Reflection by The Rev'd Dr. Deborah Broome

Grace that rebuilds

The Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it. And the Lord God commanded the man, “You may freely eat of every tree of the garden, but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.”

Now the serpent was more crafty than any other wild animal that the Lord God had made. He said to the woman, “Did God say, ‘You shall not eat from any tree in the garden’?” The woman said to the serpent, “We may eat of the fruit of the trees in the garden, but God said, ‘You shall not eat of the fruit of the tree that is in the middle of the garden, nor shall you touch it, or you shall die.’ ” But the serpent said to the woman, “You will not die, for God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food and that it was a delight to the eyes and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate, and she also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate. Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked, and they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for themselves.        Genesis 2:15-17; Genesis 3:1-7

Sunday’s readings start with Genesis.  It’s one of the best known (and perhaps least understood) stories in the Western world.  This is a story not about ancient horticulture but about the human heart.  It is, at its most profound level, about being human, and about the human pattern of curiosity, choice, and consequence.  It’s a story about God’s relationship to humanity – to these beings that God created out of love and tenderness; it’s a story about our choices and their consequences.  It’s not, of course, to be taken literally, as a piece of history about a couple who lived a long time ago somewhere between the Tigris and the Euphrates rivers.  “Adam” back then wasn’t a name but just a way of talking about human creatures being formed from “the dust of the ground,” “Eve” means “the mother of all living.”  This is the story of something that’s basically human and happens in all times and all places.

Adam and Eve are together in the garden, in the place where God’s put them, when a serpent comes to hoodwink them. “Did God really say that, about what you can and can’t eat?  … No, that won’t happen, you won’t really die – something good will happen in the end.”  It all sounds very plausible, but this is the voice of a crafty deceiver.   The serpent’s strategy is to plant doubt about God’s goodness; to focus attention on what’s missing instead of what’s given.  We see the first humans stepping outside the trust-relationship they were created for, that relationship between humanity and the God who created them.  And immediately they feel shame and disconnection.  When something goes wrong our first response is often disorientation – that Genesis moment of sudden awareness  when “their eyes were opened” feels familiar to those who’ve lived through any sort of trauma.

In the temptation account in Matthew’s Gospel Jesus, in the wilderness, faces the same human realities.  Jesus’ temptations echo that Genesis story: there’s bodily need – his hunger; there’s a need for safety and reassurance – throw yourself down from a high place to prove you’re loved; there’s a desire for power and shortcuts – worship the wrong thing so you can gain something.  These are universal temptations: to satisfy ourselves without reference to others, to demand guarantees, to take easier roads.  Jesus, however, makes better choices than Adam and Eve did.  He chooses not to listen to the deceptive voice dangling lies in front of him.  He chooses to rest in his relationship with God, chooses to hold on to his identity as God’s beloved child.  This season of Lent we’re entering invites us back to our identity – to identity before activity, to who we are (or who we can be) in God, not to what we accomplish.  I don’t know about you, but I’m glad I don’t have to achieve a bunch of wonderful things before I’m considered worthwhile: the truth is that we are immensely valuable to God, hugely loved by God, just as we are.

Lent isn’t about withdrawing from joy but about paying attention to what really matters.  And at the heart of what really matters is the love of God.  That’s what surrounds us – and even when we forget this, as we sometimes do, God never forgets us.  Trust in that love.  Lent is about truth, renewal, and grace, growing out of honesty about human fragility.  It’s the season in which we allow God to rebuild us, truth by truth, grace by grace – into something beautiful.