The fall of humanity

September 21, 2024 • Series: The Story of Redemption

In Genesis 3, the harmony that once defined creation shatters like a glass dropped on concrete. Sin enters the world, and its effects are immediate.

Our story starts innocently enough. Adam and Eve are living the dream—perfect garden, perfect relationship with God, no laundry to fold, no morning alarms to dread. Life is good. But then comes a smooth, cunning voice dripping with just enough truth to be believable. The serpent slithers in, his words curling around Eve’s thoughts like vines.

“Did God actually say, ‘You shall not eat of any tree in the garden?’” (Ge 3:1).

Eve knows better. For a moment, it looks like she will hold her ground. But the serpent, with his sly assurance, twists the truth again. “You will not surely die,” he says. “For God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil” (Ges 3:4, 5). It’s the age-old temptation: the desire to be more than we are, seize control, and break free from the boundaries God has set. The serpent makes rebellion look so reasonable, so enticing.

Eve looks at the fruit, and it’s like the shiny thing you know you shouldn’t touch but can’t stop thinking about. It looks delicious. It promises wisdom. How bad could it be? So she takes it and eats, and Adam, standing beside her, does the same.

In that moment, the harmony that once defined creation shatters like glass dropped on concrete. Sin enters the world, and its effects are immediate. Their eyes are opened, but not to wisdom. What they see is their own nakedness and vulnerability. Shame makes its debut, and Adam and Eve rush into hiding. They sew fig leaves together to cover themselves, desperate to conceal what they’ve become.

Then, God comes walking in the garden. He calls out, “Where are you?” (Ge 3:9). It’s not because he doesn’t know. He wants them to recognize how far they’ve fallen—from open fellowship with God to cowering behind bushes cloaked in leaves that don’t begin to cover their guilt. Adam blames Eve. Eve blames the serpent. But the blame-shifting doesn’t undo what’s been done.

The consequences of this one act of rebellion ripple through all of creation. First comes the curse on the serpent. Embedded in that curse, however, is a glimmer of hope. God promises that one day, the offspring of the woman will crush the serpent’s head, though not without being bruised himself. The first hint of redemption in the story is a whisper of the gospel before the law even exists.

The immediate fallout is devastating. Eve’s role in bringing life into the world will now be marked by pain. Once joyful and fruitful, Adam’s work will now be back-breaking and frustrating. The ground is cursed because of him, and creation itself begins its long groaning under the weight of sin. Death, once an abstract idea, becomes an inevitable reality. From dust, they came, and to dust, they will return.

Worst of all, perfect fellowship with God is severed. Adam and Eve are banished from the garden, the entrance blocked by a flaming sword and cherubim. They no longer walk with God in the cool of the day. The intimacy is lost. Sin has erected a barrier between humanity and their Creator, and that barrier will stand until God himself tears it down.

The curse of death begins its reign, casting its shadow over everything. Creation, once very good, is now marred by sin, subject to decay, and groaning for the day of redemption. The story of humanity now becomes one of exile—both from the garden and God’s presence.

It’s a tragic fall, but God’s mercy lingers even in judgment. He doesn’t abandon Adam and Eve. He clothes them in garments of skin, a quiet foreshadowing of the day when the blood of a perfect sacrifice will clothe humanity in righteousness once again. But for now, the world is broken, and the story of redemption has only just begun.

The fall of humanity

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