Through the Flaming Sword
The Blade That Barred Us and The Blood That Brings Us Home
There’s a flaming sword at the entrance to paradise.
After Adam and Eve are exiled from Eden, God stations cherubim and a “flaming sword that turned every way” to guard the way back to the Tree of Life (Genesis 3v24). It’s one of the most haunting images in Scripture—blazing, dynamic, alive. This isn’t a sword lying dormant on the ground. It’s lit. It’s mobile. It’s holy. And it keeps us out.
But what exactly is it?
The Hebrew phrase is lahat ha-cherev ha-mithappeket (לַהַט הַחֶרֶב הַמִּתְהַפֶּכֶת). The word lahat can mean flame or blaze—but it’s also used elsewhere to describe magic or enchantment. Think Pharaoh’s magicians in Exodus. The word has a mystical, almost untouchable quality to it. It’s not just fire—it’s something divine, something other.
The sword (cherev) is obvious enough—a weapon, a divider, a blade that cuts. But it’s also the same word used in circumcision rites. It’s the same kind of blade that marked the covenant. The same kind that cut flesh to say, You are mine. There’s blood in that word. Intimacy. Identity. Cost.
And mithappeket? That means turning, whirling, reversing. A flaming blade that dances and darts and denies access.
So we’re left with this: a spinning, magical fire-sword, posted at the edge of Eden. A divine “Do Not Enter” sign.
And yet—there’s more here than just exclusion. There’s story. There’s foreshadowing. There’s a path that eventually winds home.
The Psychology of the Barrier
If you’ve ever listened to Jordan Peterson talk about Genesis, you know he doesn’t treat the Bible like a dusty artifact. He sees it as a living document of human consciousness—an archetypal map of the soul. He’s spoken about the flaming sword in particular as symbolic of the painful transformation required to regain paradise. We aren’t kept out of Eden arbitrarily—we’re kept out because re-entry demands death. Not just physical, but ego death. The sword represents truth. And truth always cuts.
Carl Jung would likely agree. For Jung, symbols like this one serve as gateways into the unconscious—the threshold moments that demand integration. The sword is the thing that divides what we want to see about ourselves from what we actually are. To pass through it, you must confront your shadow. You must see yourself clearly. And no one walks through that unscathed.
The Sword That Cuts a Covenant
And yet… this isn’t the last sword in Scripture.
Swords are everywhere in the Bible, and they don’t always guard—they also mark. As mentioned above, cherev is the same word used for the blade of circumcision, the physical sign of God’s covenant with Abraham. Blood had to be shed to belong. It was intimate. Sacred. Painful.
Then there’s Moriah—Abraham again, this time raising the blade over Isaac, only for God to stop him. A ram appears, caught in a thicket. Another sacrifice, another substitution. Still blood. Still a sword. But now the blade falls on someone else.
Fast-forward to Passover. The blood of lambs on doorposts doesn’t stop death from coming—it reorients it. The sword still falls, but not on the house marked in blood.
It all climaxes at the cross. The Lamb of God walks headlong into the sword—no substitute, no ram in the thicket this time. Jesus is pierced by nails, thorns, and ultimately, a spear. He doesn’t just confront the flaming sword. He passes through it.
He is the covenant, cut in flesh.
He is the flame, walking willingly into fire.
He is the Word, sharper than any two-edged sword (Hebrews 4v12).
And now, that sword doesn’t keep us out. It welcomes us back in.
The Door and the Flame
There’s a beautiful visual in The Hobbit—Gandalf arriving unannounced at Bag End, knocking on Bilbo’s little round door. Bilbo, like many of us, is comfortable. He has his pantry, his armchair, his routines. Gandalf’s knock disrupts all that. It’s an invitation to adventure, to leave behind safety, to step into something wild and transformative.
That’s the knock of Jesus.
“Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” (Revelation 3v20)
But here’s the twist: we’re not just meant to let Jesus in. He’s also inviting us out—back into Eden, into union, into the presence of God where heaven and earth meet again.
So which way is the door facing?
Is Jesus coming into the Hobbit hole of your heart to dwell?
Or is He standing at the gate of Eden, beckoning you to follow?
Yes.
This is not a binary choice—it’s a mystical overlap.
God desires to dwell in us (John 14v23), and He calls us to dwell with Him (Revelation 21v3). The direction of the door depends on your posture. He knocks to enter. He opens to lead.
Death Is a Door
The flaming sword still burns. But now it has a name: Jesus.
He is the Word, the Flame, the Covenant, the Way.
He is the One who walked through hell and came back for us.
And now, death is no longer exile. It’s entrance.
Jesus’ blood marks the door. Like the lamb’s blood in Egypt, it shields us—not from pain or mortality, but from the ultimate curse: separation from God. Now, to die is to open the door. And behind it is paradise.
Not someday. Not far off.
Even now.
So here’s the invitation:
Let Him in.
Follow Him out.
Walk through the flame.
There’s Eden on the other side.