Amongst all the trees in that first garden, why did God create 2 particular trees?
“The LORD God made all kinds of trees grow out of the ground—trees that were pleasing to the eye and good for food. In the middle of the garden were the tree of life and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil…The LORD God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it. And the LORD God commanded the man, “You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat from it you will certainly die.” (Genesis 2 v 9, 15-17)
God is generous—that’s the critical point we must grasp. His nature is lavish, abundant, overflowing. His hands stretch open wide to you today, not clenched in miserliness but extended in invitation. He is a giver, a releaser of blessings, and the entire arc of the biblical story demonstrates this truth, culminating in the extraordinary moment when the Son stepped into human flesh and surrendered His life for us. Within this divine generosity, the possibilities are truly endless.
How can we be certain of this? Look at the garden: there were all kinds of trees, a verdant abundance of provision, and among them stood a special tree—the tree of life itself. God encourages us to embrace freedom in the garden, to delight in His abundance, to enjoy what He has provided without restraint or shame.
But.
God is also an authoritative figure. He is a prohibitor, a regulator, a gatekeeper of life itself. This dimension of His character cannot be ignored or dismissed.
How do we know this? Consider that one strange tree He deliberately planted: the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. In a garden bursting with countless possibilities, amid such extravagant provision, He plants one prohibitive tree. Just one. But it stands there nonetheless, unmistakable in its restriction.
Why would He do this? The answer can be distilled to one word: trust.
We all know the temptation, don’t we? That gnawing sense of entitlement to everything, the desperate, almost primal need to be the one who decides what is good and what isn’t. It seems every generation wants to remove that tree, to rationalize it away over some ethic or morality, and ultimately, to escape the uncomfortable weight of obedience. But this understanding of our own depravity is the key that unlocks everything. God doesn’t want us to carry the crushing burden of being our own ultimate moral authority. We simply cannot carry that weight—it will break us.
So very early in the story, God introduces the thought of death into the perfection of what He has created. How would death come? Not through disease or disaster initially, but through something far more subtle and devastating: if we began to reject our proper order in creation, if we tried to become equal to God by determining what is best for our own lives, we would begin to die from who we were created to be. The death would start from within.
We had so much. Abundant possessions. Limitless freedom. Endless provision. But we wanted everything. We wanted autonomy—complete, unrestrained, unaccountable autonomy. Why couldn’t we rest in all the freedom we already had? Why did we have to grasp for command over everything? Why couldn’t we let God remain the ultimate authority of the garden?
These questions are more about today than about the distant past. We still haven’t learned from our ancestors. The same temptation pulses through our veins. But here’s the paradox we must embrace: God’s prohibition is always positioned to protect our possibilities. The boundary He draws is not to diminish our joy but to preserve it, not to limit our freedom but to ensure it flourishes within the safety of His wisdom.
The tree of prohibition stands as a monument to trust, reminding us that true freedom is found not in grasping for everything, but in resting confidently in the One who provides abundantly and restricts wisely.
Missions Paul 