Whispers of Eden

The memories wash over him even now, so many years later, like dreams in the deep of night, like whispers on the wind. The sun falls toward the horizon, its rays filtered through the trees in slanting shafts of light. In his mind’s eye he sees it yet again, the lost beauty of Eden, and that same sense of serenity he felt so long ago returns, enveloping him.

The wind rises, stirring the trees above him and rippling the grass at his feet, as it carries the fragrance of foliage and fertile earth. He pauses, inhales, bends to touch a flower, then straightens, stretches, smiles, unable to suppress the quiet joy of contentment.

He is alone. An unseen presence fills him, calms him, lifts his concern and, for a moment, dispels his questions and quiets his grief. His apprehensions subside, his fears are allayed, his doubts silenced.

How could he describe his state of mind at these times of remembrance, as he relives, if only briefly, the idyllic world he once knew? How can he express the restfulness that settles over him, the peace he feels at the center of his being? Words cannot carry the weight of meaning.

Too soon the moment has passed and, though he strains to hold it, the memory dissipates like mist rising. The whisper of Eden stills, the vision of Paradise fades. In its place, a familiar, suffocating regret crowds in on him — a regret we all share to some degree — and we know instinctively the words that fill his mind:

If only.
What if?
What now?

* * * * *

Somewhere east of Eden, Adam’s son lay dying in the dust, his blood pooling around him. That afternoon, in Abel’s death, Eve and her husband Adam not only became the first parents to endure the premature loss of a son, they also became the first to know the pain of standing with a violent adult child who had spread sorrow to others, for Abel had been killed by his brother Cain.

Surely Adam, the parent, would recall the first rebellion, his own, in Eden’s Garden, so many years earlier, and the consequences it had set in motion. Had he not embraced moral failure himself, could this catastrophe with his sons have been averted? And if his own moral failure had somehow contributed to this heartache, was his own sin greater even than he once thought? As great as that of his son Cain? With the enormity of the fall brought home to him through so personal a tragedy, how could his mind not grind away on the question of what might have been, what should have been?

If only.
What if?
What now?

Would he ever again hear the voice of God, sense the nearness of God, experience the peace of God, feel the arms of God? Could he ever regain that sense of living in the Father’s embrace, knowing his approval, sharing his joy?

* * * * *

Who can imagine, years afterward, the first moment of consciousness, the dawning of self-awareness, the sense of emerging identity?

Who am I?

For an infant, it blossoms in slow motion over so many months in those early years of development, and the memory that might chronicle the experience afterward is not yet formed. For the infant, there can be no retelling of such primal moments, the journey of self-discovery.

But consider Adam. He entered the world mature, his faculties developed. When he traced his earliest memories then, how far back did they reach?

The man had been mere dust, a pottery project fashioned by the fingertips of God, crafted to become the Father’s own handiwork, the pinnacle of Creation. Then the breath of God was on him, and he became a living soul — from mere matter to living man in one spectacular moment — and he opened his eyes on an infant world still echoing with the voice of God.

“Let there be light!”

The man inhaled and life filled him. He rose and stretched his arms wide toward the blue canopy of sky above him. He turned to see trees and meadows, rivers, waterfalls and wildlife. Nature in perfect balance.

Did he run? Did he sprint through this new world at the dawn of the ages? Did he shout and sing his gratitude to the one who had brought all this into being, the one who breathed life into his very lungs, who filled his eyes with wonder and flooded his soul with light?

At the first sensation of thirst did he instinctively stoop to find refreshment in the springs before him? At the initial stirring of hunger did he know to reach for fruit and find it succulent and satisfying?

Did he voice his wonder, his questions, his joy, knowing his voice would reach the Creator’s mind, the one who formed speech, authored reason, gave birth to wonder? The one who called all things into existence — every “something” out of the emptiness of nothing.

The first day unfolds with perfection, precision, art, and as the sun dips below the horizon, the sky flares and flames in the flash-fire of sunset, then smolders into the purple smoke of twilight. A thin lunar crescent rises in the early evening and the earth cools with the approaching night. The sky deepens and soon the black overhead shimmers with stellar diamonds — planets and suns and constellations. A meteor streaks through space in a vanishing arc and the man looks on, astonished at the nearness of infinity. He reclines on the earth and looks heavenward as stars cartwheel above him.

And he sleeps.

* * * * *

He could not sleep. When he closed his eyes, he saw again the body of Abel, his lifeless son. He saw the defiant face of Cain, his eldest, the murderer. This was the nightmare sleep would not take away, and he could not shake the conviction — the certainty — that he was partly to blame, that every future crime and moral crisis would bear his own fingerprints, his DNA. Adam was here. He faced so simple a test all those years before and had failed so profoundly. Surely the shockwaves of the fall would be felt forever, as long as life was measured by time.

“Adam, where are you?”

The voice of God called to him.

We may think that the greatest expression of intimacy with God would be to hear him call our name; but is it? For Adam, at that moment, following his moral failure, he would have felt far nearer to God had there been no need for God to summon him by name, had they already been together. Together and close.

Instead, it fell to God to go looking for Adam as he hid among the trees of the garden in the cool of the evening, to look for him and to call his name.

“Adam, where are you?”

He called the man to face his God and to face himself and to face his shame. There can be no restoration, no new beginning, for those who hide from the past, deny their shame, suppress their moral impulse, avoid their God. And the regret echoes unendingly.

If only.
What if?
What now?

And the voice called to him, as if to say, Adam, step out of the underbrush, face regret, expose the shame, embrace the Father who is waiting — waiting and calling your name. Nothing productive happens till this line of new beginning is crossed.

“Adam, where are you?”

* * * * *

All he needed had been lavishly provided; the Creator’s generosity had been unbridled. Suppose the man had been dropped into a major metropolitan center, rather than the obscure rural garden. Would he have been any better cared for?

The city would provide delivery systems for food, water and energy, access to the finest medical care, nearby cultural experiences, intellectual stimulation, and opportunities for career advancement. But the garden yielded all he needed for nourishment, and the optimum climate control to assure his comfort. Eden’s provision even guaranteed immortality; there was no need for health care. There, in Paradise, the man was surrounded by the art and drama of nature, the symphony of creation, and he found fulfillment in the work assigned to him by the Almighty. He found his identity and purpose not merely in what he did — what occupied him — but in who he was, the friend of the Creator, whose image he bore.

He was called on to name the animals and found in the task far more than a basic phonetic exercise; rather it was for him an intellectually challenging enterprise as he classified and categorized nature’s wildlife — a veiled hint of what he might become, the intellectual stature he might attain.

His emotional needs were met as God brought romance into his life — a companion perfectly suited, his equal and his complement.

The man enjoyed spiritual quest in unhurried conversations with the Creator, and moral challenge and development through one simple test to assure his vigilance and growth, and to gauge his affection for and trust in the caring God who had crafted him, then met his every need long before it would even occur to the man to utter a request.

One simple test, one solitary prohibition, and his failure shattered everything, jeopardized his life and the well-being of future generations, touching every age and every people. Immediately, he felt the distance grow between him and his divine friend. A fissure opened, a crack that soon became a chasm. Shame colored his face and clouded his thinking. He felt the crush of regret, a sensation so foreign he could scarcely name it. He felt exposed, and hid himself; self-conscious, and could not bear to be seen. Even before his confrontation with the Creator, his mind was preoccupied, mulling over the timeless mantra of regret.

If only.
What if?
What now?

“Adam, where are you?”

And he stepped forward to face his God and himself and his shame.

* * * * *

Now, years later, one son had crossed the threshold of violence and the other lie dead. The Creator confronted the murderer, “What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand. When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.” And before the day had ended, Adam had lost one son in death, and the other in banishment and exile. In the emptiness of his ensuing grief, Adam was left to ponder again:

If only.
What if?
What now?

If we permit it, if we grant it the power, regret will show itself more persistent, more tenacious, than divine forgiveness itself, a truth most of us can attest to from personal experience. And yet, out of the extremity of his pain and regret, Adam could call to mind the Creator’s enigmatic promises, offered in the aftermath of his own moral failure so long ago.

Though he would return to the dust from which he came, there was more: a cryptic reference to restoration, which, in time, would be more clearly understood. A deliverer would come, and he would have both the power and inclination to crush the forces of temptation, moral failure and disheartening consequence. Far more than Eden would be restored. In that veiled promise, Adam doubtless found again and again the assurance of hope and the prospect of the Father’s embrace.

And he remembered Eden.

Life might bring unimaginable pain — the comforts of Paradise may quickly fade to a half-forgotten dream, a faint whisper, but still the unseen Father is closer than breath itself. For even at the birth of regret, hope was there and it was only just beginning.

Copyright © 2008