For most of us, the snake still hisses in our Christmas paradise too; Eve takes a bite, and we sink in our teeth. It all tastes good, but the motivation underneath is a poisonous disobedience; nonetheless, we chew on in defiance.

Photo by KATRIN BOLOVTSOVA/pexels

A temptation that started with a chat ends up in blame shifting.

“The woman you gave me,”
“Irreconcilable differences”
“I needed them to deal with their trauma.”
“She was becoming toxic.”
“I just need that Wi-Fi off every night.”
“After all, we were in talking stage.”

More lies. Did God really say we should not eat of the tree of life?

Aren’t all men naturally wired for sex?
Tomorrow is not a work day; I can catch one more episode.
“Let me see what this website is about.”
“Can’t I just live my life?

Eve plucks it and gives to Adam. Sir, weren’t you supposed to lead her? Isn’t God better than the vegetables he makes?

The woman gave Adam to eat; why recommend what doesn’t satisfy? Jeremiah later calls them broken cisterns, why sound high when you’ve just tasted the shallows? Lofty speech, high-sounding nonsense.

Now outside the garden, we have not only sinned; we are not “just imperfect.” We’re disbanded from his presence.

Naked and striving for leaves, we know something has been lost and would like to cover up. “nobody’s perfect anyway,” we say, (instead of repent)

But out of God’s presence, work becomes toil. Sweat not only drips from the brow but also soaks chests and ribs. The gardens got thorns and thistles—work conflict, politics, mean emails, bosses, and underpaying jobs, if any. Even love itself, straying husbands, whining wives, toxicity, and trauma-blaming lovebirds.

Even when it’s new life arriving, mothers still moan in maternity wards, while others lie to King Solomon, “The baby that died at night is hers, not mine.” (1 Kings 3:22-23)

Yet the King they plead to, Solomon, is not the perfect king we are all longing for either; for crying out loud, he builds a glorious temple that wows Gentiles like Queen Sheba, yet ends up astray because of the same Gentile women. But wait, we can almost say the same about his dad, a man after God’s own heart, looking at women bathing downstairs.

What about the kings in between, Josiah, Manasseh, and Hezekiah? Oh, what about their idolatry and pagan admirations?

So yeah, it’s going to be 400 years of God’s silence until Simeon, baby Jesus in hand, wishes to “depart in peace, for my eyes have seen your Salvation.” He has witnessed the grand reunion, God coming in flesh, to save his people. Simeone’s muse is the Messiah.

Now true reunion is possible, when we repent and believe, we can stroll in his garden again, petals rubbing on our elbows, yet aware of thorns and thistles, resisting the cunning one, not unaware of his schemes.

But how?

Perhaps after three decades; okay, three years. Adult Jesus lives a perfect life we couldn’t, dying a death we deserved, so that he may give us a righteousness we don’t deserve. Now we can enter his throne with confidence; we do not have a high priest aloof about our folly. But first, he must arrive as a baby. Some call it Christmas; don’t confuse it with the tallest Christmas tree in town. See not the tree with lights, but the tree with pierced hands.

He will not stay a baby in a manger; the second Adam is here to activate the union with the God you abandoned in Eden. He’s here, born to die, so he can help us sin no more, interceding so we may not sin, and advocating for us when we do.

An offer more urgent than my upcoming family Christmas reunion, or at least, one to ponder before I head out this December.

Merry Christmas!