Genesis
In the beginning, there was nothing, but out of that vastness, for reasons no one could ever explain, came a spark. And from that spark arose consciousness and on the very heels of consciousness arrived an outpouring of Love, which was God.
As God’s awareness was born, so was her first urge to create. She conceived universes filled with planets almost without understanding what it was she made; she was simply exercising her power with the delight of a child who first discovers its toes. And as she grew in her understanding, her creations became more fully defined, smaller and more delicate. It was at that point that she made the Earth.
The Earth she crafted with especial care, planning even the smallest details—the courses of the great rivers, the flow of the winds and seas, the plants and animals which filled her sketchbooks and her dreams. Color and light, coolness and heat were her paints. She worked without any hindering ideas of perfection or utility. Lost in the bliss of making, she poured her love and delight with equal abandon onto the aardvark and the zebra, the asparagus and the zinnia.
And when the Earth was fully formed, filled with animicula and flora, steam and ice, spiderwebs and molten metals, she rested. She was exhausted from her many births and the creative impulse that drove her. When she rested, feeling herself move from emptiness to energy once again, God conceived of Time.
Chapter 1 – Man and Woman
When God’s energy was replete, she looked at her work thus completed, and saw that, by and large, it was good. The animals frolicked in her meadows, climbing trees and chasing each other across the marshes and through the woods. True, the flowers, ferns and grasses moved with their own consciousness, following the light of her sun and bowing their heads before the moon’s blue beams. But something was missing…God felt a loneliness. Her second urge after creation, was to share her creation with others, to make a family.
“I will have children,” she thought. So she set to work, and formed two more animals, slightly different from the rest, but not so very different after all. Slightly different from each other, but alike enough that they could share their lives: God didn’t want her children to feel the loneliness she’d experienced, if she could help it. Whatever happened, they would have each other.
Even as she worked, God knew that her children would be far from perfect. She herself was not perfect—she made mistakes, and sometimes became frustrated. And she had noted that every one of her creations had some flaw: the sun could burn the baby rabbits if they crawled too soon from the nest; some plants could not grow beside each other, either because they both needed sun or because they lived on the same nutrients in the soil. Nothing was perfect, but one being’s flaws always fit into the web of others’ strengths in a pattern that in itself approached perfection.
God saw that pattern, although she hadn’t intended it: it was a happy accident, and she thought it was Good.
Man and woman, she saw once they were finished, had physical flaws: thin, unfurred skins that would make them subject to extremes of cold; digestive systems that required feedings much more frequent than, say, boa constrictors or wolves. Sometimes they had feelings that didn’t make sense, and stormed and cried, until she held them close and sang songs to ease their minds, sharing the beat of her heart and the warmth of her body with the strange, wonderful beings she had made.
And curiosity! It made perfect sense; born of a Mother whose curiosity was unbounded, how could they be otherwise?
And Time, having been born in God’s rest, became a thing of itself, changing the children day by day, hour by hour.
She named them Adam and Eve. She loved them deeply and cared them and kept them safe inside a vast garden whose walls captured the sun’s warmth. There, she could keep an eye on them until their wisdom increased enough to keep them safe.
The Garden
Inside the garden were plants of every description, medicinal herbs, fragrant flowers dripping with colour and nectars, sweet and tart fruits, rich, filling tubers and crisp vegetables. Adam and Eve were never hungry, for their home was filled with food. God had planned the garden to delight every sense while fulfilling an important need.
But there was one tree, standing on its own, on a grassy sward. God often looked at the tree, wondering, for she did not recall having planted it. It was first covered with bright blue flowers, large and perfumed, but God noticed the bees and songbirds chose other trees to visit. But something must have pollinated the mysterious tree, because one day, small fruits appeared and began to grow. In the way of all gardeners, God decided not to act too soon, but to keep an eye on the strange tree. “But just to be safe,” she cautioned Adam and Eve, “You should probably stay away from it. Don’t eat its fruit, don’t play under it. There’s something I don’t like about that tree…”
The Fall
Adam and Eve grew into adults and spent most of their time together. One day, Eve walked in the garden at noontime, when Adam was resting. As she passed by the tree, something sparkled in the branches—it caught her eye. At this point, the tree was covered with round, red fruits that smelt like jam. The breeze carried the perfume all over the garden, and both Adam and Eve had found themselves gazing at the tree, wondering what it would be like to taste the fruit.
But the sparkling object moving through the leafy limbs was not fruit: Eve moved closer and saw it was a large, very large, snake, its scales catching the sun like a thousand mirrors. And—she gasped—the snake was eating a piece of that luscious fruit, the juice dripping from its narrow chin. Eve rushed over to the snake.
“Oh no—you mustn’t,” she breathed. “We think there’s something wrong with that tree—that fruit could be poisoned!”
“Nonsense,” replied the snake. “I eat it every day. It hasn’t done me any harm at all.”
Eve had never seen the snake in the garden before. There were small grass snakes and sleepy boa constrictors and even highly musical rattlesnakes—but this one was a stranger to her.
“You really eat this fruit every day?” she asked, gently touching the snake’s cool, silvery side.
“Yes, indeed” answered the snake. “I don’t mind sharing: have one yourself.”
Eve remembered that God had warned her away from the tree, but seeing the snake obviously enjoying the fruit and smelling the fragrant, rose-scented juice, she thought herself safe. She took a piece of fruit and bit into it, and yes, it was delicious. She immediately thought of her friend Adam, asleep under a fig tree beside the little pond. She picked an extra fruit and, saying goodbye to the snake, hurried away to find him.
When Adam awoke, Eve was sitting beside him, staring at a piece of fruit. “It’s from the tree!” he cried, amazed.
“A snake was eating from the tree,” answered Eve. "She said it’s fine fruit, and I ate a piece too. It was so good, I brought you one.” She held it out to him. She seemed subdued.
Adam took the fruit, smelt it and bit into it. It tasted wonderful.
But in the course of the day, something happened. Their spirits dropped; they saw the world in a way they hadn’t seen it before. They saw each other in a new way, and it wasn’t the good they saw, but the imperfect. It was like being lost in a fog: they suddenly felt cold and vulnerable, and separate from themselves and each other. So, they made themselves some coverings from leaves and grasses they wove together, and they hid themselves away.
And when God came to walk in the garden in the evening, her children were too shy to come to her. They did not know what had gone wrong, but they knew they felt terrible—and they knew it had something to do with eating from that tree.
God called to them, and eventually, they came out from their hiding places. When God saw the misery on their faces, she was struck with the horror of a mother whose protection could not save her children from an evil event.
“Why did you hide from me, my darlings?,” she asked, already intuiting the reason.
“We were ashamed,” they replied.
“You ate that fruit, didn’t you,” she said.
“The snake was eating it…” said Eve, her voice trailing off.
“She made me do it,” said Adam, pointing at Eve.
This was the first betrayal of man.
“O, my children,” sighed God. “I tried to keep you safe, but I should have known there is only so much a Mother can do. You’re not automatons to be told what to do, and you will make mistakes. I’m so sorry that this one changed your entire world, for truly, that fruit is poison.”
Adam and Eve, seeing the sorrow on God’s face, burst into weeping.
“Someday, you’ll have children,” said God. And like me, you will find their presence is your greatest delight and your deepest despair. You’ll do your best to keep them safe, but it’s impossible to keep anyone safe, unless you make them your prisoner forever. And you can't imprison the ones you love.”
In the beginning, there was nothing, but out of that vastness, for reasons no one could ever explain, came a spark. And from that spark arose consciousness and on the very heels of consciousness arrived an outpouring of Love, which was God.
As God’s awareness was born, so was her first urge to create. She conceived universes filled with planets almost without understanding what it was she made; she was simply exercising her power with the delight of a child who first discovers its toes. And as she grew in her understanding, her creations became more fully defined, smaller and more delicate. It was at that point that she made the Earth.
The Earth she crafted with especial care, planning even the smallest details—the courses of the great rivers, the flow of the winds and seas, the plants and animals which filled her sketchbooks and her dreams. Color and light, coolness and heat were her paints. She worked without any hindering ideas of perfection or utility. Lost in the bliss of making, she poured her love and delight with equal abandon onto the aardvark and the zebra, the asparagus and the zinnia.
And when the Earth was fully formed, filled with animicula and flora, steam and ice, spiderwebs and molten metals, she rested. She was exhausted from her many births and the creative impulse that drove her. When she rested, feeling herself move from emptiness to energy once again, God conceived of Time.
Chapter 1 – Man and Woman
When God’s energy was replete, she looked at her work thus completed, and saw that, by and large, it was good. The animals frolicked in her meadows, climbing trees and chasing each other across the marshes and through the woods. True, the flowers, ferns and grasses moved with their own consciousness, following the light of her sun and bowing their heads before the moon’s blue beams. But something was missing…God felt a loneliness. Her second urge after creation, was to share her creation with others, to make a family.
“I will have children,” she thought. So she set to work, and formed two more animals, slightly different from the rest, but not so very different after all. Slightly different from each other, but alike enough that they could share their lives: God didn’t want her children to feel the loneliness she’d experienced, if she could help it. Whatever happened, they would have each other.
Even as she worked, God knew that her children would be far from perfect. She herself was not perfect—she made mistakes, and sometimes became frustrated. And she had noted that every one of her creations had some flaw: the sun could burn the baby rabbits if they crawled too soon from the nest; some plants could not grow beside each other, either because they both needed sun or because they lived on the same nutrients in the soil. Nothing was perfect, but one being’s flaws always fit into the web of others’ strengths in a pattern that in itself approached perfection.
God saw that pattern, although she hadn’t intended it: it was a happy accident, and she thought it was Good.
Man and woman, she saw once they were finished, had physical flaws: thin, unfurred skins that would make them subject to extremes of cold; digestive systems that required feedings much more frequent than, say, boa constrictors or wolves. Sometimes they had feelings that didn’t make sense, and stormed and cried, until she held them close and sang songs to ease their minds, sharing the beat of her heart and the warmth of her body with the strange, wonderful beings she had made.
And curiosity! It made perfect sense; born of a Mother whose curiosity was unbounded, how could they be otherwise?
And Time, having been born in God’s rest, became a thing of itself, changing the children day by day, hour by hour.
She named them Adam and Eve. She loved them deeply and cared them and kept them safe inside a vast garden whose walls captured the sun’s warmth. There, she could keep an eye on them until their wisdom increased enough to keep them safe.
The Garden
Inside the garden were plants of every description, medicinal herbs, fragrant flowers dripping with colour and nectars, sweet and tart fruits, rich, filling tubers and crisp vegetables. Adam and Eve were never hungry, for their home was filled with food. God had planned the garden to delight every sense while fulfilling an important need.
But there was one tree, standing on its own, on a grassy sward. God often looked at the tree, wondering, for she did not recall having planted it. It was first covered with bright blue flowers, large and perfumed, but God noticed the bees and songbirds chose other trees to visit. But something must have pollinated the mysterious tree, because one day, small fruits appeared and began to grow. In the way of all gardeners, God decided not to act too soon, but to keep an eye on the strange tree. “But just to be safe,” she cautioned Adam and Eve, “You should probably stay away from it. Don’t eat its fruit, don’t play under it. There’s something I don’t like about that tree…”
The Fall
Adam and Eve grew into adults and spent most of their time together. One day, Eve walked in the garden at noontime, when Adam was resting. As she passed by the tree, something sparkled in the branches—it caught her eye. At this point, the tree was covered with round, red fruits that smelt like jam. The breeze carried the perfume all over the garden, and both Adam and Eve had found themselves gazing at the tree, wondering what it would be like to taste the fruit.
But the sparkling object moving through the leafy limbs was not fruit: Eve moved closer and saw it was a large, very large, snake, its scales catching the sun like a thousand mirrors. And—she gasped—the snake was eating a piece of that luscious fruit, the juice dripping from its narrow chin. Eve rushed over to the snake.
“Oh no—you mustn’t,” she breathed. “We think there’s something wrong with that tree—that fruit could be poisoned!”
“Nonsense,” replied the snake. “I eat it every day. It hasn’t done me any harm at all.”
Eve had never seen the snake in the garden before. There were small grass snakes and sleepy boa constrictors and even highly musical rattlesnakes—but this one was a stranger to her.
“You really eat this fruit every day?” she asked, gently touching the snake’s cool, silvery side.
“Yes, indeed” answered the snake. “I don’t mind sharing: have one yourself.”
Eve remembered that God had warned her away from the tree, but seeing the snake obviously enjoying the fruit and smelling the fragrant, rose-scented juice, she thought herself safe. She took a piece of fruit and bit into it, and yes, it was delicious. She immediately thought of her friend Adam, asleep under a fig tree beside the little pond. She picked an extra fruit and, saying goodbye to the snake, hurried away to find him.
When Adam awoke, Eve was sitting beside him, staring at a piece of fruit. “It’s from the tree!” he cried, amazed.
“A snake was eating from the tree,” answered Eve. "She said it’s fine fruit, and I ate a piece too. It was so good, I brought you one.” She held it out to him. She seemed subdued.
Adam took the fruit, smelt it and bit into it. It tasted wonderful.
But in the course of the day, something happened. Their spirits dropped; they saw the world in a way they hadn’t seen it before. They saw each other in a new way, and it wasn’t the good they saw, but the imperfect. It was like being lost in a fog: they suddenly felt cold and vulnerable, and separate from themselves and each other. So, they made themselves some coverings from leaves and grasses they wove together, and they hid themselves away.
And when God came to walk in the garden in the evening, her children were too shy to come to her. They did not know what had gone wrong, but they knew they felt terrible—and they knew it had something to do with eating from that tree.
God called to them, and eventually, they came out from their hiding places. When God saw the misery on their faces, she was struck with the horror of a mother whose protection could not save her children from an evil event.
“Why did you hide from me, my darlings?,” she asked, already intuiting the reason.
“We were ashamed,” they replied.
“You ate that fruit, didn’t you,” she said.
“The snake was eating it…” said Eve, her voice trailing off.
“She made me do it,” said Adam, pointing at Eve.
This was the first betrayal of man.
“O, my children,” sighed God. “I tried to keep you safe, but I should have known there is only so much a Mother can do. You’re not automatons to be told what to do, and you will make mistakes. I’m so sorry that this one changed your entire world, for truly, that fruit is poison.”
Adam and Eve, seeing the sorrow on God’s face, burst into weeping.
“Someday, you’ll have children,” said God. And like me, you will find their presence is your greatest delight and your deepest despair. You’ll do your best to keep them safe, but it’s impossible to keep anyone safe, unless you make them your prisoner forever. And you can't imprison the ones you love.”