I walk through trees in the cool of the evening, delighting in the grass beneath my bare feet. Many different mosses, clovers and grasses carpet the ground throughout the garden, each vying to be the softest. The trees drip with luscious fruit filling the air with enticing, sweet perfume.I pick one and take a bite, the juicy flavor flooding over my tongue filling me with delight. I chew slowly, savoring every last bit before swallowing and letting it settle into my very satisfied stomach.
I wander leisurely down a long path looking at a kaleidoscope of flowers. Butterflies flitter about while bees hover from flower to flower working away. More colors than I can put into words dance cheerfully around me. I kneel down and pick a bright, glowing yellow flower, and lace the stem into my hair. It’s so big it hides my ear. I look up at my husband next to me and he smiles in appreciation.
My husband. My second half. Joy fills me when I look at him. The one who completes me in the perfect balance of male and female. Neither of us lesser or greater; we are two parts of a whole. Nothing stands between us our undiminished unity. Our fellowship is always sweet and delightful. He holds out his hand and pulls me to my feet, gazing down at me, cherishing me as I cherish him.
We look over as a doe approaches. She insistently pushes her head against my chest until I give in and pet her, smiling. She soaks up the attention as I caress her face and study her sweet, brown limpid eyes. Her eyelids lower in ecstasy as my husband rubs her back.
The doe joins us as we continue walking. I have one hand resting on her back, the other interlacing my husband’s fingers. We come to a river and I crouch down and drink. The water is crisp and refreshing. I feel as if it soaks into every cell in my body, invigorating. I stand up, take a deep breath of the fragrant air and let it out in contentment, my heart in complete and utter peace, my mind quiet, my soul at rest.
We come to a river, clear as crystal, wandering cheerfully down a hill and over colorful stones. On a large rock nearby lies a cat stretched out in luxury, a bird resting on his head affectionately nibbling his ear. The doe wanders up and the cat raises his head to touch noses.
I drink from the river and delight in the crisp refreshing taste that feels like it’s soaking into my soul. We wander on and come out into a meadow. Sitting on a large, comfortable rock surrounded by flowers we sit and talk for hours, sometimes soft and sweet, sometimes laughing, sometimes quiet for a moment as we gaze at the beauty around us.
I hear footsteps and my eyes light up. The Creator of the world is walking through the trees in the garden. My heart floods with joy and gladness knowing he has come to spend time with us. A smile floods across my face as he comes into the meadow and draws near. He is so beautiful. He is so glorious and magnificent that I cannot look at the fullness of his essence. I see only the part he gently shares as he comes toward us.
Of all the goodness in the garden, this is the pinnacle. The glory of the garden has no comparison to the surpassing glory of the Creator. All the delight and joy we find in the animals, in each other and in the beauty and bounty of the garden is nothing compared to what we have with the Creator. Amazingly, this incredible being loves us. He IS love, the very definition and being of love. And he gives this love to us, cherishing us, and delighting and rejoicing in us. I marvel at the thought that someone so perfect takes so much pride and pleasure in us. So much so that he made this garden, this world just so he can spend time with us!
Nothing exists without him. All the goodness in the garden, all of it beneficial and pleasing, flows from him, from his love. Everything in it is made to sustain us and fill us in the most beneficial way possible. It is all for our best, our benefit. In that love is such incredible kindness; it is spread through and present in every part of his nature. He is so gentle. His friendship is delightful and entrancing.
The sweetness of fellowship is indescribable. When I am with the Creator, I feel more alive than at any other time. To be so close to the one from whom my life flows is like being immersed in pure radiance. It flows through me and my heart soars. I feel as if I have wings. My soul knows no bounds.
I know complete and total peace as we walk and talk together, laugh together and exist together. He is filled with grace and gentleness and oh so tender. My heart lacks for nothing, longs for nothing.
The next day I walk through the garden with a happy smile, gazing at the flowers. I glance up and my eyes land on a tree in the very middle of the garden. I’ve been told to stay away from it. To my surprise, this time there is someone standing under the tree. An angel!* And as I take a closer look, I realize it’s a very interesting tree and the fruit is beautiful. I slowly make my way toward it, curious.
“Did God really say, ‘You must not eat from any tree in the garden’?” the being asks in a slithery voice.
Serpent, I think to myself. But what stands before me looked like an angel of light. Something cautious in me pulled me away, but at the same time, I felt drawn in. “We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden, just not that one,“ I answer. We must not eat it or touch it, or we will die.”
“You won’t die,” the serpent says. “For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”
My eyes wander over the tree. It’s beautiful. The fruit hangs from it luscious and tantalizing. The smell just as wonderful as all the other trees in the garden. I long to try it. The garden is filled with goodness. I know it exists. The word is in my head. I feel happy when I think it. But I don’t really understand. What does it mean? This could answer the question! I will finally know what good really means!
But what about evil? I know there is no evil in the garden, but I don’t understand why. What is evil? The words make me shiver. A shadow passes over my heart. My breath catches and thoughts of the Creator tug at my mind, trying to pull me away. A whisper echoes through me, but I bury it and shrug it off. I want to know. I want to be like God.
Like God. The Creator. The one who spoke this amazing place into being. Imagine that! What if I could create things? Maybe I won’t just know things; maybe I’ll be able to do things! What if I could make amazing things come into being! I hesitate as the inner voice begs to be listened to. But the draw is powerful. My self-control, the mastery of my desire, fails. I reach out, I take it, I bite.
Darkness. Utter darkness. I fall in it, am immersed in it, am consumed by it. It floods my awareness. I know nothing else. I feel as if my soul is being ripped out. My heart aches, but I can’t pull myself out. I cannot think, I cannot breathe. Words I have never known flood through my mind. Anguish. Despair. Agony.
Evil is an essence. It wants to pull you in and make you its own. It surrounds you with its fingers constantly tugging, urging you to follow its path. I see in me the potential for terrible, terrible things. Things I do not yet even know or comprehend. My heart aches, split and torn, but I can’t pull myself out.
I hear the footsteps of the Creator. Light pushes into my mind. His presence is a soothing balm. My body breathes and I stand trembling, aware of the world again. But the darkness is not all gone. The light holds back, not touching the part of me I have given to the darkness, for if it did, it would destroy me.
I glance in terror at my husband. We are naked. Not just our physical bodies. The darkness that has invaded our hearts can be seen. We flee into the trees dreading the thought of his holy eyes seeing us.
“Where are you,” he calls in a temperate voice.
“We are hiding because we are naked,” my husband calls back.
“Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten from the tree that I commanded you not to eat from?” he asks.
“The woman you put here with me—she gave it to me,” he answers defensively.
Then the Creator says to me, “What is this you have done?”
“The serpent deceived me,” I say quickly.
The Creator turns to the serpent. The facade is gone, the reptilian features clear and cruel, his mocking eyes alight with glee. He stands proud and haughty, glaring with defiance.
In a dreadful voice, the sentence is pronounced. “Cursed are you among all animals! You will crawl on your belly and eat dust the rest of your life. You and mankind will forever be enemies trying to kill each other.”
Cursed. Banned, excommunicated, devoted to God for destruction.
The serpent falls to the ground and slithers away emanating anger.
I tremble as he turns his attention to me, still hiding behind the tree. “You are going to give birth to children in great pain. You will long for your husband’s company and attention and he will rule over you.”
To my husband he says, “Because you listened to your wife when you knew it was wrong, you will now work painfully for the food you eat. Your plants will fight for space with thorns. You will struggle for your food until you turn back into the dust you were made from.”
Words came to the forefront of the swirling in my mind. Decay. Death. Mortality.
You will not die, the serpent had said. It wasn’t a complete lie. I will not die immediately. I did not collapse and cease to breathe the moment I ate the fruit. But I am dying. My body is slowly having the life sucked out of it minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. The rest of my mortal life on earth lengthened out in agony. I have entered a state of entropy that will continue until it is a hollow shell laid in the ground and buried to dissolve and become one with the wretched earth.
The Creator makes clothes of animal skins which he gives to us, a covering to hide the shame of our naked bodies. He contemplates us with anger and indescribable sorrow. We had violated his trust. We had betrayed him. We had committed adultery in the divine marriage and hurt him. Shame and remorse send me to my knees, sobs course through my body. But it is too late.
“They must not eat of the tree of life and live forever,” he muses. “You are banned from the garden,” he tells us, pointing his finger.
I look over my shoulder. An impenetrable wall of trees with interwoven branches shoots up leaving an entrance. I look back at him, hesitating.
“Go!” he commands fiercely.
Fear shoots through me and I run out into the world, my husband beside me. Just past the opening I turn back. Suddenly a flaming figure appears in front of us blocking the way. He is awesome in a terrifying way. I stand for a moment staring at the imposing figure before turning away, tears flooding down my face.
I’m shaking with shock and agony, my stomach twisted like a hand of rock squeezing it. My actions have separated me from my Creator. Not just physically. We are spiritually disconnected, our perfect communion broken. I betrayed the divine romance. I let the darkness seduce me and take a part of my heart, irrecoverable. I will never be fully his again.I fall to my knees and sob bitterly, my husband standing listlessly next to me, staring, but not seeing.
When my tears run out, I struggle to my feet and look at the world I have entered. There are still trees and grass and rivers, but everything is paler. The richness and vibrancy is gone. The same colors are faded. At first I think there is no scent in the air, but as I sniff carefully I catch slight smells in the breeze. Some reminiscent of the garden, but some made my nose wrinkle. An errant gust brushes past me and my throat closes as a new word flashes through my head. Foul.
I step hesitantly forward and frown. The grass isn’t soft. It pokes at me, itchy and uncomfortable. Suddenly a sharp pain shoots through the bottom of my foot. A rock forces its way up through the grass. Looking down I see more of them scattered around. I have to watch where I step. Maybe I can strap leather to the bottom of my feet.
Stepping more carefully, I keep going. I notice things I hadn’t seen in the garden. Words come to my head. Winter wheat. Purple thistles. The kernels of wheat are small and I thought about how hard it was going to be to get the wheat out once it is dried and brown. I could probably grind them between rocks. The purple thistles are rather pretty. I crouch down and pick one but drop it as the little thorns covering the stem prickle me. I look at my husband and know he is thinking about what it will be like to harvest the wheat as thistles scratch at his legs.
Now I know some of what the Creator meant by longing for my husband. Not having him fully with us has left a whole in my heart I long to be filled. A longing I will turn to my husband for. And we will be so busy harvesting and preparing food we won’t be able to enjoy the constant company of each other like we did in the garden.
I stand up and look around some more. Underneath a fig tree is a strange bush with…I pause and another word comes to mind. Thorns. I look at the figs. There is something odd about them. The color is pale and I can’t smell them. I draw close and a very weak smell reaches me. I try to push my hand past the thorns to pick one. A sharp pain shoots through my finger and I look down in shock. There is blood on my finger. Thorns stab.
I reach around the thorns and grab a fig, pulling it open. The flesh is so pale. I take a bite. Only a hint of the flavor of the fruit of the garden is there. I try to swallow but the knot in my stomach won’t let me and I spit it out.
“I can’t eat right now,” I say, handing it to my husband.
He takes a bite and frowns, throwing it on the ground. “Maybe it’s not ripe yet,” he says. But we both know it’s just wishful thinking and his face mirrors the turmoil I feel within.
At the sound of quiet footsteps we look up. The doe walks out of the wheat. She freezes as she sees us. I smile a little and stand up relieved to see a living being other than us. But as I step toward her, she turns and bolts. She’s afraid of us.
I feel sick as understanding fills me. Deer will now provide us with food and clothing. She has a reason to be afraid. Our actions have not just affected us. They have affected all living beings.
Suddenly more new feelings surge through me. Anger. Resentment. Bitterness. I glare at my husband. “Why didn’t you stop me?” I demand. “You just stood there and watched!”
He glares back. “You started it. You took it first. I would never have done it if you hadn’t handed it to me,” he says spitefully.
“Liar!” I say, incensed. “And you tried to put all the blame on me before the Creator! ‘The woman,’ you said. As if I am nothing, some meaningless thing you don’t care about. As if I tried to make you think it wasn’t the forbidden fruit. You were standing right there! You saw where it came from! You’re just as guilty.”
He shifted defensively, unwilling to concede, but knowing I was right.
My anger fades, replaced by incredible sadness. We are disconnected, our unity diminished. I understand more of what it will mean to long for my husband. I will long for his love and acceptance. I will long for his tenderness and compassion. I will long for his understanding.
Selfishness will now war inside us every day. We will have to work at our relationship and sacrifice our own wants and desires for the sake of the other. We will have to show love to each other while we long for love ourselves. And every day will be the questions.
Who sacrifices? Who gets their way? I can’t be the one always giving in. Anger flares again at the thought. The feelings are so overwhelming I sit on the ground in despair. I look up at my husband and my heart softens as I realize this is just as hard for him as it is for me. I realize my anger comes from a place of emptiness and pain, a hole in me that was once filled with the presence of the Creator.
We are still two parts of one, but we are no longer whole like we were before. The essence of the Creator bound our hearts together. Now, separated from him, that essence is diminished leaving room for terrible things like hate, anger, and selfishness. We will have to fight every day to hold onto the love of the Creator and not let it get pushed out by giving into the darkness.
With that realization I am filled with love and compassion. I am filled with the desire to encourage my husband, strengthen him and build him up. I want to stand by his side and be his support, his helper, his friend. I want to be the one who hears his heart and shares his life in every way. But how will I ever be strong enough?
I see in his eyes he realizes it, too. He sits down next to me and takes my hand. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“Me, too.”
I had known that the garden was good. But I hadn’t understood it. Now I do. The loss is almost more than I can bear. And now I understand why the Creator banished us. To live forever in such a place would be a greater cruelty.
What have we done?
“We are going to get through this,” my husband says to me. “It will always be hard. So very hard. But we will adapt and we will endure. Stop and feel. A part of God is still with us. If we hold on to that, we will find joy in this life, even if it’s not as deep as it was before. And we will be with him again some day.”
And then I notice it. Hope. I feel it. It floods through me, encouraging, comforting. In the shock of being separated from the Creator, I didn’t see there was still a connection. I can feel him through the distance, through the wall surrounding my heart. He is with me, giving me hope and strength. It is such a pale shadow of the relationship we once had that the ache is almost too much.
But I realize this mortal life will come to an end. This slow death we brought on ourselves. And after that, a new life will begin. The Creator who loves us forgives. Just as I long to return to the Creator, he longs for me. He will pay the price to overcome this death. I know that if I follow him, listen to him, obey him, and choose him, I will be with him again, redeemed and fully with him, never again separated or distanced.
And I know relationship with him is something I can choose no matter what anyone else chooses. No one can pull me away from him. No one can separate from me from him except for my own choices. Even if I fall into sin. Even if I make mistakes. Even if I fail a million times. As long as I get up and step forward and walk toward him and with him, his forgiveness and faithfulness will never end. It is going to be a long and weary life, but now I have a foundation of hope.
<>
* The depiction of the serpent as an angel is an idea inspired by 2 Corinthians 11:14.
The exploration of the essence of words are from Strong’s Greek and Hebrew dictionaries.
Because there are many perspectives of “God,” I have used the term “the Creator” to indicate the one God who created all good.
Comentários