This is a daunting task, because this is one of those passages that I would much rather teach than preach. If I had my way we’d all be sitting around tables in the fellowship hall with John Jost’s famous fajitas warming our plates. We’d catch up on the events of the week, sing a hymn together, and then I would walk to the microphone, pull up a chair, sit down and do a spot on impression of George Mason. You would all laugh. I would then ask you a few questions about this story. Adam and Eve. The snake and the fruit. Sin and death. Those two trees. What does it all mean? 

So much has been said about this story over the years, I’m sure we’d all have a few things to say. We would reference Sunday school teachers and theologians and conversations we’d had with friends. We would call out words like mythical and literal, symbolic and real, belief and doubt. We would laugh at each other and call each other names like heretic and liberal and fundy. In the end I’m sure we’d all agree that the fajitas were good, and the dialogue was interesting. And then we’d leave this story just as we found it - on the page.

This is why I’d rather teach this passage than preach it, because when I teach I can ask questions and quote commentaries and throw out ideas. I can moderate and speculate and invite you to postulate about what it all means. And I can do all of this without ever opening myself to the piercing and unveiling power of the passage. I can teach it at arms length, but if I preach it, I have to let it get inside my soul, and I’d rather not do that. The truth is that if we all really opened ourselves up to the power of this passage, we might see that this story is about more than we ever imagined. We might notice that this is about more than the origin of sin, and death and suffering. It’s a story about us. This story…their story is our story.

When I was a child, I was a racist. Racism can be both taught and caught so it shouldn’t surprise most of you to know that in a small East Texas town it was quite easy for me to pick it up. Some of you can identify with this. And if you can, you might also identify with the fact that in the beginning I didn’t know I was a racist. This knowledge came to me in slow and well-placed moments.

One of those moments came when I was three years old. I was at a garage sale at my grandmother’s house. Folks had come from all over town to buy our stuff, and one person in particular had captured my attention. She was an elderly black woman. I vaguely remember her wrinkled face, her large glasses, and the flowery scarf she had wrapped around her head. She fascinated me, so I decided to approach her and ask her a curious question. I tugged on her shirt and when she gave me permission to speak; I asked “Are you a ____?” And in that space I said a word that you’ve all heard and it begins with the letter “n.” I knew in an instant that I’d done something wrong, because my mother grabbed me by the arm, and pulled me inside as quickly and as painfully as she could. She then sat me down and told me that she wanted me to stay there and think about what I’d done and that she “better not ever hear that word come out of my mouth again.” It was a confusing moment, but it stayed with me.

A few years later I was standing in a lunch line at school. I was standing there with these two guys that I knew and liked. They weren’t my friends, but I wanted them to be, because they were so popular, and I wanted to be popular too. I remembered this joke I’d heard, that I knew they would think was funny - it had that word in it. I’d like to say that I hesitated, but I don’t think I did. The opportunity to have their friendship was ripe, and I wanted it so badly. So I got their attention and I told them the joke. Just as I had hoped, they both laughed, and I felt pretty good about myself. But then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see the face of my gym teacher staring back at me. She looked like a female version of Michael Jordan, with hair. “What did you just say?” she asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “What word just came out of your mouth?” I stuttered and I stammered and tried not to look her in the eyes. I had always felt so safe around her, but I didn’t feel safe anymore. I felt exposed, naked. I knew that she could see me for who I was. And I was ashamed.

This is my story. This is the story of an insecure little boy who believed that cheap laughs possessed the power to make his life a little better. The little boy didn’t know much, but he did know something about right and wrong, because he had been told by a higher authority that some words in our language should remain off limits. But the fruit of popularity was just so tempting. If these kids liked him, if they approved of him, then others might like him too. Surely it would be alright to take just one bite. And so he reached out and took the fruit… and for a moment… it tasted so good.

Have you been there? Have you reached out beyond the limits of the Garden? Have you reached for love or money or status or self worth in a way that has compromised who you are? Have you done things, evil things, hoping that life would get better, only to be left with the feeling that you had become damaged goods, and that nothing would ever be the same again.

I wonder if this is how Adam and Eve felt when they heard the footsteps of God breaking ground in the garden. They had never needed anything. They had been created in God’s image. God had given them a home and a purpose. God had given them each other. They had a pretty good deal. What could they possibly want that God hadn’t already provided? The serpent seemed to know. The serpent called God’s integrity into question. “You will not surely die,” he said, “but your eyes will be opened and you will know things, things that God has never told you, things that God doesn’t want you to know, because God knows that if you knew them, you would be like God.”

This strange, slithery little fellow seemed to know something about life and God that had eluded them. God had obviously been holding out on them. How could this be? Did God not trust them? If God didn’t trust them, then why should they trust God? I mean, what did they really know about this God anyway? Nothing! No, if this was all true, then they couldn’t continue to depend on this God for anything. Knowledge is power and knowledge is freedom, and they needed to take control of their own destinies. And so they did what they had to do. They found the fruit, they reached for it, and they took it. And for a moment, it tasted good.

And then God was there, and they knew in an instant that something had changed. They didn’t feel safe anymore. They didn’t feel secure anymore. They had grasped at knowledge and freedom. And now they knew. They knew that in reaching for freedom, they had lost it. They knew that in grasping at wisdom, they had destroyed their relationship with wisdom personified.

And as they considered all of this, their shame turned to blame and they looked at each other and began to exclaim “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” And then, in that moment, they knew something else. They knew that more than one relationship had been fractured that day. They knew as they looked at each other with bitterness and distrust that they had lost everything. And then they looked over to see God waiting for them at the Garden gate. God was holding a bag of new clothes - new clothes for their new lives. Even now, in their moment of betrayal, God continued to provide. This was a loving God. They took the clothes, and then God sent them on their way, locking the gate behind them as they left. And I imagine that as the sun was setting on that horrible day, all they wanted to do was go back home. And I’m sure they tried. But, of course, they had forgotten the way. This is their story. This is our story.

The church I grew up in didn’t really follow the Christian calendar. We celebrated Easter and Christmas and the 4^th of July, and everything else was ordinary time. In those days, “Lent” was just the stuff we wiped off our suits before church. (I always thought that stuff was kind of cool, because when I found it on my sleeve it was small and flaky, but when my mother emptied the lent trap after a few loads of laundry, the stuff that came out looked like it came off the back of a blue sheep).

I’ve since learned that there is a kind of Lent that cannot be brushed away. Lent is, however, a season of removal. We often observe this time of year by giving things up. A few years ago I decided to give up coffee – probably not a good idea. You see, I’m an introvert, but when I need to I can function as an extrovert. This is a useful trick in ministry, one that I often use. What I failed to consider when I made this Lenten sacrifice was that I often need caffeine to make the leap from introvert Jason to extrovert Jason. That first week was difficult. I just could not find the energy to be chipper, and we all know that good ministers are always chipper. So I did what any sensible child of God would have done in my situation. I started drinking Dr. Pepper….lots and lots of Dr. Pepper. I must have gained ten pounds that year while I was fasting from coffee.  

Something tells me that’s not what Lent is really supposed to be about. Lent is not a second chance for us to make a New Year’s resolution. Lent is the season when we walk into the desert of temptation with Jesus. Lent is about making our way back home. It’s about a people who are looking and longing for the Garden of God, but the road has been covered. There is no map or compass that will lead them there, and even if they found it, the gate has been locked. It’s about a group of refugees who have lost their way, and who have lost their grip on the hope that they will ever reclaim their one true home. They’re grumbling and fighting and they’re just about to call the whole thing off.

And then, in the midst of the desert, a path emerges, and there is a way. There is a way, because there is someone who knows the way. The Divine Storyteller has walked into the desert of our despair and started spinning tales of redemption and restoration and hope. He knows the way home, and he’s invited us to join him on the journey. And so we stand here with him at the edge of this desert. Our hands are full, and our packs are heavy. Our guide knows the way, but he also knows that we won’t make it through this desert carrying our usual load.

And even if we could make it, what would we do with our stuff when we got to the other side? If our packs are full of pride, what are we going to do with it when we get there? If our hands are full of bitterness, what we going to do with it when we get there? What are we going to do with our lust when we get there? What are we going to do with our money and materialism when we get there? What are we going to do with our racism when we get there? These things have no place in the Garden of God, so as we step into the desert with Jesus, as we begin our journey home, what are you going to do?

Lent is about letting go of anything and everything that might keep us from making the journey. The story of Adam and Eve is our story. The story of Jesus, well that’s our story too. It’s the story we’ll find ourselves in, if we’ll simply unpack our bags and follow him home. Amen.