The old story says there were two trees smack in the middle of the garden
and God said, "Don't eat from that one."
But see, the kicker is, the forbidden tree makes the most sense.
The Knowledge of Good and Evil is what I spend my days looking for --
"Ten Steps to Mastering Greed"
"Ten Steps to Social Justice"
"Ten Steps to Beauty"
"Ten Steps to Being a Good Wife"
"Ten Steps to A Maximized Life" --
I bust my butt looking for ways to crack all the codes.
So any dangling mango that promises to make me more like God (WWJD, and all that) is in my shopping cart on Amazon prime, pronto. It will be here two-day, by Wednesday, because I'm hungry, hungry to figure this mess out.
Why wouldn't a God want me to be more like Him, to know whatever He knows?
Why would He walk in the garden with me in prettiest hour of the day with glory intoxicating, billowing like a train behind him, and my heart banging like it's the third movement of some symphony?
I am sick with love when we pass that one tree and I remember, "You. Don't eat that." Then I hear, "It will make you more like Him, you know."
And my heart turns, because I hate being a primate.
It was a harder choice than we think, I think.
Because even knowing what dominoes fell from that first declaration of independence, I am still unaccustomed to the veils behind which God hides, and sometimes I resent them.
I want to zoom into the text, picking through the Hebrew with a nut pick, digging out truth in perfect pecan halves, and blowing off the bitter bits.
"You search the Scriptures because you think that in them you have eternal life; and it is they that bear witness about me."
And so I have so often participated in the work of the great divorce, turning from the presence of the Messiah to suck on the pit of the knowledge of good and evil.