From The Desk of David

The hues of this sacred haven defied the spectrum of human comprehension. The sky above stretched as an endless expanse of sapphire haze; its infinite depths mirrored in the untouched waters of the winding river that flowed through the garden. The banks were adorned with lush, emerald-green grasses that floated in the breeze like the mane of a lion content from a recent meal, and the leaves of overlooking trees quaked in perpetual adoration of the heavens.

Each tree had fruit so dazzling that it glistened like a constellation of stars scattered across the skies. Apples, pears, and pomegranates hung low, their intoxicating fragrances filling the air with a symphony of temptations. All that could be heard was the melodies of birds harmonized with the soft rustling of leaves, forming a symphony that spoke to the very soul of the Earth. A solitary rose, with petals of crimson velvet, blossomed as the centerpiece of the garden, its fragrance a delicate invitation to pluck the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. 

I’ve always been in awe of the garden. Maybe it’s the imagined beauty. Maybe it’s because the garden was embodied perfection and harmony. Maybe it’s because part of me knows that’s how it always was supposed to be—one immense, melodious sonnet for the heavens. And the Creator Himself. But I must admit. I always get stuck on that pesky tree. Every time I read the accounts of the garden, I can’t seem to move past the tree. Why was it there in the first place? 

The simple answer—free will. True love cannot be coerced but must be voluntary, to put it another way. But once I move past the tree, you must deal with the liar who lies beneath it. I used to think that no one in their right mind would ever fall for the lies of the serpent, but that was before I saw them in action…

I found myself nestled in a cozy corner of my favorite coffee shop, where the world outside seemed to disappear in the amber glow of the rising sun. The air is infused with the rich, familiar aroma of freshly ground coffee, a scent that wraps itself around my senses like a comforting hug from a friend. The large windows, partially blocked by leaves of copper and maroon, shiver in the newly cold air. A single ray of golden light streams in, casting intricate but ever-changing patterns on the rustic wooden tables and my half-finished coffee. The gentle hum of conversation, punctuated by the soft clinking of mugs and the soothing hiss of the espresso machine, all compose a warm and familiar symphony. A refuge from the autumn chill. The barista behind the counter moves with a deliberate grace, her hands deftly crafting elaborate latte art on top of a frothy cappuccino. Each sip of my own steaming cup carries with it the essence of the season, a blend of cinnamon, pumpkin, and the promise of oversized hoodies. 

Soon, the Friend would walk in. His face was slightly pale from the cold outside, but there was something else to the look of his face. Something I couldn’t quite place. His hazel eyes scanned the café, and he’d soon see me. I’d stand and offer traditional greetings. He would sit, and we’d begin to talk. As if we were in some odd dance, we’d go back and forth on some forgettable topics until I asked the right question. 

As soon as I offered it, I could tell he didn’t want to answer. His face betrayed his mind’s attempt to skirt the question, but I was relentless. They say curiosity killed the cat, but I was going to get an answer to my question: whether it killed me or not. We were too old of friends and had been through too much for him to deny me the gift of honesty. That’s when he confessed it. 

His face continued to betray him. He knew what he was embracing was wrong—but he didn’t care. Hastily, our conversation turned from a confession to a case that would’ve made the most brilliant legal minds green with envy. He wasn’t confessing sin but trying to convince me that what he wanted wasn’t actually sin. All he wanted was for me to agree with his definition of what was sin, and then we could move on—but I couldn’t. 

Glancing at the trees outside, my mind raced back to the garden. Is this how God felt? Is this heartbreak and sadness how He felt when Eve took the crimson fruit and bit into it? After a moment, I found the courage to utter, “You know this is sin.” To which I’d only find more burning rejection.

“God wants me to have fun,” or some variation was spoken by the Friend, but I couldn’t remember what he said because I suddenly realized that I was staring right at the serpent and his lies. And it’s the same lie our culture holds near and dear. The lie of culture is that we’ve decided we get to define what is good. Like Eve in the Garden, we’ve decided the fruits of evil are good. That if it’s fun, it must be good. If it’s pleasurable, then it must be good. But the problem is the only person on Heaven and Earth who gets to define what is good is God, not just because He’s God but because He is good.

He is good because just as He painted the crystal skies and the green riverbanks of Eden, He crafted the human heart, and the one who made it would know what is best for it. 

For His Glory, 

David W.