INTRODUCTION — THE TEST THAT NEVER CHANGED
There are moments in Scripture when the veil between heaven and earth thins—when the stories we’ve read for years suddenly reveal a deeper thread running through them, binding Genesis to the Gospels, Eden to Calvary, Adam to Christ. These moments don’t just inform us; they reframe the entire way we understand God, ourselves, and the journey we’re walking right now.
Today is one of those moments.
Because the test given in the garden of Eden…
is the same test repeated on Mount Moriah…
is the same test wrestled with in the garden of Gethsemane…
and is the same test completed on the hill of Calvary.
Four locations.
One storyline.
One repeated question:
> “Do you trust Me?”
This question is not simply biblical — it is personal, present, and piercing. It lies under every decision we make, every temptation we face, every calling God places upon us, every valley we walk through, every promise we cling to, and every prayer we whisper in the dark.
Adam failed that test.
Abraham passed it in shadow form.
Jesus fulfilled it completely.
And here is the revelation that reshapes the Christian life from top to bottom:
Every temptation you face is just the Eden test repeated.
Every sacrifice God calls you to is the Moriah test renewed.
Every surrender of your will is a Gethsemane moment.
Every victory you experience is the echo of Calvary’s triumph.
If you understand these four tests, you will understand the entire drama of redemption—and your place in it.
Let’s begin where it all began.
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I. THE TEST IN EDEN — WHEN TRUST WAS LOST
When most people think of Genesis 3, they picture a story about a fruit, a serpent, a disobedience, and a curse. But beneath the surface—beneath the imagery, beneath the symbols, beneath the tragedy—is a deeper question, the foundational question behind all sin:
“Do you trust what God told you?”
Adam and Eve lived in the most perfect environment the universe has ever seen. No fear. No shame. No insecurity. No scarcity. No pain. No broken relationships. No confusion. No competing voices. No internal struggle. They lived inside a world that was only good, only generous, only life-giving, because its Designer was good, generous, and life-giving.
Every breath they took was a reminder of God’s care.
Every sunrise was an invitation into joy.
Every step through that garden was a step on ground shaped by God’s own hands.
There was no reason not to trust Him.
And yet the serpent doesn’t begin his attack with claws or force or threats. He begins with suggestion—with the smallest crack, the slightest opening, the subtlest question:
“Did God really say…?”
It’s not a declaration; it’s an implication.
It’s not an argument; it’s an insinuation.
It’s the whisper that raises suspicion about the heart of God.
Most Christians imagine Eve standing alone under the tree—Adam off somewhere naming animals or pruning grapevines. But Scripture says otherwise. The Hebrew grammar in Genesis 3:6 is explicit:
> “She took of the fruit… and gave also unto her husband with her, and he did eat.”
Adam was right there.
Right beside her.
Right within reach.
Right within earshot.
Right within responsibility.
He heard the serpent’s twisting words.
He watched the deception take shape.
He saw Eve stretch out her hand.
He felt the tension in his own chest.
And Adam chose silence.
This is the part we rarely highlight—but we must, because the Bible does:
Adam was not deceived.
Eve was tricked.
Adam rebelled.
Eve believed the lie.
Adam ignored the truth.
Eve reached in hope of gaining something.
Adam reached knowing he would lose everything.
Adam’s sin was not simply weakness.
His sin was abdication—the surrender of leadership to fear, the surrender of courage to silence, the surrender of trust to self-preservation.
And in that moment…
— something in the universe cracked.
— innocence collapsed.
— the atmosphere changed.
— shame ignited.
— fear flooded in like a tidal wave.
— separation carved its canyon between humanity and God.
The first sin was not merely eating a fruit.
The first sin was distrusting the heart of God.
That is where humanity’s brokenness begins.
That is the disease beneath all other diseases.
That is the infection beneath every sin, every struggle, every idol, every failure.
Eden is not just the birthplace of sin —
it is the birthplace of distrust.
And every human ever born—including you and me—comes into this world with Adam’s mistrust already lodged in the soul like a splinter.
But the story doesn’t end there.
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II. THE TEST BEGINS AGAIN — A NEW MOUNTAIN, SAME QUESTION
Centuries flow like rivers. Families become tribes. Tribes become nations. Nations rise and fall. Empires come and go. But the central question God asked in Eden remains unanswered:
“Will humanity trust Me?”
So God chooses one man—Abraham—and summons him to walk into a test that echoes the garden test but in a form Adam never faced.
Abraham’s life had been shaped by promises:
“I will make you a great nation.”
“I will bless you.”
“I will give you a land.”
“In your seed all nations of the earth will be blessed.”
But the heart of the promise was Isaac—
the miracle child,
the impossible child,
the long-awaited child,
the covenant child,
the son born when womb and body said, “This cannot happen.”
Isaac was more than Abraham’s joy.
He was Abraham’s future.
Abraham’s identity.
Abraham’s legacy.
Abraham’s covenant.
Abraham’s hope.
Abraham’s obedience embodied in human flesh.
And then God speaks words that seem to contradict everything God had ever said:
> “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love… and offer him.”
There are moments in the Christian life when obedience makes no sense…
when God’s command seems to undo God’s promise…
when faith feels like walking blindfolded into a fire.
And yet obedience is never measured by how much we understand.
Obedience is measured by how deeply we trust.
So Abraham rises early.
Not because it was easy.
Not because he felt strong.
Not because it made sense.
But because he trusted the One who had never lied to him.
Scripture gives us no record of Abraham’s inner thoughts during those three days, and perhaps that silence is intentional—because there are valleys so heavy, so dark, so soul-crushing that words fail and only faith remains.
Three days of walking with a knife in your belt and a promise in your heart.
Three days of watching the miracle child carry the wood meant for his own sacrifice.
Three days of wondering how obedience could possibly end well.
Finally, Isaac speaks:
“Father… the fire, the wood… but where is the lamb?”
How do you answer that?
Abraham doesn’t deflect.
He doesn’t panic.
He doesn’t lie.
He speaks a line that becomes prophecy:
> “God will provide Himself a lamb.”
And with those words, Abraham steps into a role Adam never filled.
Adam hid from God; Abraham draws near.
Adam grasped to take; Abraham opens his hands to give.
Adam clung to control; Abraham walks in surrender.
Abraham binds Isaac.
Abraham raises the knife.
He stands where Adam once stood — but with a different heart, a different allegiance, a different trust.
And just before the blade falls…
heaven breaks its silence:
“Abraham, Abraham! Stop.”
A ram caught in the thicket.
A substitute provided.
A life spared.
A covenant confirmed.
But the story whispers a deeper truth:
What God stopped Abraham from doing…
He Himself would one day complete.
Moriah points forward.
Moriah foreshadows.
Moriah predicts the future mountain where God will provide the Lamb—
not for one man,
not for one family,
but for the entire human race.
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Abraham does not understand everything God is doing — but he understands enough of God’s heart to trust Him. And that is the difference between Eden and Moriah.
Adam doubted God’s goodness.
Abraham depended on it.
Adam questioned God’s motive.
Abraham rested in God’s character.
Adam surrendered trust.
Abraham surrendered Isaac.
And in the moment the ram is revealed, something remarkable happens: God names Himself.
> “Jehovah Jireh — The Lord will provide.”
This is the only place in Scripture where God names Himself with a title built on human obedience. Abraham’s trust unlocks a revelation of God’s identity.
But the story doesn’t end with a ram.
It doesn’t end with Isaac.
It doesn’t end on Moriah.
Because Moriah is only a shadow.
A preview.
A prophetic rehearsal.
The real Lamb, the real sacrifice, the real Mount, the real test —
all are still ahead.
Abraham went as far as a human could go in obedience.
But there are mountains no man but One could climb.
There are cups no man but One could drink.
There are sins no man but One could carry.
There is a trust no man but One could fulfill perfectly.
And so the storyline moves.
The camera shifts.
The covenant advances.
The shadow becomes substance.
We leave Moriah…
and arrive in Gethsemane.
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III. GETHSEMANE — THE SECOND ADAM ENTERS THE FIRST GARDEN
If Eden was the garden of the fall,
Gethsemane is the garden of the fight.
Jesus often prayed alone, but this night is different. The atmosphere is heavy. The darkness feels thicker. Even the air seems to carry a trembling weight. The disciples feel it, though they cannot comprehend it. And Jesus knows a spiritual storm is about to break loose that will shake the entire universe.
He tells them, “My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even unto death.”
The language is raw, unfiltered, painful.
It is not a metaphor.
Jesus is not being poetic.
He is describing the crushing collision of holiness and sin that is already beginning to press upon His soul.
Why Gethsemane?
Why a garden?
Because the Second Adam must begin where the first Adam fell.
Adam faced temptation in a garden.
Jesus faces temptation in a garden.
Adam stood beside a tree that brought death.
Jesus prepares to face a tree that will bring life.
Adam listened to a serpent’s lie.
Jesus confronts the serpent’s presence once again.
Adam said, “My will, not Yours.”
Jesus says, “Not My will, but Thine.”
The parallels are too precise to ignore.
God orchestrated Gethsemane with surgical intentionality to show us exactly what is happening:
Jesus is rewriting Eden.
But the battle is not external — it is internal.
Not with a serpent in a tree — but with the crushing weight of sin pressing on His soul.
Jesus staggers a few steps deeper into the garden. He falls to the ground. The Son of God — the One who spoke galaxies into place — collapses under a burden no human eye can see.
Scripture says His sweat becomes “as it were great drops of blood.”
Not hyperbole — a medical condition called hematidrosis, where anguish ruptures blood vessels under the skin.
He is not afraid of the nails.
He is not shrinking from Roman brutality.
He is not recoiling from human rejection.
He is recoiling from a cup filled with the sin of the world.
A cup containing every betrayal, every abuse, every cruelty, every lie, every addiction, every secret thought, every violent impulse, every cowardly silence, every Adam-like mistrust.
For the first time in eternity, Jesus faces the real possibility of separation from the Father — not because of His guilt, but because He is stepping into ours.
This is not theatrical emotion.
This is cosmic anguish.
The weight of all sin — yours, mine, all humanity’s — is being transferred onto Him.
Not symbolically.
Not poetically.
Literally.
And in that moment the most critical question of human history surfaces again:
“Do You trust Your Father?”
Adam didn’t.
Abraham did in measure.
But now stands the One who will trust perfectly.
Jesus prays:
> “Father… if it be possible, let this cup pass from Me…”
That sentence tells us this was no performance.
No scripted drama.
No emotionless mission.
Jesus is not a robot Savior.
He is a struggling, sweating, sorrow-crushed Savior — fully God, fully human, fully present in the agony of this moment.
But then comes the sentence that breaks the serpent’s power,
reverses Eden’s curse,
and changes human destiny forever:
> “Nevertheless — not My will, but Thine be done.”
In Eden, the human will rose above God’s.
In Gethsemane, the human will bows beneath God’s.
In Eden, selfishness reigned.
In Gethsemane, surrender reigns.
In Eden, life was lost through mistrust.
In Gethsemane, life is restored through trust.
Gethsemane is not Jesus preparing for battle.
Gethsemane is the battle.
Before the cross saves us,
Gethsemane secures the victory.
Before Jesus bleeds for us,
Jesus surrenders for us.
Before Calvary redeems us,
Gethsemane realigns humanity.
This is why Jesus is not just the Second Adam —
He is the Better Adam.
The Faithful Adam.
The Obedient Adam.
The Restoring Adam.
He kneels in the garden Adam abandoned.
He chooses the Father Adam questioned.
He drinks the cup Adam refused to consider.
He trusts the God Adam doubted.
And in that trust,
the curse begins to bend.
The chains begin to crack.
The story begins to turn.
Gethsemane is the hinge on which the whole plan of salvation swings.
But the journey is not done.
The shadow of the cross now stretches across the garden.
The betrayer enters.
The disciples scatter.
The mob seizes Him.
He is bound, mocked, slapped, questioned, humiliated, rejected, beaten, betrayed, and condemned.
But nothing will stop Him now.
The victory of Gethsemane has secured the victory of Calvary.
The Second Adam is walking toward the final test—
the test no other human could take,
the test no other sacrifice could satisfy,
the test that will swallow death,
undo the curse,
and open the gates of life.
The mountain rises.
The wood waits.
The Lamb walks forward.
We have left Gethsemane.
We are approaching Calvary.
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IV. CALVARY — THE TEST COMPLETED, THE LAMB PROVIDED
We leave Gethsemane now, following Jesus through the shadows of betrayal and the corridors of injustice. The trials are swift, cruel, and illegal. The Lamb is led from courtroom to courtroom, pushed, mocked, spit upon, slapped, beaten, falsely accused, stripped, humiliated, and condemned.
But Jesus is not a victim trapped in a political machine.
He is a Savior moving toward a divine appointment.
He is not swept by fate into suffering.
He is following the Father into sacrifice.
Every step He takes toward Calvary is a step Adam refused to take…
a step Abraham only foreshadowed…
a step only the Second Adam can complete.
Finally, the soldiers place the cross upon His shoulders.
The wood is rough.
The weight is crushing.
The journey is slow.
The crowd is hostile.
The sky grows dim before midday.
And here is where every story converges:
In Eden, a tree brought death.
On Moriah, wood was carried up a mountain.
In Gethsemane, the will was surrendered.
On Calvary, the Lamb is lifted.
The spiritual geometry here is stunning.
Every angle of Scripture points toward this moment.
Every shadow in the Old Testament finds its substance here.
Every sacrifice, every lamb, every altar, every promise, every prophecy, every ritual, every symbol — all funnel into this hill.
What Abraham was willing to do symbolically,
God now does literally.
Abraham raised the knife —
and God shouted, “Stop!”
The Father raises the cup —
and heaven is silent.
Abraham offered a ram.
God offers the Lamb.
Abraham received his son back.
God gives His Son away.
Abraham’s obedience saved one child.
God’s obedience saves the world.
And now the Son of God is lifted between earth and sky —
rejected by men,
forsaken by His nation,
surrounded by mockers,
numbered with transgressors,
bearing the sin of all humanity.
The physical torment is unimaginable.
But the spiritual torment is infinite.
Because on that cross,
Jesus is experiencing something no human mind can fully grasp:
the full weight of separation from the Father.
This is the real cost of sin.
Not nails.
Not thorns.
Not whips.
But separation.
He cries out:
> “My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?”
That cry reaches across time.
It reaches Adam.
It reaches Abraham.
It reaches you.
It reaches me.
Because in that moment Jesus is standing where humanity stands —
God at a distance,
sin in the way,
darkness on the soul,
and trust hanging by a thread.
But here is the difference:
Where humanity collapses…
Jesus holds firm.
Even in forsakenness,
He calls Him “My God.”
Even in darkness,
He clings to the Father.
Even when He cannot feel the Father’s presence,
He trusts the Father’s heart.
This is the climax of the test.
The final exam of the Second Adam.
The cosmic moment where the fate of humanity hangs not on our obedience,
but on His.
And then, with His final breath — not in defeat, not as a victim, but as a conqueror holding the keys of death and hell — He declares:
> “It is finished.”
Finished:
the test.
the curse.
the separation.
the reign of sin.
the serpent’s authority.
the condemnation of Adam.
the death sentence over humanity.
Finished.
Complete.
Paid in full.
And with that sentence Jesus did not merely defeat sin —
He rewrote humanity.
He did not simply remove your guilt —
He restored your identity.
He did not simply forgive your past —
He opened your future.
He is not just the Second Adam —
He is the Perfect Adam,
the Faithful Adam,
the Obedient Adam,
the Victorious Adam,
the Life-Giving Adam.
And because of Him,
a new humanity now exists —
born not of flesh,
not of blood,
not of Adam’s lineage,
but born of the Spirit.
Calvary is not God patching up a broken system.
It is God re-creating humanity under a new representative.
In Adam, all die.
In Christ, all are made alive.
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V. WHAT THIS MEANS FOR US
Now the message turns toward us.
This story of Eden, Moriah, Gethsemane, and Calvary —
this is not ancient history.
This is your story right now.
The Eden test still comes:
“Do you trust God’s goodness when temptation whispers otherwise?”
You know the whisper.
We all hear it.
“God is holding something back.”
“You’ll never be fulfilled if you obey.”
“You deserve this.”
“You won’t be satisfied unless you take it.”
Every temptation is an invitation to choose the First Adam or the Second Adam.
Then comes the Moriah test:
“Will you trust God with what you love most?”
There are moments when God asks for something precious:
A relationship you don’t want to surrender.
A dream you don’t want to release.
A plan you’ve held onto for years.
A fear that’s become a familiar friend.
An Isaac you never imagined laying down.
The question isn’t whether God will take it.
The question is whether you trust Him with it.
Next comes the Gethsemane test:
“Will you trust God’s will even when it breaks your heart?”
Every believer eventually walks through a night where the only prayer you can whisper is the one Jesus prayed:
“Father, if it be possible…”
And yet the victory comes in the second half of that sentence:
“Nevertheless… not my will, but Thine.”
That is not a weak prayer.
That is the strongest prayer a human can ever pray.
And finally, the Calvary gift:
“Will you trust the victory of the Second Adam who has already won for you?”
The Christian life is not a climb toward acceptance.
It is a walk from acceptance.
You don’t obey to earn God’s love —
you obey because you’ve already been loved with a cross-shaped love.
You don’t fight for victory —
you fight from victory.
You don’t trust God blindly —
you trust Him because Calvary proves He will never betray you.
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VI. THE PERSONAL CALL — YOUR TEST, YOUR TRUST, YOUR TURN
Now the sermon becomes personal.
Where are you tonight?
Are you in Eden?
Facing a temptation that whispers,
“You can’t trust God with this”?
Are you on Moriah?
Holding something dear in your hands that God is asking you to surrender?
Are you in Gethsemane?
Wrestling with a choice that tears at your heart and tests your faith?
Are you standing beneath Calvary?
Feeling unworthy,
feeling broken,
feeling like grace surely must be meant for someone holier,
someone stronger,
someone better?
Wherever you are —
Jesus has already stood there.
He faced every test you face.
He battled every lie you hear.
He walked every valley you walk.
He bore every weight you carry.
He passed every test you fail.
And right now, the God who asked Adam,
the God who asked Abraham,
the God who asked Jesus,
asks you the same question:
> “Do you trust Me?”
Trust Me with your secrets.
Trust Me with your fears.
Trust Me with your future.
Trust Me with your family.
Trust Me with your Isaac.
Trust Me in your Gethsemane.
Trust Me at your Calvary.
Because the First Adam made you broken —
but the Second Adam makes you whole.
The First Adam left you fallen —
but the Second Adam lifts you up.
The First Adam delivered death —
but the Second Adam delivers life.
Tonight, choose the Second Adam.
Choose the Jesus who climbed the mountain.
Choose the Jesus who carried the wood.
Choose the Jesus who wore the thorns.
Choose the Jesus who drank the cup.
Choose the Jesus who passed the test.
Choose the Jesus who overcame the world.
Choose the Jesus who rewrote your story in His own blood.
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APPEAL
Lord, tonight we stand between two Adams.
Between the man who failed and the Man who prevailed.
Between the garden where we fell and the garden where You surrendered.
Between the mountain of fear and the mountain of sacrifice.
Between the tree that brought death and the tree that brings life.
And tonight, we choose the Second Adam.
We choose trust.
We choose surrender.
We choose obedience.
We choose the Lamb.
Write Your victory into our story.
Make us children of the new humanity.
Let the triumph of Calvary be the triumph of our lives.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.
