By Desi Ana Sartini Dear Enoch, The time has come. The scent of the earth grows strong. It calls me home. Soon, very soon, I shall return to it. But before I go, there is something I must do. I look about the earth, to all my children. I search for hope, the hope of mankind, and my eyes rest upon you. Though you have never seen the fullness of God’s unveiled splendor nor experienced the glory of a life lived fully in His presence, still here under the shroud, in the midst of the brokenness, you choose each day to defy the Serpent and follow the Maker. Well done, my child. Know beyond a doubt that you have chosen rightly. And now, I am choosing you. With all the countless hours you’ve spent in the glow of our hearth, drinking in every word we have to say about the time before the Separation, by now you know as much about the Garden as anyone, save Eve and myself. If only more people were so eager to hear. All too often they are not. To some it rings true right down through their bones; to others it seems no more than a fanciful delusion. To most it is something in between. But all must be told, regardless of how they respond. That is why I write to you today. Eve and I are nearing the end of our days, and you and others like you must be the keepers of the story now. Soon, we will come to the final bitterness of our choice, and when at last the breath of glory departs from the dust of our flesh, the last living memory of the Garden will pass from the earth. I ask you, Enoch. Look around you. If you do not tell the story, what then will become of my children? What then will become of the world? Everywhere I look, I see my children, called to be the image-bearing stewards of God’s rule, choosing instead to build their own little kingdoms on the earth. They live for their own desires, slaves to their bellies. The world has fallen under the Serpent’s spell and forgotten its Creator. They do not even know that they are stewards in rebellion against their King. I weep as I watch my children sitting in brokenness and accepting it as the way things are, the way the world works. Their eyes are on the toil of their hands, the thorns of the field, the hostility of their brothers, everywhere but the Source of their being. They must be told. The truth must break through. Sometimes there are shards that do break through. Every once in a while, I see a spark in the eyes of a man. It happens most at the death of a child, when for one wild moment we know, we remember. The truth jumps up and shouts in our face, “This is not right!” In that moment of clarity, we see beyond the shroud and know that the world is broken, that this is not what life should be, that the Serpent must be destroyed and his hold on the earth released, that death should have no claim. But all too soon the moment passes and we slip back into our fallen stupor, left only with our grief and slow endurance of days. Arise, children of mine! Shake off your stupor and reclaim the truth! Climb the hilltops and scream it out! Don’t let your soul be silent! Fight! Shout! Be indignant! Tell the Serpent to go back to the pit where he belongs, and to take it all with him: the death, the struggles, the sickness, the brokenness, the war, the injustice, the hate! But alas, we are intertwined with it. The ropes of death, with all its snares, are wound about us. If the Serpent takes them down, he will drag us all with him. The curse must be broken before the evil can depart. When, O Lord?! When?! When shall the Serpent be defeated and the curse be lifted? How long must we endure this evil which we have brought upon ourselves? Will we ever see the beauty of Your face again? Will You ever again look upon us in friendship? You must forgive my outburst, my son. There are days when I am haunted by such thoughts, fearful for the future of the world. But then I remember His face and all the unshakable goodness, power, and truth I have beheld in Him, the lovingkindness He holds at the core of His being. I may have brought this doom upon the world, but it is He, not I, who will redeem it. For He holds humanity in the palm of His hand. It is He who formed us, He who breathed us into being, He who let us stumble, and He who will lead us home. In the early years after the Separation, as I watched the first few generations grow and find their way in the world, I used to think that things would be different if only everyone could have a taste of the Garden, life in the presence of God, even if just for a moment. I used to think it would change the way they lived. And perhaps it would. If Cain had once beheld the Eternal One, would he still have offered so unworthy a gift? If he had once stood in the presence of the Life Giver, would he still have lifted a hand against his brother? Once, I was sure he would have done no such thing. But in the years since, that conviction has wavered. I have seen the spell the lies of the Serpent have cast upon mankind; I have seen how deeply it grips their souls; and I have come to believe that under its influence many a man would question his own sanity rather than accept a vision of truth as he sits under the shroud. Heaven forgive me, I must confess that there was a time after I realized this that I fell into despair. Serpentine whispers resurrected old shames, and every taste of sweet fruit turned to bitter memory in my mouth. I began to envy my children, those who had never seen. If indeed we must live in exile, would it not be easier if we were not haunted by memories of a paradise we can never know again? Would it not be better to come to accept the world as it now is and make the most of what we can, rather than pine for that which is lost? For a long while I shut my heart, tried to cut off all memory of the Garden. For a time, I managed to make a tolerable life for myself in this way. After all, for all the glory that was, there is still much goodness left to be found in its broken pieces. By filling my days and focusing only on what was right in front of me, I guarded my heart from memories of the truth, and pretended to be other than I was. I told myself that the Garden was only a golden dream I had once had, and my failure at the tree and its ensuing consequences was but a nightmare. After all, who ever heard of a talking snake? Thus I became for a while as the shrouded man who tells himself that his Garden vision is but a reverie. My self-induced delusions were not to last, however. The earth and all that is in it bears the immutable markings of its Maker. There are some things which no created power can ever unmake. No matter how much havoc we wreak upon the earth, no matter how much power the Serpent claims over the world, still the sun will ever echo the Creator’s face, the rushing waters His voice, the storms His power, and the flames His throne, just as we, fallen though we be, bear still His image on the earth. I who have stood full in His presence and beheld His unveiled glory could never unsee, could never unknow. Even with my eyes down, every ray of sunshine, every trickling stream, every gust of wind, every tongue of flame, and every face of a child stirred in my heart the memories and called me back to Him. For the human soul was made for glory, and not just any glory, but a glorious union with its Maker. Without this glory, I could find no rest. Nor will I, this side of the chasm. Thus I have come again to wish that all mankind could taste the Garden, but not so that it would solve all our problems, but rather so that the longings within all our souls could find their meaning, and the truth give light to our hope. For no rebellion in heaven or earth could ever outdo His goodness. The day of the Serpent Slayer will come, and the Creator will redeem His own. Let us not lose our way in the waiting. In the light of all these things, it is therefore of utmost importance, Enoch, that you remember all that we have taught you, and pass it on to others. The memory of the Garden must be kept alive on the earth. Do not let yourself forget once we have gone, and do not become so absorbed in your own journey that you overlook the needs of your brothers. You must preserve the story and share it with all who will hear. And if at last you, too, come to the end of your days before the Serpent Slayer comes, then pass our letters and writings down to other worthy men, that the truth about God, humanity, the earth, and the Serpent will never be lost from the world. In defiant hope by knowledge of the Holy One, Adam Desi Ana Sartini writes from SE Asia, where she has immersed herself in language. She studies Malay literature by day, Hebrew poetry by night and cake-making on the weekends. You can read more of her work at www.breathanddust.com.
1 Comment
David
29/10/2024 06:06:51 pm
Brilliant, powerful words throughout. "If indeed we must live in exile, would it not be easier if we were not haunted by memories of a paradise we can never know again?" Wow.
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