The Fall

I can only imagine being the first man and woman on earth—Adam, laying his eyes on the perfect woman as the perfect man. Powerful. Gorgeous. Both. Intelligent. Adam, a wordsmith… God brought him each creature of the field and bird to be named, and whatever he named them, was their name. God trusted him with a big task, and Adam delivered. But for him there was no helper. No mate.

I imagine he saw that. Each creature had a counterpart, but him. He didn’t ask for one. He simply trusted in his Creator and laid down his head to sleep. And when he did… God performed the first surgery. No anesthesia needed. Eve was formed, not spoken into being, from the rib of Adam—belonging at his side from the start, beneath his protective arm.

She was breathtaking. The first words out of Adam’s mouth: worship and a title. Woman. Taken out of man. Thus was the first marriage ceremony, performed by God Himself.

We often read this account hastily and forget to linger on the beauty of it all. To be there—how beautiful it must’ve been. We are not told how much time transpired between the creation of all things and the fall, but I imagine with each passing day, the sound of the footsteps of God in the garden ignited a joy in the hearts of His children.

How they must’ve run to Him after discovering another delicious fruit, or playing with the animals, or taking a swim in the river. Or perhaps they would wake to the sound, excited to be in the presence of He who made all things. How intently they must’ve listened as He told them how He created all things, and how pleased He was to see them happy, ruling on the earth as God intended. Harmony between mankind and God. No sin. No suffering.

How the serpent must have waited in the trees and watched—jealousy brewing in the pit of his stomach. Knowing he had been stripped of status in heaven, he—made to worship Almighty God—had been thrown down like lightning for his rebellion and would never be like the Most High. And yet here were two little image bearers of Him.

How he must’ve seethed.

He devised a plan. If he could not be like the Most High, neither should man be. He watched and waited for his opportunity and went for the weaker vessel, the most naïve—innocent little Eve.

“Has God indeed said, ‘You shall not eat of every tree of the garden’?”

It was subtle. In that one question, the serpent implied that God might as well have said she couldn’t eat of any tree at all. But notice how he started the question: Has God indeed said… He wanted to plant doubt from the beginning.

God’s Word had created the heavens and the earth. His vocal flow formed the fabric of the firmament. He made everything—even the serpent—with the words of His mouth. And yet the cunning, terrible beast wanted Eve to question the words of He who had never done anything to be questioned, of He who was worthy of praise from every breath. The serpent’s sin was great indeed.

Eve, probably smiling, corrected the serpent.

“We may eat the fruit of the trees of the garden; but of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God has said, ‘You shall not eat of it, nor shall ye touch it, lest you die.’”

Why did Eve add that extra detail? It is not recorded in Scripture that God ever said she couldn’t even touch it. Perhaps Adam, relaying the news to Eve, had added that last part for good measure—a “just in case.” But we can’t know for certain.

What we do know is the serpent found his opening. If he could get Eve to touch the tree without immediate consequence, or to take from its fruit, in her mind that may be enough reason to continue with the sin.

Temptation is not sin.

But eating from the tree would be.

“You will not surely die.” A lie.

“For God knows that in the day you eat of it your eyes will be opened”—a half-truth.

“And you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”

The deception was complete.

Like God.

Oh, how those words must have rung out in Eve’s ears. God was good. God was creative and mighty and powerful and beautiful and majestic—and wise. Who wouldn’t want to be like God?

So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree desirable to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate. She also gave to her husband with her, and he ate. And the eyes of both of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked.

Scripture notes Eve was with her husband when she ate. Yet he did not stop her. It was he who heard the warning from God. Perhaps he, too, heard some of what the serpent said to Eve, or the serpent’s words through her rang out with just enough doubt to cause him to falter.

Either way—they both ate.

The effect was immediate. Had it registered in the heat of the moment for Eve, Adam may have seen her devastation alone. But he partook with her, and both of their eyes were opened. I can only imagine the terror that gripped them, the mortification when they realized they were naked and hurried to take matters into their own hands by sewing fig leaves together.

And then… it happened.

They heard footsteps in the garden.

I imagine flowers stood a little taller in the presence of their Creator, birds sang a little sweeter in praise as He approached—but Adam and Eve, His own children who had always run to Him before, now hid themselves among the trees.

“Adam, where are you?”

The question is devastating. God knew where Adam was. But until this moment, He had never known His child to hide from Him.

The relationship—once so harmonious, so beautiful and effortless—was severed.