Location: Virginia Theological Seminary
Text: Genesis 3:!5
Proper 5, Year B
The dying snake
The first ten or twenty times that I read our Old Testament passage for tonight, I had no inkling that the last verse was long considered to be the “First Gospel”—the first hint in our Bible of Christ’s future coming. Instead, I thought that the Lord God’s curse of the serpent was an explanation of why humans and snakes don’t get along very well. Listen as God spoke to the snake, cursed the snake:
I will put enmity between you and the woman,
and between your offspring and hers;
he, she, or it will strike your head
and you will strike his, her, or its heel.
The first ten or twenty times that I read our Old Testament passage for tonight, I didn’t think about who he, she, or it would be who would strike the snake’s head. I didn’t even think about the fact that this old snake has now been crushed. Instead, I thought about my most recent encounter with an actual snake, just over a month ago. The Assistant Bishop of Virginia had invited the six of us whom he would later ordain to spend a day on retreat with him on his farm in Catlett, Virginia, way out by Manassas. The day was perfect: great weather, congenial company, awesome hospitality, meditative prayer, meaningful worship. Not only was the day was perfect, the farm was one big green garden. Eden-like, with nary a tool in sight.
Photo by Cayce Ramey
As we were leaving, Cayce organized a group photograph. And not just any photograph; each of the ordinands-to-be were to hug one of the large trees that lined the long driveway into the farm. That’s when Elizabeth saw the snake, which was—oh—about two miles long, and as wide around as Kansas.
Photo by Cayce Ramey
To my utter astonishment, Bishop Gulick disappeared into the house. As his wife chanted “kill it, kill it, we have grandchildren who play here, kill it” the bishop reemerged with a shotgun and reluctantly blasted the snake to kingdom-come. THAT put a whole new perspective on the day, let me tell you.
I will admit that, as the child of a fundamentalist evangelical preacher, I thought about the symbolism of a snake lurking around a pre-ordination retreat. In fact, I am sure that I heard that snake talking a time or two that day, talking to me. As I was giving thanks to God for the gift of that day, for the gift of life, and for calling me into a new phase of ministry, I briefly wondered if I was really ready to be ordained. I wondered if I were competent enough, learned enough, wise enough, pious enough to do what God was calling me to do. Little snake bites, nipping at MY heels…
Of course, as you know, none of us is are EVER competent enough, learned enough, wise enough, pious enough to do what God calls us to do. I knew that too, but for a moment I listened to the snake, as if my readiness for ministry were only up to ME. So having my spiritual leader blow that snake into many bits right before my eyes was a fitting end to that day.
But as helpful as this metaphor is for me, personally, Bishop Gulick is NOT the one the Genesis passage says will strike THIS snake’s head. As I mentioned—and I had to read a commentary to find this out—the last verse in this passage was long considered by many to be the “First Gospel” in our Bible.
I will put enmity between you and the woman,
and between your offspring and hers;
he, she, or it will strike your head
and you will strike his, her, or its heel.
In this passage God had just confronted Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden about their sin. You remember the story: God’s first humans ate the forbidden apple, Adam blamed Eve, Eve blamed the snake. God must have believed that the snake was the most culpable, because God only cursed the snake. Martin Luther made a big deal out of that, that God did NOT curse the humans in this story. If we were to read the next few verses, we would discover that God does render punishment on Adam and Eve, but he doesn’t curse them. In fact, God speaks about the future, about offspring. So there is still hope for humanity, revealing that God is merciful.
Now WE know that the snake in this story—this old, dying snake—is a metaphor for a more-sinister force at work in our lives. We could stay here all night and talk about what to name this sinister force. Wisdom 2:23-24 calls the snake both the serpent and “the devil.” Revelation 12:9 says that the serpent is the fallen angel named Satan. The apostle Paul evidently thought the snake was Satan, too, because he says in Romans 16:20 that God will soon completely crush Satan under our feet—an obvious reference to this passage in Genesis.
I think more about what this old, dying snake is up to than what to call it. I think of the snake as that destructive urge in our lives, the force we sometimes give into, the urge to undo creation. I think of this snake as the force that would impede us from doing what God wants us to do.
However you name or think about the snake, our Old Testament lesson tonight ends with the promise that SOMEONE will crush the serpent’s head. God’s curse on the serpent specifically promises that, in the end, the snake will be defeated by the offspring of Eve. Whether the authors or editors of Genesis meant this to be a Messianic promise has been hotly debated ever since the Reformation.
In the end, though, whether intended as a Messianic promise or not, didn’t HE, Jesus Christ, God born of a woman who was descended from Eve, defeat the snake once and for all? The head of evil has been crushed. What we encounter now is that snake, crushed head and all, writhing around in its death throes. Yes, this writhing force can do great damage; this is a VERY dangerous snake, one that does great harm. But never forget that this snake HAS been defeated.
A man who lived in rural America—much further west from here than Manassas—once told me that, whatever time of day one kills a snake, that snake doesn’t fully die, doesn’t stop twitching, until nightfall. This seems to be the case with the wily serpent from the Garden of Eden: Jesus has crushed the snake’s head, and now we are waiting for the final nightfall just before our first new dawn for the snake to stop wiggling.
I wonder, though, how this particular near-dead snake might be nipping at YOUR heel—YOUR Achilles tendon—so to speak. What deceitful promises does the snake make to you? What insidious doubts does the snake whisper at your psyche? Whatever the message the snake brings, that message is twisted—distorted beyond reality—NOT TRUE. The snake is nearly dead, hoping for a new victim to share in its fall. Thank you, Christ Jesus, for your victory over this wily old snake; in you lies our hope.
