The First Conspiracy Theory and the Dangers of Hidden Knowledge

We all carry within us a longing for the garden, for a life of both freedom and connection. In Eden, there were no physical, emotional, or spiritual barriers between God and humans, men and women. There was no coercion or cruelty. Adam and Eve were one flesh, naked and unashamed, operating in horizontal partnership and vertical submission to a loving Creator who supplied all their needs.

In our world of brokenness, scarcity, death, and decay, it is hard to imagine desiring anything more than such a utopia, and we constantly seek to rediscover it. Our most magnetic political figures and predators-masquerading-as-shepherds promise us a return to such a state if we will only submit our judgment of right and wrong to the correct authorities—them. This very dynamic, in essence, is a repetition of the first temptation: to reject childlike dependence on a good creator and to follow a creature claiming to possess godlike knowledge.

A Fence in the Garden

While he provided them a life of immense freedom, God did not give the first humans free reign over their environment. He supplied them with all their needs while also setting boundaries on their behaviors. They could eat freely of almost any tree in the garden, including the tree of life, but they were not to eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil (Gen. 2:16, 17).

Abiding by limits requires us both to believe that an authority figure has our best interest at heart and to be willing to obey even when we don’t understand his reasoning. These are the societal foundations the serpent attacked. “God is keeping something from you,” he whispered. “He doesn’t want you to compete with him.” In the serpent’s version, God wasn’t protecting Adam and Eve from experiencing suffering and death, he was limiting them from becoming like him in both knowledge and power. He was being a tyrant.

In part, this was true, God was keeping them from knowledge that he possessed, but not because it would make humans like God; quite the opposite. The knowledge of good and evil would create distance from the divine. It would make godliness more difficult. For finite creatures, even the awareness of evil is like a black cloud slowly enveloping all we once saw only as good. It robs us of the bliss of ignorance. One of the tragedies of aging is to encounter more and more of the depravity found in our realm and to come to terms with the fact that there is no earthly remedy for evil. If kept at arm’s length, it can still paralyze us with fear. If indulged, it will darken all it reaches. God limiting humanity’s knowledge of evil didn’t keep humans from godhood, it kept them from the experience of suffering. Any good parent knows the longing for a child to listen to instruction and avoid dangerous decisions, not so the parent can retain power, but so the child can be spared from reaping the heartbreaking consequences of opening the door to darkness. But to the naïve and the short-sighted—which includes all of us at times—these limits can appear unfair, petty, or needlessly restrictive.

Unleashing Chaos

Rather than providing power that elevated men to the status of God, the knowledge of good and evil gave humans a choice between competing forces much stronger than they were capable of mastering. Suddenly, rather than maintaining their unearned spot at the pinnacle of creation, they were thrown into a chaotic state of existential rivalry. Man blamed woman, woman blamed beast, and death entered the world to give cover to shame.

But why the need for this devolution? After all, curiosity is a natural human response to a wondrous and mysterious world. Shouldn’t we want to know? C. S. Lewis paints a vivid picture of this conundrum in his science fiction novel Perelandra. One of the main characters is an Eve-like figure on a planet that has not yet experienced the fall. Lewis brilliantly portrays her eager willingness to learn anything she is taught because she has no experience with deceit or cruelty. She has no concept that someone might wish her anything but good. Likewise, he shows that the Adam character’s desire to instruct can be a beautiful imitation of a loving and generous creator. One can only imagine the excitement of the first man—when finally granted a fitting helper—taking her by the hand and leading her through their shared paradise, revealing the names he had invented for each of the animals.

But the tragic lesson of the garden, of course, is that Adam wasn’t the only one offering Eve instruction. The serpent, following close behind, preyed on humanity’s greatest weakness, the desire for hidden knowledge. It is, after all, a fascination with the mysteries to which God has not granted us access—and the temptation to promise that knowledge to others—that paves a road to decay, death, and ultimately hell.

The Dangers of Forbidden Knowledge

Why does knowledge seem to hold this place of supreme importance? It is a question worth asking. Like all idols humans chase after, intimately shared knowledge gives us a taste of something divine. We all have the desire, on some level, to fully know and be fully known. It is no coincidence that sexual union is described as “knowing.” The giving of appropriate knowledge in the right context can be magical. When used outside the boundaries God ordained, however, it is destructive.

There are few experiences more fulfilling for a teacher than seeing the lightbulb go on for a struggling student, of witnessing the moment the closed doors of his or her mind open onto a horizon of seemingly endless possibilities. These ecstasies of illumination are rewarding for both parties involved. Not only do they impart information, they cement bonds between instructor and instructed. They create trust. If used well, these collaborations can join with God’s creative work in the world and impart blessings of many kinds: new inventions, acts of service, means of healing and encouragement. But there is always a shadow possibility of any act committed in the light.

Knowledge and Power

In essence, the serpent’s message in the garden was the first conspiracy theory, and it has set the trajectory for all that followed. This is not to say that all theories of covert wrongdoing are conspiratorial. The problem in the garden was not curiosity, or even theorizing, it was not the seeking after truth, it was doubting God’s goodness and rightful authority. It was forgetting that he is truth. It was acting as though we as humans can better play his role. It was believing that the world would function more ideally without him. But these are lies, and the most merciful thing God could do for a fallen race was to prove them wrong. This is one of the key roles of suffering, to reimpart the knowledge of our need for a loving sustainer.

“Knowledge is power” is an old cliché, but it still holds much truth for us today. However, we must remember that we are not meant to be all-powerful. We, as humans, are not capable of acting as God, and in this, we are not alone. Even the angels are limited in what they understand (1 Pet. 1:12). When we long to have God’s viewpoint of the world, or to usurp his place of authority in the lives of others—as givers of knowledge that we either can’t or shouldn’t possess—we risk dragging our fellow humans into hellish conditions. If we send someone on a path to self-destruction with false information or steal a soul’s innocence by imparting adult experience before the proper time, we are partnering with the embodiment of evil. Ultimately, we are not meant to know everything or to be known fully by anyone except the One who knows all things. It is only in submitting to this law that we can find both freedom from guilt and ultimate union with the divine—a spiritual return to the garden. As the psalmist David says:

You have searched me, Lord,
    and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
    you perceive my thoughts from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down;
    you are familiar with all my ways.
Before a word is on my tongue
    you, Lord, know it completely.
You hem me in behind and before,
    and you lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
    too lofty for me to attain. (Ps. 139:1-6 NIV)