Let’s start, as we did last week, with some noticing and comparing. If you know the story of Eve and Adam, consider what you’ve learned about it in the past. Hold that next to the imaginative retelling we just participated in—and let’s have some conversation. What did you hear in this version that felt fresh or illuminating?
The story of what happened with the first humans in the garden is one that has been interpreted with a very heavy hand by our tradition. There are things we’re trained to read into this text that simply aren’t there, or that could be read differently. This story is often called “the fall,” a title which sums up our standard interpretation. The fall is a terrible tragedy that mars the beauty of God’s perfect and delightful creation. The creation story is a myth that depicts the beauty of God’s “original blessing”. Humankind violated this blessing immediately. And that’s our “original sin” our baked-in-from-birth inclination to do harm and disobey God.
Continuing along with this well-worn interpretation, the snake personifies evil, and the trickery and temptation that leads humanity astray. The fall is clearly the fault of Eve and she drags Adam into it along with her. That’s because women, according to this well-worn script, are the “weaker” sex, more vulnerable to moral corruption. Yet, at the same time, they are frighteningly powerful—controlling men with their sexual powers. And on that note, when Adam and Eve became aware of their nakedness, they hid from God out of shame, a shame intrinsic to bodies and sexuality.
Frankly the traditional Christian interpretation doesn’t make much sense to me. Out of curiosity, I googled, “how do Jews read the story of Adam and Eve in Genesis?” and AI gave me this elegant summary: “Jews read it as an origin story of human consciousness and free will, rather than a tale of a ruined human nature.” I promise, that’s all I let AI do in this sermon (more on that later). Now, to be clear, I do believe that sin is a powerful reality that’s part of our human nature. However, I don’t believe that sin “ruins” us, or that it is a tragedy. Sin, however you define it—error, harm, mistrust, broken relationship—is an integral aspect of who we are, part of what the Creator intended in making us. For beings that have consciousness and free will, sin is part of the deal.
What’s important is that we seek to grow through our sin. In that way, sin, along with the work of repair and reconciliation, is itself an aspect of original blessing. Reaching for the fruit of knowledge is not a “fall” on Eve’s part; it is a necessary step in our process of maturation, our coming of age. As the biblical author puts it, “The tree was desired to make one wise.” The first three chapters of Genesis portray a creative dialogue. There’s an ongoing push and pull between our need to disobey God (as The Book of Belonging says, to trust in untrue names) and to return to God with a deeper appreciation for God’s trustworthiness (with renewed faith that we are indeed beloved and delightful and that we belong).
The snake, I believe, is not evil, but a figure similar to the tricksters we find in the myths of other cultures. The snake resembles Satan, who, in the bible, is not a demonic figure, but one who tests. Satan is a partner to God, perhaps even an aspect of the divine personality. In Hebrew, the word that describes the craftiness of the snake has the same root as the one that describes the nakedness of Eve and Adam. So it’s a clever word play that ties craftiness and nakedness together.
As Hebrew Bible scholar William Brown says [in A Handbook to Old Testament Exegesis], “By partaking from the tree, the primal couple gained a level of self- consciousness, an awareness of their vulnerable condition, and of their newly acquired ability to make decisions of their own.” Of course there’s a dimension of their awareness, their coming of age, that relates to bodies and sexuality. And yes, the snake is undeniably a sexual symbol. However, Genesis says Adam and Eve hid from God not because they were ashamed, but because they were afraid. It seems they were coming to terms with the magnitude of responsibility now entrusted to them. As the authors of The Book of Belonging observe: “Imagine the weight of their world!”
We do indeed live in a weighty world, and we have a weighty task. Increasingly, as a species, our knowledge gives us incredible power. Our work as humans is to grow up and grow into the wisdom we need to use our knowledge with justice, in ways that bring life and not destruction. It caught my attention this week in the news that Bernie Sanders and Steve Bannon seem to agree on something—we need to regulate AI (not that they agree about how). NPR reported on their comments at the “Pro-Human Assembly”: “’Despite living in a so-called democracy, the public has had virtually no input into the AI revolution that’s transforming the world,’ Sanders said. [He argued that] decisions about AI are being made by tech leaders who are motivated by profits, adding that society shouldn’t let AI developers continue to improve their products if company leaders admit they are losing control of the technology. […] Bannon, who took the stage directly after Sanders, […] said tech leaders have money and power but they don’t have the public’s trust. ‘We’re not doomers,’ he said. ‘But we aren’t gonna give these guys carte blanche. Their arrogance is overwhelming.’”
AI is but one example of the fact that our technology is ahead of our capacity for ethical reflection, our ability to judge between of good and evil, or discern of wise versus unwise paths. And of course AI also brings to the fore a frightening reality—that there are some powerful people among us who do not care about the impact of their choices on anyone else. They are getting ready to abandon this planet, and the rest of humanity. Those of us who continue to call earth a beloved home keep on learning that our planet and its systems of life are more complex and interconnected than we can imagine. And so humility is a crucial aspect of wisdom. As is integration, holistic thinking, and action. We’re coming to the culmination of a time in human history that has been about the specialization of knowledge, the cultivation of expertise in ever narrowing fields of study. Our challenge now is to resist compartmentalization. We have to integrate our knowledge into a fuller picture, and bring together all the ways we have of knowing. And respect the importance of all that remains unknown and perhaps unknowable.
In Christian theology, Jesus is often dubbed “the new Adam,” who “restores the garden of creation”. The traditional storyline is that whereas the first humans sinned, and fell from God’s grace, Jesus redeems humanity with his perfect, sinless nature. I find this version of the idea very unhelpful; to me, it’s a theology that tries to bypass our human task of growing wise, and that supports the abandonment of our earthly responsibility. At the same time, I do find beauty and promise in the narrative of Jesus as the new kind of human who renews creation’s garden. What comes to mind is the story of Easter morning in the Gospel of John.
Mary came, weeping, to the tomb. Jesus was there but Mary didn’t know him. She thought he was the gardener. It was only when he called her by name that she recognized him, and the new life and hope he embodied. In calling Mary by name, Jesus called her to more fully become herself, to be her own unique version of the true names given to all of us by our Creator—we are named beloved, we are delightful, we belong. In this way, Jesus does not bring perfection or “sinlessness”. He does not take away our hard choices, or the weight of our responsibility, or our struggle to discern good and evil. What he offers is the capacity to integrate our sin into God’s blessing, the power to hold the weight of our knowledge with integrity and hope and the courage we need to grow toward wisdom. Amen.