sanctuary of heaven.”
What does it mean that the lord of the depths dwells in the sanctuary of heaven?
It means that Enlil has been elevated into the place of the true God. He did not succeed in sitting above the stars of God and raising his throne, but he founded a false sanctuary on earth—a crude imitation of heavenly power. This is Babel: an usurped throne, an artificial spirituality, a religious system that from the depths tries to reach heaven… in order to replace the Creator with its own version of god.
The ancient Sumerians did not hide the pride they felt in creating their politico-religious institution. The Bible left us the account of the Tower of Babel to show the deep impact that the origin of the gods’ temple-houses and the representation of politico-religious power through the artificial mountain of Babel had on human history.
In another of his works, Babylon and the Old Testament, Parrot added:
“The earliest reference to Babylon is found in a text of King Shargalisharri of the Akkadian dynasty (about 2350 B.C.), in the Sumerian form Ka-dingir, meaning ‘gate of god,’ which the Akkadians literally translated as Bab-ilu.” The name Babylon is directly related to the term Babel. God calls Babylon “daughter of Babel.”
When God speaks of Babylon, He is referring not only to a city, but to the spiritual and political system that continued the work of Sumer in its fullest expression, attempting to reach above the throne of God through a fallen spiritual state.
In the Sumerian worldview, the idea of being gods and subduing the earth in a purely earthly, human sense was understood as a legal and hereditary right. According to the poem translated by Langdon, Sumer was the daughter of a god-king and priest. Control of Nippur—the sacred city and seat of the god Enlil—was the greatest ambition of the rulers of the Euphrates Valley. It was believed that to dominate Nippur was to receive divine approval to rule the earth in the name of Enlil, and thus acquire part of his divine character. It was the same imitation of God’s sacred city in heaven—and the same thing the Transgressor wanted to obtain: to sit on His throne of power.
The temple of Babel was the visible expression of an institutionalized religion: a human government that sought to raise its own glory—not God’s—up to heaven. In that time, man believed there was no one greater than him, as the Sumerian poem suggests: “man had no rival,” an idea perfectly summarized in the expression “god is man” or “god is the image of man.”
This way of thinking marks the birth of polytheism as an organized spiritual belief and the beginning of the first religion created by man. The ziggurat of Babel represented that legitimized religion, that self-erected government, seeking to lift its own glory—and not God’s—up to heaven:
“Though Babylon should ascend to heaven, and though she should fortify her stronghold on high, from Me shall destroyers come to her” (Jeremiah 51:53).
This speaks of the insolent intention of spiritual Babylon to sit upon the very throne of God.
This politico-religious structure not only organized power; it also shaped the narrative of the beginning, transmitting it through symbols, myths, and art. Thus a reinterpreted memory began—far from the original Voice… yet still guided by the echo of lost Eden.
So, returning to the questions from the beginning of the first part of this episode:
What connection is there between the Garden of Eden and the Tower of Babel?
The connection is deep and direct. The Garden of Eden was the real portal between heaven and earth, and after man’s fall that entrance was sealed. Yet the memory of that access was preserved, as proven by both the Hebrew Scriptures and the Sumerian tablets.
After the Flood, Noah’s descendants inherited that memory, and it was in the plain of Shinar that the human attempt arose to recover the lost access through the Tower of Babel—and to challenge God’s authority—creating a religion based on the worship of man, teaching not only that man was god, but that he was his own creator, claiming that the image of man is God.
Thus, the tower represents the distorted memory of the Garden and the desire to reach the Kingdom not through obedience, but through self-sufficiency and spiritual usurpation.
Is there a real connection between both events?
Yes—not only spiritual, but also cultural and historical. The builders of the tower settled in the region where tradition placed Eden. The term Bab-ilu means “gate of god,” and the ziggurats were designed as stairways to heaven and as artificial mountains, imitating the mountain where Adam and his descendants lived until Noah. Moreover, the Sumerian poem we cited speaks of one language across the entire earth, just as Genesis mentions. Even their god, Enlil, to whom all praised, was not the Creator, but the chief of malevolent spirits according to the studies of the scholar and orientalist Morris Jastrow. All this shows that humanity remembered something of great power that had happened and sought to obtain it in its own way.
Could we prove in some way that what the Scriptures and the Book of the Life of Adam and Eve tell us happened definitively?
It depends on what we mean by “prove.” We cannot prove it—at least for now—as a closed archaeological fact, but we can recognize that many civilizations acted as if what the Scriptures say had been true. They preserved it in their art, like the Sumerian seal with a man, a woman, a tree, and a serpent. They wrote it into their myths, where “man had no rival” and “god is man.” And they tried to reconstruct it with their own temples and priesthoods. All of this does not seem to arise from chance, but from a shared spiritual memory, though distorted.
And for those of us connected to the spiritual world, the question is not whether it can be proven… but whether it can be remembered. Because everything we have seen—everything they wrote and built—confirms that the story of the beginning remains alive in our spiritual memory. Even today, many—consciously or unconsciously—still try to return to the Garden.
But the path back is not built, first of all, the way the builders of Babel tried—making stairways of mud bricks up to heaven—but through changes in our lives, inwardly. And the Garden will only open for all of us when we have learned again to keep His Voice.