Genesis 3

The narrator calls the serpent “more subtle” than the beasts the LORD God had made. The enemy’s first words twist the gift into a question: did God forbid every tree? Both camps hear Satan’s instrument here, not a second god, and both hear a command that was already clear.

Classical Arminians stress that this is a temptation addressed to creatures still innocent and able to refuse. The question is designed to be answered from God’s generous word; they were not shoved toward unbelief, and grace had already given them light enough to say no.

Craftiness belongs to a creature the LORD God had made. Providence has not lost the garden; the tempter is permitted to speak, not licensed as a rival Creator. The question already distorts the wide permission of chapter 2.

Reformed readers confess God’s ordaining permission of this hour without making Him the author of the lie. The first assault is on the word. What follows will show that God’s speech was sufficient; the craft is in recasting gift as stinginess.

She answers with what is true: they may eat of the trees. She has not yet taken the fruit; she still names the garden as gift. The conversation is not over.

Memory of God’s generosity is still available. She can still refuse the serpent by clinging to what she has just confessed. Innocence here is not ignorance; it is a living chance to trust the Giver.

She begins well: the trees are for food. The danger is not that she speaks, but that she remains in dialogue with a questioner who does not love her.

Even a true sentence can be the first step of lingering where we should flee. The word already given in 2:16–17 was enough. Shared ground holds—the permission was clear; the crisis is the company she keeps.

She reports the ban: that tree is not for them, and death is in view. She also adds neither shall you touch it, and frames the warning as “lest you die.” The command is still in sight, even if the wording is not a perfect echo of 2:17.

Wesleyan Arminians need not pile a system on the extra clause. God had spoken; she knew a limit; she remains responsible to keep it. The remembered word is already light enough for a refusal.

The prohibition is acknowledged: that tree is not theirs, and death is the stated end. Whether “touch it” is caution or a slight thickening of God’s speech, the law was not obscure.

Adding to—or softening “you shall surely die” into “lest you die”—can be a hairline crack in trust. Shared ground still holds: the command was clear. The issue will not be lack of information.

The serpent now contradicts God outright: “You won’t die.” Temptation has moved from a question to a lie. The woman is invited to treat the LORD as untrustworthy.

A lie can be refused. Innocence is not deafness to God’s voice; it is the still-open possibility of believing Him. She is not yet a sinner for hearing the sentence; she will be for trusting it.

Here is the rival gospel: God is wrong about death. Unbelief is offered as wisdom. The Creator’s word and the creature’s word now stand opposed.

This is not a small clarification. The fall, when it comes, will be unbelief first—refusing God’s threat and, in the next breath, His character. The enemy cannot create; he can only recast God.

The lie wears a promise: opened eyes, likeness to God, knowing good and evil. Desire is baited with a false ascent, and the Giver is painted as a withholder.

Wesley’s heirs hear pride’s invitation without denying that the pair could still say no. Likeness to God was already theirs as image-bearers (1:26–27); the serpent offers autonomy instead of communion. The appeal is strong, not irresistible.

“For God knows…” accuses love of envy. To be “like God” here means to seize the knowledge of good and evil on our own terms—pride after unbelief.

The temptation is theological before it is dietary. Distrust of God’s goodness and a grab at His prerogative will soon appear in the eating. Shared ground: this is not a search for wisdom God had forbidden as cruel; it is a bid to be judge in His place.

She sees that the tree is good for food, a delight to the eyes, and desired to make one wise; she takes, eats, and gives to her husband who is with her, and he eats. The verbs are hers and his. No coercion is named.

Classical Arminians stress free, uncoerced eating in innocence: a choice, then inherited corruption for their children. Adam’s eating is not a footnote. 1 Timothy 2:14 notes that he was not deceived as she was—without treating the woman as the sole villain. Both ate; both fell.

Sight, desire, taking, eating, giving, eating: unbelief ripens into act. The husband is “with her.” Romans 5 will name Adam as the covenant head through whom sin and death enter; 1 Timothy 2:14 adds that he was not deceived—he walked in with his eyes more open, and that is not an excuse to scorn Eve.

This is federal as well as personal. God ordained to permit the fall without authoring the sin. Pride and distrust, not a shove, undo the pair; the race will now stand in Adam unless a new Head is given.

Eyes open, and they know they are naked. Shame follows sin as surely as fig leaves follow shame. What the serpent promised as godlike knowing arrives as exposure.

Pastorally: conscience still works. They feel the rupture they chose. Covering themselves is human agency after the fall—busy, inadequate, and already a confession that something is wrong. Both camps agree: the pair cannot sew their way back to 2:25.

The knowledge they seized is not the wisdom they were sold. Nakedness, once innocent (2:25), is now shame. Fig-leaf loincloths are our first religion of self-repair.

Guilt and corruption are already at work. Common-grace instinct still seeks cover, but the cover is too thin. God will have to clothe them later; here we see that opened eyes without grace only teach us to hide.