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February 13, 2005
Down the Garden Path
Genesis 2:15-17; 3:1-7
Everybody knows about Adam and Eve. And what we know isn't all that good. They had it all, and they lost it all. Or if not all, at least the best part. It's a sad story, really. It's a story with many versions.
Each of us has our own. Try to remember. When was the first time you remember being led down the garden path? The first time—you were still naive and innocent—you remember doing something you knew was wrong, but the attraction of it was so keen you just couldn't, didn't resist the temptation? You crossed a line and there was no going back.
Maybe it's a story you've told more than once, and now laugh about each time you tell it. Garrison Keillor tells about picking tomatoes with his sister. Each time she bent over to pick a tomato the thought grew in him how wonderful it would be to hit her in the you know where with one of the huge, ripe tomatoes they'd been picking. He did, and their mother saw him do it. Some things are worth doing and getting caught just for the telling.
Maybe what you remember is something you've never told, and hope never to tell anyone. Amir, in Khaled Hosseini's novel The Kite Runner, set in contemporary Afghanistan, hoped he'd never have to tell about the terrible event he believed gave his life it's defining imprint. It happened one day when he and Hassan, his boyhood playmate, the son of his father's servant, were chasing down a kite. They got separated. Hassan was caught by three antagonists, bullies. Amir comes upon them, but stands back without protesting, as the bully's rape Hassan. It was not until he was in middle-age, married some fifteen years, and after Hassan has been assassinated by an older version of that same bully, that he could bring himself to tell his wife of his shame and guilt. We all have stories we'd rather not tell.
Maybe Adam and Eve would have as soon not told their story either. And maybe they never would have done, but for the Lord. Perhaps before the Lord happened along, they thought they'd gotten away with it. Just the two of them there, naked and aware of it, along with you know, the one who'd gotten them to walk down the garden path.
Some things you just know are going to happen. We've all seen too many movies, read too many stories, to think otherwise. As soon as someone thinks they've gotten away with something, the other shoe is bound to drop. And it will in this story of Adam and Eve, but not today. In this episode we get left to wait—left to ponder this story of two people doing what they can to cover their best intentions after having gone past a point of no return.
Who here hasn't talked to the serpent? I'd like to visit with whoever hasn't. I'd probably be shocked and overwhelmed by such innocence. But let's say we've all talked to the serpent at one time or another. When was the last time? That recently? I'm always impressed with how much sense the serpent makes. Fits right in with a lot of my ideas. Better still, gets me thinking about things I never imagined, things I'd never thought possible, and, truth to tell, things I'd just as soon not tell you about. Well, OK, just one, if you will, too.
What do you imagine Adam and Eve said to each other as they stood there, trying hard not to look at each other, but not having much luck? "Hey, what about that crossword puzzle in the Eden Gazette?" "How's your garden doing this year?" "Maybe we'll get a break in the weather tomorrow." How long do you think it took before one of them said, "We'd better get some clothes on"? Reality's a dogged companion. Comes jumping up on you, muddy paws and all.
Time was, long ago, when people were first having communion, first eating the bread and drinking from the cup, first giving thanks for the main thing we have to be thankful for—time was they called it "the medicine of immortality." We won't go into all that they meant. But at least part of it, a big part of it, was that it helped quiet the serpent's hissing. That noise we keep hearing. You know the hissing I'm talking about.
I once knew a boy everyone took to be a good boy, even a Christian boy, who wasn't always sure he could live up to the things people believed about him. He had terrible temptations; at least, as terrible as temptations can be when you're just a boy. And what he said often kept him from giving in was hearing in his head all the way to his heart the song he and the rest of the congregation always sang at communion. They sang it while they were remembering the minister saying the words: This is my body, broken for you. This cup is the new covenant, sealed in my blood. Very often when he was tempted way beyond what he was used to, and way beyond what he believed he could stand up to, he heard those words and that song in his head. It was just the antidote to the hissing sound.
It is an amazing grace that comes to meet us on the garden path. Sometimes we miss it. The hissing's too loud, and we're too eager to find out where it's coming from, where that will lead. But every time that boy paid attention to those words of amazing grace, and remembered whose body had been broken and whose blood had been shed, the hissing went away. Whenever he paid attention to those words and heard that song playing on his soul, he was more sure about things—things that mattered—than he had reason to be. Even though he had walked down the same garden path as myriads before him, the hissing didn't bother him the way it used to. In fact, times were when he could scarcely hear it at all. The "medicine of immortality" is powerful stuff. You'll likely never OD on it, and it's not likely to run out, no matter where you are on your trek down the garden path.
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First Presbyterian
Church of Cedar Rapids
310 Fifth Street SE Cedar Rapids, IA 52401
Phone: 319-364-6148
E-mail: church@fpccr.org
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