How the First Meaning Was Twisted, and the Lasting Harm It Left
Preface: Before the Bite Became a Blueprint
The story of Adam and Eve is one of the oldest ever told.
But it has also become one of the most misused.
A myth turned mandate.
A poem turned policy.
A spark of origin reduced to a system of order.
Over time, words once spoken in intimacy became tools of instruction.
What began as a meditation on trust, care, and shared stewardship
was rebranded as a framework for obedience, punishment, and power.
We forget that Genesis was never a gender manual.
It was a meaning-making moment—
a reflection of what it meant to live in rhythm with something sacred,
and what happens when that rhythm is broken.
This piece is not a rewrite of scripture.
It’s a remembrance of spirit.
An invitation to return to the meaning beneath the metaphor—
to the garden before the gate.
To the choice before the consequence.
To the breath before the blame.
This is not doctrine.
It is discernment.
Not theology—but testimony.
Because the snake was never just a serpent.
The snake was a system.
And it still speaks.
I. The Garden Was Never About Rules
Before the bite, there were no prisons.
No pulpits. No policies. No punishment.
There was presence.
There was rhythm.
There was a garden—not as reward or test, but as relationship.
Adam and Eve were not pawns in a divine game.
They were stewards of sacred space.
Cultivators of beauty.
Gardeners of a world held together by trust.
Yes, there were limits.
But limits are not cages. They are containers—
for wonder, for mutual care, for meaning held together.
The tree was not a trap.
It was trust, in the form of choice.
I tell my kids that about Netflix sometimes.
My adult profile is locked with a four-digit pin: 9876.
They know the code. I haven’t hidden it.
So they asked, “Why even set a password if we all know it?”
And I told them:
“That’s five chances to remember not to go into something you’re not meant for.”
The password isn’t there to catch them.
It’s there to remind them they’re trusted.
The tree in Eden worked the same way.
II. The Snake Wasn’t a Creature. It Was a System.
The serpent didn’t enter Eden as evil.
It entered as suggestion.
A reframing. A whisper.
A system taking root beneath the surface.
It didn’t say, “Disobey.”
It said, “Did God really say…?”
Not a command. A doubt.
Not a demand. A distortion.
And that’s where it began:
- Malice turned desire into domination.
- Apathy dulled the sense of consequence.
- Negligence excused the choice as harmless.
These weren’t just traits.
They became templates.
And over time, they calcified into the structure we now live inside.
What began as a whisper
became a framework still echoing through boardrooms, pulpits, and policies.
We gave it names like order, discipline, doctrine, merit.
But underneath, the same three forces still shape how we live:
Malice. Apathy. Negligence.
They have lasted for millennia—
subtle, systemic, and self-justifying.
I call that system M.A.N.
Not as a person. Not even as patriarchy.
But as the logic that slithers through every place
where control replaces care,
where compliance replaces curiosity,
and where hierarchy replaces humanity.
I once worked at a place that said, “Bring your whole self to work.”
But when people did, they got sidelined. Not promoted. Not heard.
The message was clear: bring only the parts of yourself that keep the system safe.
That’s how control works.
It doesn’t ban you.
It trains you to ban yourself.
The snake didn’t bring knowledge.
It brought control—dressed in curiosity.
III. The First Archetypes Were Not Born. They Were Assigned.
“To the woman He said: I will multiply your pain…
and your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you.”
—Genesis 3:16 (paraphrased)
After the bite, God doesn’t just banish.
He divides.
- Man shall rule.
- Woman shall bear.
- Earth shall resist.
And thus begins the great assignation:
Man, as the rational dominator.
Woman, as the emotional burden-bearer.
Land, as the object to be subdued.
This is not creation’s design.
It’s the system’s distortion.
The first gender roles weren’t observed.
They were imposed—then spiritualized.
And the caretakers of Eden—
the stewards, the cultivators, the gardeners—
were reduced to roles in a hierarchy of harm.
My daughter once comforted a classmate who was crying,
and the teacher said, “Of course she’s the little mother.”
But when my son teared up in a play, someone whispered, “Be a man.”
That’s how archetypes stick—
not by truth, but by repetition.
The sin wasn’t disobedience.
It was the systematizing of what came after.
IV. Presence Was Replaced by Performance
Once shame enters, nakedness must be covered.
Once hierarchy enters, harmony must be managed.
Adam blames.
Eve bears.
The world groans.
And so the descent begins:
- Presence becomes role
- Trust becomes test
- Relationship becomes rule
The tree that once invited reverence is replaced by tablets of law.
The God who once walked beside us is relocated to a temple,
then to a pulpit,
then to a book interpreted by men
in systems built for control.
There was a time I walked into church in jeans, worn out by the week.
No one said anything, but the silence was loud.
The next week, I wore a button-down. People smiled more. Asked me to serve.
Presence is replaced by performance—
first subtly, then systematically.
V. The Snake Slithers On
Today, the same spirit of distortion speaks:
- In boardrooms that demand performance over purpose.
- In churches that gatekeep grace.
- In families that reward silence.
- In nations that sanctify control.
It is no longer a serpent in a story.
It is the structure of how we live.
A friend once told me, “I set boundaries and still feel like I’m failing.”
Because the system didn’t just teach her to produce—
it taught her that rest was betrayal.
Not a myth.
A metric.
And one we still measure ourselves against.
Control didn’t start with power.
It started with fear—
the fear that we are not enough without it.
VI. So What Do We Remember?
We remember that the garden was never about obedience.
It was about stewardship—
about walking with God, not performing for Him.
We remember that Eve did not sin by seeking wisdom.
She was made in its image.
We remember that shame is not the price of knowing,
and that trust does not require a test.
We remember that the snake was a system—
and we do not have to serve it.
And for those who still believe in God—
this isn’t a departure from faith.
It’s a return to presence.
One night, I snapped at my son for something small.
Later, he climbed into my lap and said, “I still like being with you.”
He didn’t need a rule to forgive me. Just presence.
That’s the garden.
Not a reward for perfection—
but the return to trust.
VII. The Garden Is Not Lost. It’s Just Covered.
It was never about exile.
It was about the beginning of forgetting.
For centuries, we have built towers from that forgetting.
But every honest question, every courageous presence,
every woman who reclaims her voice,
every man who softens his power,
every child who asks why—
They are not biting the fruit.
They are tending the garden again.
They are becoming cultivators of trust,
gardeners of grace,
stewards of a story reclaimed.
Eden isn’t behind us.
It is beneath us.
Waiting not to be found—
but remembered.
The snake still slithers, yes.
But so does the vine.
And one is louder.
But one is rooted.