The Serpent's Question: Genesis 3:1-7

Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the LORD God had made.

He slithered into the story without introduction—where he came from, why he opposed God, how evil had entered a good creation. The text does not say. It only notes his craftiness, his cunning, his subtle intelligence.

He said to the woman, "Did God really say, You must not eat from any tree in the garden?"

The first lie began with a question. Not a direct assault but a whispered doubt. Did God really say? And notice the distortion—God had forbidden one tree, not every tree. The serpent made divine generosity sound like divine restriction.

The woman said to the serpent, "We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden, but God did say, You must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die."

Eve corrected the serpent but added her own embellishment—God had not said anything about touching. Was she already building a fence around the command, or was she exaggerating the restriction? Either way, she engaged the conversation.

"You will not certainly die," the serpent said to the woman. "For God knows that when you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil."

The direct contradiction. God is lying to you. God is holding out on you. God is afraid of what you might become. The serpent reframed the prohibition as divine jealousy, the warning as manipulation.

When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it.

Three appeals: appetite (good for food), aesthetics (pleasing to the eye), ambition (desirable for wisdom). Body, soul, and spirit all seduced at once. She saw. She took. She ate.

She also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it.

With her. Adam was there. Silent. Passive. He watched the conversation, watched her reach, watched her eat—and said nothing. Then he took and ate, the man who had been commanded directly by God, the guardian who failed to guard.

Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves.

Their eyes opened—but not to divinity. To shame. The nakedness that had been innocent now burned with exposure. They scrambled for covering, fig leaves stitched together in desperate inadequacy.

The serpent had promised they would be like God. Instead, they discovered they were afraid of him.