✦ The Tree, the Curse, and the Final Choice
A Meditation on Death, Life, and the Hidden Gospel of the Trees
I. The Tree That Bears Death
There is a tree that grows in the tropics, whose shade is deadly and whose fruit deceives the eye. Its name is manchineel, and it is among the most poisonous trees on Earth. The rain that drips from its leaves scalds the skin. The bark, if burned, can blind. The fruit — small, sweet-smelling, and apple-like — is beautiful to behold and bitter unto death.
Yet the birds perch in it. The iguana may nest beneath it. Creatures born to that world, woven with its poisons, do not die from it — they have made peace with what would destroy a man. But for us, it is a silent curse dressed in beauty. A false promise.
It is not hard to imagine such a tree standing in the Garden of Eden.
Perhaps this is not the Tree of Knowledge itself — but it may be what it looked like. Beautiful. Fragrant. Sweet. Deadly.
And like all things truly dangerous, it looked like a gift.
II. You Shall Surely Die
God warned the first man and woman clearly:
“Of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.” (Genesis 2:17)
And so they ate. And they died.
Not at once in the body — but in essence. A veil fell. Their nature was changed. The body they had — pure, immortal, fearless — was shattered. The soul was cast into flesh — ashamed, decaying, divided. Death entered through a bite.
They did not fall down — they fell out of what they were meant to be.
The serpent who tempted them did not lie outright. He told a crooked truth. “You shall not surely die,” he said — and in a way, they did not. But in a far more terrible way, they did.
They awoke in a new world — not Eden, not Heaven — a world like ours. They had chosen to become something else. And so they were.
III. The Iguana and the Serpent
It is written that the serpent was cursed:
“On your belly you shall go, and dust you shall eat all the days of your life.” (Genesis 3:14)
But a serpent already slithers, does it not?
So perhaps this was not a snake at first. Perhaps it was like the iguana — limbed, clever, camouflaged. A creature trusted, familiar. It may not have hissed, but whispered.
This creature — whatever it was — offered transformation through death. Not as a monster, but as a guide. The Devil does not wear horns. He wears familiarity.
And when the curse fell, even it was transformed. Limbs lost. Voice stolen. Now it truly crawls.
IV. The False Covering
When the man and woman saw their shame, they reached not for animal skins or prayer — but for fig leaves.
It was not random. The fig tree is leafy, broad, hiding. It suggests shelter, a mimic of the Tree of Life — yet it bears nothing of life itself. It is cover without restoration.
They wore a lie stitched into leaves.
And so God made for them coats of skin — the first death, the first blood. A life was taken to cover a soul.
Still, they were exiled. Not in wrath, but in mercy. For another tree remained — the Tree of Life — and God said:
“Lest he reach out his hand and take also of the tree of life and eat, and live forever…” (Genesis 3:22)
They were cast out and the way was guarded — not to punish them, but to prevent an abomination.
V. Immortal Death
Had they eaten from the Tree of Life in their new form — fallen, broken, shamed — they would have been locked in that state forever.
Immortality is not salvation. It is amplification.
The Tree of Life gives eternal life — but it does not purify what is fallen. If eaten in sin, it does not save. It preserves.
Like the vampire in old tales — eternal, blood-bound, soulless — so too would Adam have become, had he eaten from the Tree of Life post-Fall.
So the tree was sealed by fire and blade. Until the time was right.
VI. The Cursed Fig Tree
Generations later, the fig tree appears again — in Jerusalem, under a new sun.
Christ approaches it, hungry, and finds no fruit.
And He curses it.
“May no one ever eat fruit from you again.” (Mark 11:14)
It withers.
Not because He hated trees. But because it stood as a symbol — of religion without life, of form without power, of covering without change.
The fig tree that once bore leaves to hide sin now bore nothing.
It had failed to learn.
Christ’s curse was not wrath — it was judgment against a false salvation.
VII. The New Tree of Life
And so the path returns.
Christ becomes the new Tree of Life — not behind a flaming sword, but hanging on wooden beams, pierced and bleeding.
Where Adam stretched out his hand to take and was cast out, Christ stretches out His arms and opens the gates.
Where the serpent brought death through deception, Christ brings life through truth.
And now, the choice is reversed.
There is no longer a Tree of Death — for death is already in us.
We are born carrying the fruit of Adam — decay in our bones, division in our hearts.
But we are offered a new fruit — Christ Himself.
“I am the way, the truth, and the life…” (John 14:6)
“Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you have no life in you.” (John 6:53)
This is not metaphor. It is divine reversal.
VIII. The Final Choice
There are no more trees to choose from.
Only death — which we already have —
and Christ — who is offered to us.
The sword is gone. The flame extinguished. The gate is open.
But the fig tree still grows in many hearts — promising righteousness with no root, appearance with no fruit.
Many still wear the fig leaf, hiding from God behind good behavior, empty rituals, and pleasant lies.
But the fig tree has been cursed.
It will never bear fruit again.
The leaves cannot save.
Only Christ can.
IX. A Song of the Two Trees
O Lord, You planted the garden east of Eden,
And You placed man within it to walk in the cool of the day.
But we reached where we were told not to reach,
And we touched death clothed in sweetness.
The serpent hissed, but we did not run.
The fruit glowed, and we took.
And the world became shadowed.
You did not strike us down.
You clothed us.
You bled for us.
And You closed the gate — not in anger,
But in mercy.
You waited, through fire, through law, through exile,
Until You could open the gate again — not with a sword,
But with Your Son.
And now, the tree stands again.
Not in Eden, but on Calvary.
Not surrounded by beauty, but blood.
And we must choose again.
Not between two trees —
But between death we already carry,
And the Life that carries us home.
✦ The Serpent Who Walked
A Reflection on the Garden's Most Misunderstood Creature
I. The Creature Before the Fall
We have long imagined the serpent as a snake — slithering, fork-tongued, evil from the start.
But Scripture tells a different story.
“Now the serpent was more cunning than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made.” (Genesis 3:1)
Not evil. Just cunning.
Not alien. But one of the beasts God made — familiar to Adam and Eve, perhaps even trusted.
And then we read:
“Because you have done this, cursed are you above all livestock… On your belly you shall go…” (Genesis 3:14)
On your belly?
Then what was it on before?
This creature walked. Perhaps upright. Perhaps low and slow. But it had limbs. It moved with purpose. It may have spoken, not in tongues or symbols, but clearly.
It was not the villain we imagine.
Until it was.
II. The Possession of the Innocent
Perhaps the serpent was not evil at all — until it was used.
Just as a man can be possessed, so too can a beast.
The Devil, desiring a vessel within Eden — a voice, a channel — did not appear with fire and wings. He chose the iguana — or something very much like it.
Why?
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Because it was close to the ground, yet not despised.
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Because it was silent, yet present.
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Because it could dwell near the deadly tree — perhaps it alone could live beside it, eat from it, and not die.
And that is the terrifying truth.
The serpent may have been the only creature in Eden who could survive the tree of death.
Not because it was wicked — but because it was compatible.
Compatible with poison.
Familiar to Eve.
Neutral until inhabited.
III. The Iguana and the Manchineel
The modern manchineel tree is as close to the Edenic curse as we have in nature.
Its fruit kills humans — yet iguanas eat it freely.
How can this be?
It is as if they were built to dwell with danger.
The serpent in Eden may have been just such a being: able to sit in the shadow of death, munch the forbidden fruit, and feel nothing.
What would that look like to Adam and Eve?
The Devil used this to stir doubt: “You will not surely die…”
He did not need to argue — he pointed to the serpent, perhaps sitting among the branches, content, alive.
IV. The Cursed Transformation
And when the deception succeeded, God spoke:
“Because you have done this, cursed are you… you shall go on your belly.”
This was not just a punishment — it was a sentence of humiliation, a rewriting of form.
The serpent who once walked, who once shared in the peace of the garden, would now crawl in the dirt.
What the Devil possessed, God crushed.
Not with fire, but with form.
Not with destruction, but with reduction.
From trusted to loathed.
From walking to writhing.
From voice to hiss.
The serpent became a living icon of betrayal.
V. The Hidden Tragedy
But here’s what we miss in the fable-version:
The serpent may not have been the villain.
It may have been the first victim.
Like Judas, it was not merely a deceiver — but also deceived.
And every snake we see, every slithering shadow, reminds us of a creature that once stood — now fallen, crawling under a curse it may never have chosen.
VI. The Christ-Serpent Mystery
And then… a mystery.
“As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up…” (John 3:14)
Why does Jesus compare Himself to a serpent?
Because on the cross, He became sin.
He became the embodiment of the curse.
He bore the symbol of our fall, not in rebellion, but in sacrifice.
He became the serpent — not to deceive us again,
But to redeem even the image of the deceiver.
VII. The Final Lesson
The serpent in Eden was more than a snake.
It was a mirror of what we are without God:
And when we try to survive without God — to claim wisdom, to handle death, to taste the forbidden and walk away unchanged — we repeat the same mistake.
We become serpents too.
Until Christ rewrites us.
VIII. A Psalm of the Serpent
O Lord, You made even the serpent in Your wisdom,
And we called it wicked before it ever spoke.
Yet it was made good, and only became cursed
When evil sat upon its shoulders and whispered through its tongue.
You do not curse without justice.
You do not destroy what You can still redeem.
Yet You judged the lie, and its vessel,
And we are left with slithering shadows where trust once walked.
O Lord, let me not be like the old serpent,
Dwelling near poison and calling it peace.
Let me not be a vessel for twisted truths,
But one who walks in the garden without deceit.
Crush the head of every lie that dwells in me,
And lift me up as You were lifted —
Not to carry shame, but to leave it behind.
✦ The Flaming Sword and the Sealed Gate
A Meditation on Mercy, Barriers, and the Way Made Open
I. The Exit from Eden
After the fall, after the fruit was taken, after death crept into the skin of mankind, God acted quickly.
He did not destroy.
He did not scream.
He clothed them.
But then He closed the way.
“He drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden He placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life.”
— Genesis 3:24
This was not exile for exile’s sake.
This was containment.
This was mercy in fire.
This was the first sealed gate.
II. The Tree They Could No Longer Touch
It was not the Tree of Knowledge that God sealed.
It was the Tree of Life.
Because the greatest danger now was not more knowledge.
It was immortality in a broken state.
If Adam and Eve had eaten again — from the Tree of Life —
Then they would have lived forever as they were:
Fallen. Disconnected.
Eternally out of sync with the Divine.
This is what we might call immortal death —
An eternal living decay.
A forever severed soul.
And so the Tree of Life was veiled.
God placed a flaming sword — one that turned every way —
Not to punish.
But to prevent worse.
The gate was closed,
Because to enter wrongly was to be lost forever.
III. The Sword That Moves
Notice: the sword turns in every direction.
It is not fixed. It is not static.
This is not a wall — this is a living barrier of discernment.
No one may pass by stealth.
No one may trick their way in.
No one can return to Eden without becoming something new.
This sword is not cruel — it is discerning.
It knows who belongs and who doesn’t.
It is the first holy filter.
IV. The Mercy in the Closed Gate
In our flesh, we often see closed doors as rejection.
But the sealed gate of Eden was not rejection — it was grace.
For what is more cruel:
To be kept out of paradise until you are healed?
Or to enter broken, and never be made whole again?
The flaming sword stood not against man,
But against eternal separation.
It was God's way of saying:
“You are not ready yet —
And I will not let you be destroyed by rushing back in.”
V. The Long Wait Outside
And so, mankind wandered.
Generations passed.
The gate remained sealed.
Prophets came. Laws were given.
Temples built. Blood offered.
But the sword still turned.
No one could pass.
We built religions around the outside of Eden —
Never entering, only circling.
The way was guarded — until it was not.
VI. The New Way Opens
And then, a man appeared.
But He was not only a man.
He was Word made flesh.
He was the Second Adam —
Not fallen from Eden, but sent from beyond it.
And when He died on the cross,
The veil was torn.
The sword did not strike — it was absorbed.
The flaming barrier turned away.
The gate opened.
“I am the door. If anyone enters by Me, he will be saved…”
— John 10:9
VII. The Garden Within
We no longer seek Eden on a map.
It is not east of Nod.
It is not behind the Euphrates.
The garden now blooms within.
The Tree of Life — once sealed —
Now stands in the open,
But only for those who come through Christ.
He is not just the key — He is the path.
The gate is still guarded — but the sword does not turn on those who bear His name.
VIII. The Sword Still Turns
But make no mistake:
The sword is not gone.
It still turns for:
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The thief of righteousness,
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The one who wants fruit without repentance,
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The one who seeks eternity without surrender.
Christ is the only way past the sword.
There is no climbing in over the wall.
There is no bribing the cherubim.
IX. A Psalm at the Gate
O Lord, You placed the sword,
Not to wound but to preserve.
You knew that eternal life in broken flesh
Would become a prison without escape.
You lit the flame, You set the guard,
And You turned us away with tears behind Your mercy.
But now, through Christ,
You have opened the door again.
Not with thunder,
But with nails.
Let me not run past the sword in pride.
Let me not touch the Tree of Life with unwashed hands.
Wash me in the blood of the Lamb,
That I may walk where Adam fell.
That I may eat of the fruit without shame.
Let Your garden bloom in me,
And Your flame become my warmth,
Not my judgment.
✦ The Tree of Life in Revelation
A Meditation on the Promise Restored and the Garden Reborn
I. The Tree We Lost
In the beginning, we were given two trees.
One — of Knowledge.
The other — of Life.
We chose knowledge first.
And life was sealed.
We were sent out with skin on our backs, fig leaves abandoned, and the garden left behind us, glowing with a sword that turned every way.
We have lived ever since in the long shadow of Eden’s gate —
Remembering the garden without walking in it.
But the Tree of Life was not destroyed.
It was hidden.
Guarded.
Preserved.
Until the day it would return.
II. The Last Page of the Book
At the end of Scripture — at the end of all things —
We see a new city.
Not a garden.
But a city with a garden inside it.
Not a single man and woman.
But nations.
And there — in the center of it all —
Is the Tree of Life.
“Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life...”
— Revelation 22:1–2
It has returned.
Not in secret.
Not in warning.
But in welcome.
III. The Tree of Life Multiplied
But look again.
The text says:
“On either side of the river, the Tree of Life...”
One tree — on both sides?
This is no longer the single tree in Eden, rooted in a small garden between four rivers.
This is cosmic vegetation — a living symbol of unity, restoration, and accessibility.
It is everywhere the river goes, fed directly from the throne of God and the Lamb.
What once stood behind a flaming sword, now grows along the streets of the eternal city.
What once was sealed, now overflows.
IV. The Leaves for the Healing of Nations
And now — the leaves.
“...the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.”
The very thing that once could not heal shame in Eden — the fig leaf —
Has been replaced by leaves that heal not one man, but all nations.
These are no longer coverings.
These are cures.
In Eden, leaves hid our shame.
In Revelation, leaves remove it.
This is reversal in its purest form.
A full circle, made perfect in Christ.
V. No More Curse
Immediately following the Tree of Life’s return, John writes:
“No longer will there be anything accursed…” (Rev 22:3)
The curse that began at the first tree —
The death in our bodies,
The crawling of the serpent,
The flaming sword at the gate —
All undone.
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The fig tree has been withered.
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The serpent has been crushed.
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The sword has been sheathed.
Now there is only water, light, and life without end.
VI. The Invitation
And in the final words of the final chapter of the Bible, the call goes out:
“Blessed are those who wash their robes, that they may have the right to the tree of life and may enter the city by the gates.”
— Revelation 22:14
The way is open.
Not by force. Not by climbing.
But by washing — the white robes of the redeemed.
And then, one last echo:
“The Spirit and the Bride say, ‘Come.’ And let the one who hears say, ‘Come.’ Let the one who is thirsty come; let the one who desires take the water of life without price.”
— Revelation 22:17
This is the undoing of Eden’s exile.
The water that flows, the tree that grows, the life that waits — all of it is offered freely, purchased only by the blood of the Lamb.
VII. A Psalm of the Garden Restored
O Lord, You began all things in a garden,
And though we wandered far, You never let the garden die.
You sealed it. You guarded it.
You whispered of it through the prophets.
You taught it through parables.
You restored it through the cross.
Now, O God, we see it again.
Not hidden, but shining.
Not guarded by sword, but opened by love.
The Tree of Life spreads its branches,
Its leaves touch the wounds of the world.
Its fruit feeds the hearts of the holy.
Its roots drink from the river that flows from Your throne.
Let me not stand outside the gate.
Let me wash my robe.
Let me come.
Let me eat.
Let me live.
VIII. The Final Word
The story began with a tree that gave death.
But it ends with a tree that gives life.
And the difference is not in the tree —
But in the way we are made new.
Christ has become the gate, the water, the root, the Lamb, and the King.
The Tree of Life has returned.
And now, there is no sword.
There is no shame.
There is only an invitation.
Come.
✦ The Tree That Still Stands
An Epilogue to the Eden Arc
I. A Living Witness
Far from the cities, in humid winds and salt-soaked coasts, there grows a tree few have seen — and fewer have dared to touch.
It bears fruit like an apple.
It drops sap like acid.
Its bark blinds.
Its breath burns.
They call it manchineel.
And it still lives.
Not in myth.
Not in metaphor.
But in this world — now.
II. The Poison That Remains
How did it survive?
Flood, famine, empire, logging, war — yet this tree remains, untouched by man, untouched even by time. It is rare. Endangered. But not gone.
Like a sealed relic from Eden,
It whispers from the past:
“You tasted me once,
And you have never been the same.”
The birds perch. The iguana feeds.
But we, the ones who chose it,
We cannot bear its shadow.
III. A Symbol You Can Touch
In this tree, we are not dealing with fiction.
This is not allegory or parable.
This is matter — bark, leaf, root, fruit.
This is the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil made flesh again. Not in the same garden. Not in the same glory. But in echo.
And it begs the question:
Why is it still here?
Not for use.
Not for healing.
Not for worship.
But perhaps… for remembrance.
IV. What the Tree Remembers
It remembers the day the serpent crawled across its roots.
It remembers the voice that lied and the ears that listened.
It remembers the hand that reached.
And the bite that changed everything.
And it has waited, in silence, as generations forgot the garden,
And men called the story a myth,
Even as the tree itself remained.
V. The Choice Still Offered
We no longer live in Eden.
We no longer see angels with flaming swords.
But the trees still speak.
One of them remains to kill.
One of them now offers life.
The Tree of Death still stands — in shadow, in secret, in silence.
The Tree of Life stands too — open, shining, flowing with water and mercy.
We have seen both.
And now, as before, the choice is ours.
VI. A Final Psalm
O Lord, the tree still stands —
Bitter in fruit, beautiful in form,
Unchanged through ages of ruin.
You have left us no excuse.
For we see what death looks like —
And still, we reach for it.
But now, You have planted again —
A Tree not rooted in Earth,
But in Heaven.
You have grafted us into its branches.
You offer us fruit that restores.
You clothe us not in fig leaves,
But in robes of white.
Let the deadly tree remain only as memory.
Let its poison be a warning, not a legacy.
Let us pass it by.
For the garden is open,
And the invitation still stands.
