The Location and Work of Eden—Hermeneutical Convergences

Abstract

The study begins with the questions “Where was Paradise?” and “How was the Garden cultivated?”, and the relationship between different modes of interpretation. It compares the biblical data (Gen. 2) with patristic testimonies (John Chrysostom, Ambrose, Ephrem, Gregory of Nyssa, John of Damascus) and symbolic readings (Philo, Cyprian, Hippolytus), in order to assess whether the plurality of meanings generates confusion or coherence. Situated within the divergent approaches of these patristic authors—especially concerning literal and figurative aspects—I aim to outline an integral theological reading of the Eden tradition and of the aforementioned questions. The methods used in this research are comparative biblical and patristic exegesis, structured through a four-step framework: (1) retaining the literal sense when the text provides anchors (rivers, orientation); (2) shifting from description to vocation in the moral-liturgical sense (“to work”/“to keep”); (3) accepting the ineffable (2 Cor. 12) as a boundary; (4) articulating an ontology of paradisiacal matter. The findings of this study are as follows: Eden is an earthly reality, but one with transfigured materiality; “work” is an inner activity (obedience, contemplation) without toil; and the diversity of interpretations proves to be complementary: the literal anchors the “where/what”, while the spiritual illuminates the “why/how”, together avoiding both inert geography and ungrounded symbolism.

1. Introduction

The study begins with early Christian answers to the questions—“Where was Paradise?” and “How was the Garden cultivated?”—in order to explore a deeper issue: Is the existence of multiple meanings and interpretive methods in reading Genesis problematic, or, on the contrary, can this plurality be harmonized into a coherent and fruitful vision? The starting point is the terminological and directional ambiguities found in Genesis 2 (garden/Paradise; “eastward” as a geographical and possibly temporal orientation), coupled with the classic tension between an earthly and a “supramundane” localization of Eden, and between an “agricultural” labor and an inner-liturgical work of humanity “before the Fall”. Rather than treating these interpretive lines as mutually exclusive alternatives, we will consider them as complementary registers of the same revealed truth.

Therefore, the research objective is explicit: beginning with the questions “Where was Paradise?” and “How was the Garden cultivated?”, we aim to assess whether the multiplicity of meanings—literal, moral-liturgical, mystical-eschatological—generates hermeneutical confusion or, on the contrary, mutually enhances understanding. More precisely, whether these interpretive modes, despite their diversity, can resonate together and prove complementary. The working hypothesis we propose is that the literal sense anchors revelation in history (place, rivers, chronology), while the spiritual senses (moral, typological, mystical) unveil its fulfillment in Christ and in the economy of salvation. There is no necessary opposition between them, but rather a synergy that must be carefully articulated.

From the standpoint of sources, we will closely compare the biblical data with major patristic testimonies. The trajectory of the ancient tradition already reveals two legitimate emphases: some Church Fathers defend the earthly localization and the realism of the hydrological details (Eden “on earth”; identifications of the four rivers), while others stress the spiritual dimension and typological interpretations (the east as theological orientation; the river-Christ flowing into the four Gospels). Far from being mutually exclusive, these two lines must be read together: the literal sense grounds the “where and the “what”, while the spiritual sense illuminates the “why” and the “how”. In the same vein, the command “to work and to keep” does not describe toil in the post-fall sense, but a liturgy of freedom: loving obedience, contemplation of the divine reasons (logoi) of creation, and the vigilance of the heart—all corresponding to the state of creation in harmony and without resistance.

The structure of the study follows the natural “movement” of the questions: first the “where—an analysis of Eden’s location at the intersection of revealed geography and soteriological symbolism; then the “how”—an elucidation of the paradisiacal labor as the work of the mind and heart, rather than agricultural effort after the Fall. Along this path, we will argue that the apparent polyphony of meanings does not signify fragmentation, but rather the fullness of a reality that, from the beginning, is communicated on multiple levels. The intended conclusion is that hermeneutical multiplicity is not a problem to be eliminated, but the condition of an integral theological reading: the senses confirm, correct, and fulfill one another, preserving both the historical realism of Scripture and its doxological finality.

2. The Nature of the Garden

The biblical text of Genesis introduces the theme of Eden with the following statement: “Then the Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and there He placed the man He had formed” (Gen. 2:8), followed by the note: “The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and to keep it” (Gen. 2:15). From a translation perspective, the Greek term “παράδεισος” and the Hebrew “גן” oscillate semantically between “garden” and “paradise”, while the phrase “in the east” (Gen. 2:8) carries both a geographical connotation (as in the Septuagint) and possibly a temporal nuance—“in the beginning” (as in the Masoretic Text) (Biblia sau Sfânta Scriptură 2019, p. 58)1.

A first concern relates to the mode in which the environment for human becoming is introduced. Unlike the rest of creation, Eden is planted, not merely called into being by the word. Saint Symeon the New Theologian observes that its mention after the “rest” of the seventh day suggests the beginning of another horizon—a sign of the age to come—(Lazăr 2023, p. 85) and emphasizes the uniqueness of the divine intervention: here, God plants, linking the way the garden was constituted to the mystery of the human being’s creation (Simeon Noul Teolog 1998, p. 111).

Saint John Chrysostom equates “planted” with “commanded” (Ioan Gură de Aur 1997, p. 152) while Saint Ambrose implies that in the creation of Paradise, God combined word with act (Sfântul Ambrozie al Milanului 2007, p. 62). The difference in emphasis is revealing: some Fathers view Eden as a direct, even “manual” work of God, while others lean toward an act of divine command. This hermeneutical tension, far from being problematic, may enrich our understanding of creation and its eschatological destiny.

After asking what it was—garden or paradise—and how it came to be—by planting or by commanding—the natural next question (on which we will focus more deeply) is where More precisely: Where was Eden planted—on earth or in heaven? We may anticipate that the polysemy we have come to expect will persist.

The Apostle Paul mentions a “third heaven” and “Paradise” where “inexpressible words” were heard (2 Cor. 12:2–4). The emphasis lies on the ineffable nature and the uncertainty of the experience: “whether in the body or out of the body, I do not know” (Saint Ambrose 1961, pp. 287–88). For our question, this text suggests that Paradise is accessible through “spiritual rapture” and possesses a supramundane dimension. However, Saint Paul does not deny the possibility of an objective reality; rather, he points to the limits of subjective knowledge. He does not resolve the tension between an earthly and a heavenly localization but attests to a level of reality that transcends ordinary perception (Wallace 2011).

Philo of Alexandria interprets the “east” as a symbol of Wisdom (Septuaginta I 2004, p. 57). This is not a thesis about the geography of Eden, but rather it legitimizes an allegorical reading in which the garden functions as a paradigmatic space for the “wise” life. Philo thus opens the way for a hermeneutic approach in which Eden is not exhausted by its physical coordinates. Although he does not explicitly decide between an “earthly” or “heavenly” Eden, his preference for symbolism points toward the transcendence of meaning.

In the case of Saint Gregory of Nyssa, who justifies the practice of praying facing east based on the location of Eden (Graef 1954, p. 22), “east” takes on theological significance (Christ), which reinforces the typological value of the Genesis text (Septuaginta I 2004, p. 57). As with Philo, we do not receive a definitive statement on location, but rather a spiritual emphasis: Eden becomes an orientation—a locus that shapes the cultic habitus.

Saint Ambrose of Milan combines apophatic caution—“we are not permitted to speak lightly about Paradise” (Sfântul Ambrozie al Milanului 2007, p. 62)—with a decisive affirmation: God “placed [Adam in Paradise] the man with a body, because what is immaterial cannot be placed in a specific location” (Saint Ambrose 1961, p. 288). It is clear that for Saint Ambrose, Eden has spatiality: it is not an abstract idea, nor is it “only” heavenly. Yet its concreteness is mysterious, since access is limited. Saint Ambrose outlines a real territory, but one of subtle materiality, not entirely subject to the rules of this world.

Saint John Chrysostom explicitly rejects the tendency to “move” Eden into heaven for allegorical reasons, and he insists on the textual details: the mention of location, the rivers (Tigris, Euphrates), and the name “Eden” serve as arguments against “fables” that de-historicize the garden (Ioan Gură de Aur 1997, p. 150). For Chrysostom, Eden was “on earth”, and “planted” means “commanded”. He thus expresses fidelity to the letter of Scripture without denying its moral-spiritual dimension. His stance is firmly anti-allegorical and advocates for an earthly localization.

Saint Ephrem the Syrian brings a new element to the discussion: a cosmological framing. If Eden was full of trees, then it must have been created on the third day, along with all vegetation (Ephraim the Syrian 1994, p. 309). This argument places it within the earthly matrix of creation, yet leaves room for interpretation regarding the “quality” of that matter. Saint Ephrem thus introduces a link between the chronology of creation and the ontological status of the garden.

If we compare them, two “ancient” lines of interpretation emerge. The first supports the earthly localization of Eden: Saint Ambrose, Saint John Chrysostom, and Saint Ephrem (through his argument about the third day of creation). The second emphasizes, without denying the historical dimension, the spiritual aspect: the Apostle Paul, Philo, and Saint Gregory of Nyssa. These are not opposing camps, but rather two perspectives on where Eden was and what kind of reality it was: earthly, yet composed of a materiality integrated into the horizon of incorruptibility.

The second issue concerns whether the simultaneous presence of the literal and spiritual senses complicates interpretation. From the examples mentioned, at least three interpretive layers coexist:

(1)

Literal-historical—a garden with rivers and trees;

(2)

Moral-liturgical—eastward orientation (ad orientem); “to work and to keep” as a vocation;

(3)

Mystical-eschatological—rapture “into Paradise”, the ineffable, a “sign of the age to come”.

However, in the patristic tradition, these senses are not mutually exclusive: in Saint John Chrysostom, the literal sense safeguards the realism of revelation; in Saint Ambrose, mystery sets limits on descriptive claims; in the Apostle Paul, the ineffable shows that such realities exceed language. Thus, the issue is not the presence of “multiple meanings”, but the confusion between levels: if we turn the spiritual into a negation of the literal, we lose salvation history; if we reduce the literal to geography, we lose the theological purpose of the text. The correlation of meanings is, in fact, essential: the literal Eden makes space for the spiritual Eden; the spiritual Eden illuminates the ethical and liturgical meaning of the concrete “garden”.

The third issue concerns the state of Eden: between corruption and incorruption. This is addressed explicitly in post-Antique tradition. According to Saint Gregory of Sinai, Paradise is “very high”, “planted with all kinds of fragrant greenery”, and its fallen fruits become “fragrant earth”—a sign of a nature that does not decay in the manner of the fallen world (Grigorie Sinaitul 1977, pp. 93–94). This vision, reinforced by hagiographical narratives (Saint Euphrosynos the Cook, Saint Andrew the Fool-for-Christ), suggests that Eden is accessible through vision, and that its materiality, though real, is transfigured (Topping 1977, p. 11; Nikephoros 1995, p. 14). Shortly after the Fall, the “garments of skin” (Gen. 3:21) signify humanity’s transition to a coarser condition, no longer capable of dwelling in that privileged environment. From here arises the idea of the elevation or concealment of the Garden—a notion subtly implied in the dogmatic theology of Saint John of Damascus when he distinguishes between the present order and the one to come (St. John Damascene 1958, pp. 67–68). Phenomenologically, this also explains Saint Ambrose’s caution: we are speaking about something that is “in the world”, but not “of this world” in the post-fall sense.

From a methodological perspective, how can we avoid deviation? A four-step framework may prove useful:

(1)

We preserve the literal meaning where Scripture provides concrete anchors (names of rivers, spatial orientation);

(2)

We accept the moral-liturgical sense when the text itself shifts from description to vocation (“to work and to keep”);

(3)

We recognize the limits of language when apostolic or patristic witness invokes the ineffable;

(4)

We articulate an ontology of matter before “opaqueness”, that is, a materiality capable of bearing the presence of grace, which accounts for both the presence of trees and the “fragrance” of incorruptibility.

Within this framework, the literal and the spiritual are complementary axes, not mechanisms of mutual cancellation.

The position we propose, based on the discussed material, is the following:

Eden was a terrestrial reality—in the sense that it belonged to the created order of the earth and was integrated into the chronology of creation (the third day for vegetation, as Saint Ephrem the Syrian argues). However, it was a region of the earth endowed with ontological subtlety: its matter was subject to time but transfigured by grace, positioned “between corruption and incorruption”, as Saint Gregory of Sinai would later describe it.

This condition made possible a human existence in which “working and keeping” were exercised without pain or conflict, and allowed access to the Tree of Life. After the Fall, that same garden became inaccessible to humanity in its “garments of skin”; it did not vanish but was “elevated”—not necessarily spatially, but ontologically: it entered the realm of the “third heaven” (Paul’s testimony), where it can be “seen” in rapture but not inhabited by the un-deified human.

Therefore, the earthly/heavenly opposition has the following dynamic:

Eden is earthly by creation, heavenly in its purpose, and, after the Fall, hidden from the earthly realm. Since both Scripture and the Fathers carefully preserve both dimensions, the coexistence of the literal and spiritual senses is not problematic. The only real problem would be a violent separation of the two.

In this light, the ancient voices become perfectly complementary:

• Saint John Chrysostom safeguards geographic realism,
• Saint Ambrose warns of the mystery of language,
• Saint Ephrem anchors Eden chronologically in the third day of creation,
• The Apostle Paul offers a mystical window into the ineffable Paradise,
• Saint Gregory of Nyssa, and before him Philo, remind us that the “east” is not only cardinal, but also theological orientation.

The Antiochene/Alexandrian controversy reappears here, but it can be resolved: an integral hermeneutic does not pit letter against spirit but holds them together within the economy of salvation.

As for later hagiographic accounts (Saint Euphrosynos the Cook, Saint Andrew the Fool-for-Christ), they do not determine geography but confirm the possibility of experiencing Eden within the framework of vision, though only for purified souls—a sign that the garden’s reality persists within the body of the Church.

Final conclusions: Eden was a real garden, planted and locatable within the created order of the earth, as strongly affirmed by the Church Fathers such as Saint John Chrysostom and Saint Ambrose. Eden was—and is—also Paradise in the mystical-eschatological sense, accessible through rapture, as testified by the Apostle Paul. The “east” functions as a symbol of Wisdom and of Christ, pointing toward the liturgical orientation of life, as proposed by Philo and Saint Gregory of Nyssa. The “materiality” of Eden was distinct: compatible with time, yet permeated by grace. This accounts for both its vegetal descriptions and its ineffable character (an intuition explicitly developed in the medieval tradition).

In interpretation, the coexistence of literal and spiritual senses is not a problem but the very condition of theological reading:

• The literal grounds revelation in salvation history;
• The spiritual reveals its finality in Christ.

All these interpretations remain open to further exploration—not in a relativistic sense, but in acknowledgment that we are speaking about realities which exceed descriptive language, and for which Tradition offers converging signposts, not exhaustive maps.

3. The Location and the Work of the Garden

Continuing the previous analysis, in which Eden was understood as a terrestrial reality “refined” ontologically, we now naturally turn to the question of the garden’s location and the meaning of the command to “work and keep” it. Both themes require a close reading of the details in Genesis 2:10–14 and 2:15–17, as well as a systematic comparison of the ancient testimonies referenced in our study, to see how location is related to “work/keeping” and how the literal and spiritual meanings are articulated without confusion.

The biblical account places the garden within a specific hydrographic landscape: a river flows “out of Eden” and divides into four branches—Pishon, Gihon, Tigris, and Euphrates—with geographical references (Havilah, Cush, Assyria) and even economic and mineral notes (good gold, bdellium, onyx). In Antiquity, this framework was interpreted through two main approaches: a literal-historical (geographic) one and a symbolic-theological one, without the two being mutually exclusive.

On the literal side, three authors—Saint John Chrysostom, Saint Ambrose, and Blessed Augustine (Singleton 1957, p. 14)—identify the four branches with the Ganges, Nile, Tigris, and Euphrates (Ioan Gură de Aur 1997, pp. 154–55). Gihon is often equated with the Nile. This tradition insists that the rivers are indeed “rivers” and the waters are “waters”, and that the biblical description should be accepted as such, not dissolved into allegory. Chrysostom explicitly polemicizes against the tendency to “not allow these rivers to be rivers” (St. John Chrysostom 1900, p. 58), calling for trust in the letter of Scripture. Elsewhere, he emphasizes the size of the garden and the overflowing of the river that waters it—an image of original abundance (Septuaginta I 2004, p. 58). From a methodological point of view, his position is a landmark: geographic reality is not a burden to the text, but the very vehicle of salvation history, where God leaves traces in space and time.

At the other end, Saint Ephrem the Syrian proposes a different set of identifications—the Danube, Nile, Tigris, and Euphrates—showing that the concrete map was shaped by the geographical knowledge of the time, and that the goal was not to produce an exhaustive atlas but to anchor the garden in a real world (Septuaginta I 2004, p. 58). Still, the convergence with the Nile–Gihon tradition remains significant. In both Latin and Syriac traditions, the shared emphasis is this: the garden belonged to the earthly world before the Fall; after the Fall (and especially after the Flood), cosmic changes made any “technical” mapping of Eden impossible, hence the patristic caution in transforming the biblical list into a geodetic exercise.

On the symbolic side, Philo of Alexandria interprets the four rivers as the four cardinal virtues (prudence, courage, temperance, justice), all having their source in the Logos. For Saint Cyprian of Carthage (Saint Cyprian 1964, pp. 274–75) and Saint Hippolytus of Rome, the river that overflows is Christ, who “spreads” into the world through the four Holy Gospels (Septuaginta I 2004, p. 58). Here, the focus shifts from hydrography to soteriology: the water that irrigates the garden becomes a matrix of moral life and proclamation, and geography takes on typological significance. The importance of this view is not to replace rivers with ideas, but to show that the unity of the source (God–Logos) unfolds into the multiplicity of gifts (virtue, the Gospel) without being lost. Thus, location receives a second semantic level: not just “where is the garden?” but “how does it radiate life?” in ethical and ecclesial terms.

Ioan Usca also offers a recent symbolic reading of the names (Pishon, Havilah, bdellium, onyx) as light, love, purity, and immortality—indicators of the “paradisiacal state” (Usca 2002, p. 17). Although valuable as theological development, this interpretation belongs to modern exegesis and should be distinguished from ancient testimonies. What remains important—and what we aim to highlight—is that even in Antiquity there was a fruitful tension between the literal and the symbolic, without sacrificing one for the other. Chrysostom preserves the realism of the place; Philo and the martyred bishops mentioned emphasize its finality in the life of virtue and of the Church.

The key verse (Genesis 2:15) specifies not only man’s placement in the garden, but also his vocation: to work (עבד—‘abad) and to keep (שמר—shamar). In ancient tradition, interpretation mainly moves in the direction of an inner “labor”, specific to the pre-Fall state, and of a “keeping” that relates more to man’s freedom than to defense from external enemies.

In Saint John Chrysostom, “God’s work” in paradise explicitly means keeping the commandment—faithfulness to the received word (Seraphim Rose 2001, p. 114). He answers the polemical question “What was lacking in paradise that work was needed?” by showing that “work” is not agronomy but obedience: to trust God, to believe the warning (“you will surely die”)—that is the work. And “keeping” does not refer to guarding against thieves, but to the man himself: to keep paradise “for himself”, by not losing it through disobedience. Thus, Chrysostom shifts the emphasis from external activities to the internal dynamic of freedom, suggesting that “agriculture” in paradise would be an anachronism; what is cultivated is the disposition of the heart.

In the same logic of divine gentleness, Chrysostom—as noted by modern translators—advocates for the nuance “advised” in rendering the Greek word entolē (“command”) from Genesis 2:16 (Ioan Gură de Aur 1997, p. 159). This philological observation is not a whim: it aims to show God’s philanthropy, treating man as a friend, seeking to persuade him with honor, not to crush him with orders. Theologically, this nuance strengthens the reading of work as an exercise of loving freedom, not as an externally imposed obligation. It is still a “command”, but a “softened” one—this does not relativize obedience, but places it within the register of friendship.

In a contemplative vein, Saint Gregory the Theologian interprets the “cultivation of the plants” as an initiation into the thoughts of God—simple and perfect—through the natural knowledge of the logoi (rational principles) of things (Seraphim Rose 2001, p. 114). “Work” thus becomes an act of theological knowledge: in the garden, man learns to perceive the meanings through which creation points to the Creator. This reading does not contradict Chrysostom but completes his insight: keeping the commandment means remaining in truth, and cultivating the “immortal” plants means cultivating the spiritual intelligence of the world, in an ascetic effort of the mind.

Also on the contemplative axis, Saint John of Damascus, standing at the crossroads between Late Antiquity and medieval Byzantium, clearly formulates the dual character of paradise: material and spiritual, “in accordance” with man, composed of body and soul. He says that man “delighted like another angel in the one supremely sweet fruit of the contemplation of God” (St. John Damascene 1958, p. 68), conceiving the tree of life as the sweetness of divine communion that grants unending life. This vision illuminates the meaning of work: to work the garden means to remain nourished by contemplation; keeping it means guarding this nourishment from all dissipation. Although John of Damascus comes later than the classical Fathers, he canonically brings together the interpretive lines they developed: the unity of experience (body and soul), the literal character of the place (a “wholly divine place”), and the spiritual goal (contemplation).

In the Latin tradition, Blessed Augustine is among those who identify the rivers literally, thus sharing the same hermeneutic habitus, with the observation that historical realism does not exclude interior asceticism. Saint Ambrose, likewise, adheres to the literal tradition, but his anthropological background—already visible in other writings—supports the idea that man receives in paradise a task suited to his dignity, not the toil of postlapsarian life. Saint Cyprian and Saint Hippolytus of Rome, although not directly commenting on “work”, shift the focus to Christ-the-River and the Gospels: from this perspective, “work” implicitly becomes mission—receiving and transmitting the life that flows from Christ, which also implies the “keeping” of fidelity.

Philo also nuances the meaning of entolē: not something authoritarian or legislative, but advice or a precept. Without replacing the authority of the command, this shift con-firms the vocational framework of the work: it is not drudgery, but a calling within a wise order. In other words, the command to work is an act of divine pedagogy: man is introduced into the exercise of freedom oriented toward the good, not into a regime of blind obligation.

Regarding this topic—or topics (location and work)—the risk is not the simultaneous presence of multiple meanings, but the reduction of one to the other. In the case of location, the opposition “real rivers vs. virtues/Gospels” is a false one if we remember that the ancient tradition uses both levels: the literal geography fixes the “where (before the Fall), while the symbol shows “how” the gift radiates (after the Fall and within the economy of salvation). Saint John Chrysostom, Ambrose, Augustine, and Ephrem the Syrian defend the realism of the rivers. Philo, Saint Cyprian, and Hippolytus of Rome show why this hydrography matters for moral and ecclesial life. Here, the spiritual meaning does not cancel the literal one but “translates” it into life—just as a real spring makes possible a “geography” of culture.

At the level of “work and keeping”, the dilemma of “agriculture versus asceticism” is defused from the outset by the patristic emphasis: labor in paradise is inward, appropriate to the state of creation without pain or resistance, whereas agriculture in its post-fall sense (sweat, thorns) belongs to the “after”. For Chrysostom, work is loving submission, and keeping is the vigilance of the heart. For Saint Gregory the Theologian, work is the cultivation of knowledge of God. In the thought of John of Damascus, being nourished by contemplation itself becomes the paradisiacal “agriculture”. In this context, the spiritual meaning is not an escape from reality, but the realistic definition of the work appropriate to the pre-fall state. The literal understanding of the “place” (a real garden) and of the “activity” (a work of mind and heart) complement each other: one indeed labors there, not elsewhere—but the kind of work is of a different order than that of the exile.

A modern objection—highlighted by Seraphim Rose—is linked to a “sharp dualist” mentality, suggesting that preserving both the material and the spiritual together creates confusion (Seraphim Rose 2001, p. 113). Tradition responds contrariwise: it is the violent separation that causes confusion. Eden, “suited to” humanity, is simultaneously material and spiritual—likewise, man’s work is both obedience (ethical) and contemplation (mystical). That the ancients appealed to dual semantic registers was not a hermeneutical failure, but fidelity to a reality that, from the beginning, is communicated on multiple levels.

Based on these testimonies, we propose the following stance. Edenic localization is intentionally “double”: the text relies on real anchors (rivers, lands, resources), but the aim is not a post-fall cartography, rather the “mystery” of unity flowing into multiplicity. A single river waters the garden and then divides; before the fall, this hydrography was probably recognizable relative to our world, but after the fall, and especially after the Flood, the map was “shifted”. Hence the differing identifications (Ganges/Nile/Tigris/Euphrates in Ambrose–Augustine–Chrysostom; Danube/Nile/Tigris/Euphrates in Ephrem) are not signs of inconsistency, but echoes of a deeper message: life proceeds from the One and is given to all. As for the ancient allegorical interpretations (Philo; Cyprian and Hippolytus), they do not cancel the letter, but put it to work within Christian moral and ecclesial life. Localization is thus functional: it “displays” the source of life and the dynamic of grace, without claiming to be a sacred geography manual after the fall.

The command to work and keep is humanity’s priestly vocation: work is the liturgy of freedom, namely loving obedience (Chrysostom), cultivation of knowledge of God in the logoi of creation (Gregory), and nourishment by contemplation (John of Damascus). Keeping is the self-managed form of freedom: vigilance over oneself, not defense against non-existent enemies. In other words, “work” and “keeping” are the paradisiacal names for the synergy between grace and freedom, which post-fall becomes asceticism. Thus, we see no intrinsic tension between the literal sense (man truly was in a garden) and the spiritual one (what he did there): what he did conformed to the “regime” of the place.

From this perspective, we would not consider the simultaneous presence of multiple senses a “problem” of the text, but a “condition of reading” it: on the level of location, the letter indicates the place while the spirit shows its purpose; at the level of work, the letter shows the task while the spirit shows the manner. This bifocality creates a connection with the first part of the study: Eden is “on earth” by creation, yet spiritually subtle; similarly, work occurs “in the garden” as a concrete place, but of a different kind—namely, a liturgy of the mind.

The initial section defended understanding Eden as a terrestrial reality “between corruption and incorruption”, later ontologically “elevated” after the fall. This key naturally explains the present findings. Though described with earthly features (rivers, lands), Edenic localization is shaped for a world still unfractured. Thus, the divergent identifications in antiquity do not indicate chaos, but the “transfigurable” character of original geography, which tradition guards without cartographic mythologizing. John Chrysostom, Ambrose, and Augustine guarantee realism; Ephrem exhibits the post-diluvian instability. Philo, Cyprian, and Hippolytus place the “map” in service to virtue and/or the Gospel.

Paradisiacal work is the active counterpart of the Edenic condition: not labor of the brow, but work of the heart; not defense against an external aggressor, but keeping of freedom near the command. There is no ambiguity here: Chrysostom, through his emphasis on “advised” and “work as obedience”, secures the core; Gregory the Theologian and John of Damascus unfold the contemplative aspects of that same core. If earlier we spoke of Eden’s “refined matter”, now we see “refined work”: the same internal coherence between place and life.

In both themes, two levels of meaning coexist and are validated: the literal ensures that God acted in history, the spiritual shows why these acts matter for salvation. To request one without the other—to want a map without soteriological purpose, or a symbolism without anchor—is to rupture the economy of revelation. Therefore, the presence of literal and spiritual senses is not a problem, but a sign of fullness: the letter fixes “where and “what”, the spirit explains “why” and “how”.

Thus, the ancient voices do not cancel each other out but co-exist within a coherent architecture. If the first section established the “ontology of the place” (earthly yet transfigured), the final section establishes the “pedagogy of the place”: where the source of life is and how to live in its vicinity. Localization shows grace flowing from the One to the many; work and keeping show that freedom is sustained by grace through obedience and contemplation.

I conclude by emphasizing the interpretive nature of these conclusions—not in a relativistic sense, but in the awareness of limitation. The Fathers’ geographic identifications—the letter—reflect the knowledge of their time, and their allegories reflect the intelligence of faith. Together, they trace safe corridors, not exhaustive maps. One always finds the same logic of synergy—between earth and heaven, between the letter of the place and the spirit of the work—which protects us from dualism and keeps us in the salvific realism of Scripture and the Fathers.

4. Conclusions

In the end, the answer to the question “Where was Paradise?” can be formulated as follows: Eden was a real garden, anchored in the created order of the earth, as evidenced by the concrete hydrography (the river that divides into four: Pishon, Gihon, Tigris, Euphrates) and by the associated geographical landmarks (Havilah, Cush, Assyria). These details are not decorative, but guarantees of the realism of revelation. At the same time, tradition acknowledges the ontological “fineness” of the place: a real but transfigured materiality, situated “between corruption and incorruption,” which explains both the possibility of pain-free life and access to the tree of life. After the fall, Eden becomes inaccessible to man “clothed in skin” and enters the horizon of mystical experience (“the third heaven”). Therefore, earthly by creation, heavenly by finality: the opposition is not exclusive, but dynamic.

To the question “How was the garden worked?”, the traditional answer is convergent: “to work and to keep” does not refer to post-fall agriculture, but to an inner, priestly activity: loving obedience to the command, cultivation of the knowledge of God through the logoi of creation, and nourishment through contemplation. And “keeping” is the vigilance of freedom, not protection from non-existent enemies in the paradisiacal state. For Saint John Chrysostom, “work” means keeping the commandment, and “keeping” means preserving the gift for oneself through fidelity. Saint Gregory the Theologian sees the “cultivation of the plants” as initiation into the thoughts of God, while Saint John of Damascus names this work the “agriculture” of contemplation. It follows that man’s activity corresponded to the “regime” of the place: he worked there, but with the tools of the mind and heart, without sweat or resistance.

As for the relationship between the various modes of interpretation, the conclusion is that plurality is not a problem to be eliminated, but the condition for an integral reading. The literal sense anchors the “where” and “what” in history; the moral-liturgical and mystical-eschatological senses illuminate the “why” and “how”. One without the other breaks the economy of revelation: a map without a soteriological purpose becomes inert geography, while symbolism without anchor dissolves the history of salvation. The same bifocality is seen in the theme of the rivers: the literal reading preserves the realism of the watercourses, while the symbolic reading (Philo, Cyprian, Hippolytus) reveals the dynamic of the gift—a single source flowing into the multiplicity of virtues and Gospels—without evacuating the letter. Complementarity, not competition, is the rule. In this architecture, the methodological rule remains simple: when Scripture offers concrete anchors, we preserve the letter; when the text moves from description to vocation, we accept the moral-liturgical sense; when testimony reaches the ineffable, we accept the limits of language; and above all, we articulate an ontology of matter “refined” by grace.

Therefore, Eden was a real garden of the earth, but of a transfigured materiality; the “work” and “keeping” in the garden were the exercise of freedom in obedience and contemplation; and the diversity of interpretations is symphonic—the literal and the spiritual confirm and complete one another, holding together the historical realism and the doxological finality of the text.