My childhood friend Johann was fearless, except for snakes.
We lived on neighboring farms, investing golden summer months exploring the banks of the mighty Columbia River and the narrow dirt roads that split vast seas of ripening wheat.
After chores we would sneak off on Johann's Honda Trail 90, riding the river bank until we reached the basalt bluffs, then weaving our way over trails through the Horse Heaven Hills, dust clouds boiling in our wake.
One hot sunny day found us probing the remnants of a long-forgotten homestead. The roof was mostly collapsed, and the place smelled dank and dusty. Nearly enveloped by thick grass and weeds, the structure housed an amusing assortment of critters and varmints, living rent-free in the ruins. Sunlight slipped through a crack in the wall, highlighting dust particles in the air and laying a slice of light across a broken floorboard.
That's when I saw movement. It was an 18-inch garter snake. Unlike Johann, I've never been afraid of snakes, so I scooped it up, cramming it under my tee-shirt. Back on board the motorbike, we shot down the dirt road in search of new territory.
As we crested a hill, my plan came together quickly. Like the plans of many 15-year-old males, however, it was only half-baked. Not thinking through my friend's possible reaction, and not asking myself if this might be a prudent course of action, I reached up under my tee-shirt, firmly gripping my new partner in sin. Then with a big smile on my face, I swung my arm around in front of Johann, presenting the writhing snake under his nose.
Johann attempted to scream, but only managed a tortured squeak. Then, in complete surprise and shock to me, he drove the Trail 90 hard and fast off the dirt road, flying over a bank high enough to launch us into the air for some distance.
The first bounce was the worst. Then a cartwheel of boys, cycle and snake plowed into the wheat stubble. Sensing its opportunity, the snake made its escape and headed off into the wheat, probably dismissing the whole incident from its tiny brain. Johann and I, however, rolled around on the ground a good bit, then worked at cleaning dirt from nose, mouth, and ears.
If I hadn't been laughing so hard, I am certain Johann would have thumped me, but all I got was a hardened stare.
The snake distracted us from our mission that day, not unlike what Adam and Eve experienced in a long-ago garden. The first two humans to ever walk the earth were also distracted by a snake who deceptively led them off of God's road, resulting in a catastrophic wreck of humanity. In the Genesis 3 narrative, the serpent posed as a life coach of sorts, offering to clear up God's "miscommunication" with these humans. The snake told them, "If you eat from this tree of knowing good and evil, you're not going to die. You will become like God."
This was no ordinary, garden-variety serpent. No one is really sure what form it took in the biblical narrative, but it represented something dark and unspeakably evil, a spiritual power enticing humans to give up their rule with God, seizing the chance to rule on their own terms. Rejecting their Creator's wisdom, they chose to define good and evil based on what felt right to them. They imagined they could cobble together their own "truth."
Handling snakes is dangerous. Listening to them is worse. And if we aren't careful in those dark, dank corners of life, we might heed a voice that should be ignored, and end up losing our humanity.
We may end up calling evil good, and good, evil.
