Over the next few weeks, we’re going to walk through something together—a journey that starts before the fall and winds through the wilderness of temptation, both His and ours. It’s not about sin as much as it is about trust, because the enemy’s goal has never really been to make us stumble—it’s to make us doubt. We’ll look at how temptation began, how Satan still twists and distracts, and how Jesus showed us another way. But first, before we talk about how faith is tested, we need to remember what it was like when faith was easy.

                                                                     When Faith Was Easy

Have you ever wondered what God’s relationship with Adam and Eve was like before the fall? Before sin, before shame, before we started hiding from God—or from each other—there was only walking. Daily communion with their Papa.

Can you imagine it? The sound of their laughter drifting through the garden, the rhythm of footsteps along soft paths, sunlight spilling through the trees as they talked with the One who had just breathed them into being. Maybe they asked questions about the stars or marveled at the patterns of the leaves. Maybe they shared stories about yesterday’s discoveries or wondered together what tomorrow might bring. And perhaps they laughed—a pure, childlike laughter that rippled through the branches and made creation smile. I can almost see them grinning as a giraffe tried to duck under a low-slung branch, its legs folding awkwardly beneath it, or bursting into laughter when a cat leapt three feet in the air after catching its own reflection in the stream.

It was paradise, not just because of beauty but because of safety—emotional, spiritual, and relational safety. Before the rules, before religion, there was intimacy. Presence. Joy. It wasn’t ceremony or performance—it was love walking with them, beside them. Faith didn’t have to reach for anything back then; it was simply the air they breathed. They trusted because they had never known a world without His voice. That’s where the story began—not with a demand, but with a relationship.

Somewhere deep inside, I think we still long for that rhythm—the unbroken ease of trust.

But love, to be real, must also be free, and freedom always carries a choice. God’s one boundary wasn’t control—it was connection. It gave faith a heartbeat. Then came another voice, quiet but deliberate. The serpent’s tone was soft, his question deceptively gentle. “Has God indeed said?”

Faith didn’t fall in a single act—it faded in a whisper. The serpent didn’t tempt them to break a rule; he tempted them to doubt the heart behind it. Eve’s gaze lifted to what looked good, desire began to reason, curiosity began to question. And before a bite was ever taken, trust had already fractured. The fruit was only proof of what had happened inside.

That’s still how temptation works. It rarely roars; it reasons. It doesn’t shout rebellion—it whispers better logic. It convinces us we can handle life on our own. And the moment we start deciding what’s best without asking the Father, we step into the same shadow that fell over Eden.

We don’t know how long Adam and Eve had walked with God in the garden—a month or a millennium, Scripture doesn’t say—but they had a rhythm. They knew His footsteps. They knew His voice. And on that day, after the fruit and the hiding and the heavy silence, they heard that same familiar sound in the cool of the day—God walking through the garden as He always did.

When they sinned—and it was the only sin they could commit at the time, yet they managed to do it—they hid. And I imagine their hearts pounding, bracing for the storm they must have thought was coming. But God didn’t come tearing through the garden like a raging tempest. There was no crash of thunder in His voice, no lightning clenched in His hand. The air wasn’t charged with fury. Instead, I believe He walked—unhurried—through the cool of the day. The sound of His steps blended with the rustle of leaves, almost too soft to notice.

I imagine Him pausing, letting the silence stretch. Not because He didn’t know where they were—He knew their favorite places—but because He wasn’t rushing to condemn. He was giving them space—a heartbeat of mercy in the aftermath of their shame. His eyes scanned the grove, sunlight slanting through the branches, until He turned toward the tree—a familiar one where they had pressed themselves into the shadows, trying to disappear.

When He saw them, He didn’t rip the branches apart or swing a lightning bolt like a machete. He didn’t tower over them in judgment. Instead, I picture Him leaning His back against the trunk, then sliding down until He was sitting in the dirt with them—close enough to feel their trembling, close enough for them to see His eyes. A gentle shake of His head. A rub of His jowls. A quiet sigh that carried both sorrow and love. He knew this moment would eventually come—He gave them choice, reflecting His image—but I believe He chose not to know when. He didn’t want to live in the shadow of their fall, but to savor every moment before it.

God already knew where they were, but He still asked, “Where are you?” (Genesis 3:9). That question wasn’t about location—it was invitation. The voice of a Father who still wanted conversation. A door cracked open for children who had slammed it shut.

The talk that followed had consequences, yes, but it also carried compassion. A loving Father disciplines but never disappears. God handed down the sentence—pain, toil, and distance—but He also offered tenderness. He made garments of skin before they left. And before they took a single step into their new reality, He gave them a promise—one day the serpent’s head would be crushed.

Even in judgment, He let them know they weren’t abandoned. He didn’t storm away or burn the garden down. Even in failure, He drew near. Faith would no longer be effortless, but it wasn’t lost. It would simply have to be chosen now—chosen through pain, through distance, through trust rather than sight.

That same story still plays out in us. Temptation isn’t new—it just wears new clothes. Where Adam and Eve faced the serpent in abundance, Jesus faced him in hunger. Luke tells us, “Then Jesus, being filled with the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit into the wilderness, being tempted for forty days by the devil” (Luke 4:1).

Both scenes began with the same question—can you really trust what God said? In the garden, faith was taken for granted, untested and unguarded. In the wilderness, faith was tested and proven. The first Adam doubted in paradise; the last Adam trusted in desolation. That’s why Jesus’ victory wasn’t about willpower—it was about dependence. He faced temptation not as God above us but as man among us, relying completely on the same Spirit who now lives within us.

And that’s why every temptation you and I face isn’t really about sin—it’s about faith. The adversary isn’t trying to make you bad; he’s trying to make you doubt. Because when trust dies, relationship dies, and that’s what truly steals, kills, and destroys.

If you listen closely, you can still hear those footsteps in the cool of the day. He’s still walking. He’s still asking, “Where are you?” Not because He’s lost you, but because He’s inviting you out of hiding.

Faith might not feel easy anymore, but it’s still simple. Step toward the Voice that calls your name. Follow the One who already crushed the serpent’s head. The same Father who searched for His children in Eden sent His Son to search for you in your wilderness. The story hasn’t changed—it’s just closer now. The garden gate that closed in Genesis opened again at the empty tomb.

Reflection

Faith was effortless in Eden because there was no distance. After the fall, faith became the bridge back to Presence. Every temptation still whispers the same question—can you trust Him? But every act of faith answers with the same truth—you can, because He never stopped walking toward you.

Prayer

Papa,

I can almost hear Your footsteps again, the sound of You walking through my own garden, calling my name. Sometimes I still hide. I still listen to whispers that make me doubt Your goodness. But today I choose trust again. Teach me to walk with You like they once did—without fear, without shame, without walls. And when temptation comes, remind me that what the enemy really wants isn’t my failure—it’s my faith. Keep me close, led by Your Spirit, anchored in Your Word, confident in Your love.

Amen.