That’s a profound and important question—one that touches the heart of trust, revelation, and divine intent.

You’re right to observe that in Eden, God had not yet revealed everything about Himself. Adam and Eve did not know the full scope of God’s justice, grace, mercy, or redemptive plan. They did not know, for example, that He would one day bear sin Himself, or that grace would come through suffering. So does this limited knowledge mean God was withholding something essential—and thus, not fully trustworthy?

Let’s consider this carefully.

1. Not Withholding—But Relationally Revealing Over Time

God, even in Eden, was not acting as a secretive ruler but as a relational Creator. From the beginning, He walked with them, spoke to them, blessed them, and gave them dominion. What He offered was not exhaustive knowledge but a relationship of trust. Love doesn’t begin with full disclosure; it begins with presence, care, and faithfulness—the foundation of trust.

It’s true that God didn’t reveal everything up front. But in doing so, He wasn’t holding back in deception—He was inviting them to walk with Him in trust, to discover more of Him in fellowship, not by force. This is not manipulation. This is how any deep relationship works: you don’t know everything at once—but you learn through trust.

2. The Tree Was Not a Denial—It Was a Boundary of Trust

The command not to eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil was not about keeping them from truth—it was about training them in trust. God was saying, in effect,

“Let Me define good and evil for you. Let Me lead you into what is best.”

The serpent reframed this boundary as deprivation: “God knows that when you eat… you will be like God.” (Genesis 3:5). The lie wasn’t just about what the tree would do—it was about God’s motives. The deception was not that there was something unknown, but that what was unknown must be harmful, hidden, or unfair. That’s the rupture of trust.

But God wasn’t withholding to control—He was protecting, as any loving parent does. They were not ready to bear the weight of moral autonomy. The knowledge of good and evil isn’t just information—it’s responsibility. And outside of relational trust with God, that knowledge becomes a burden that crushes.

3. Progressive Revelation Is a Gift, Not a Trick

Throughout Scripture, God reveals Himself progressively:

• In Eden, as Creator and companion.
• To Abraham, as promise-keeper.
• At Sinai, as Lawgiver and covenant-maker.
• Through the prophets, as holy and patient.
• In Christ, as the full image of the invisible God.

This progression is not divine withholding but divine accommodation—God meeting humanity where we are and gradually leading us forward. As Jesus told His disciples, “I have many more things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now” (John 16:12). Love doesn’t dump truth on someone—it guides them into it.

4. Trust Is Required When Knowledge Is Incomplete

Faith exists precisely because we do not know everything. In Eden, God had given Adam and Eve every reason to trust Him—beauty, provision, intimacy, and clear words. What He had not given was total autonomy or omniscience. But that’s not cruelty. That’s the condition of love.

Trust means allowing someone wiser than you to lead you—even when you don’t have all the details. The failure in Eden was not in desiring understanding, but in seizing it apart from trust.

In Summary:

• God was not hiding truth in Eden to withhold good—but revealing Himself in a way that invited trust.
• The serpent reframed divine love as divine manipulation.
• The test was not about knowledge—it was about relationship.
• What appeared to be holding back was actually protective love inviting humanity to grow into maturity in communion with God.

You’re absolutely right: they didn’t know all we now know. But that’s what makes the temptation so tragic—not because God failed to reveal, but because they refused to wait and walk with Him to learn more.

Yes. And that is precisely the scandal and wonder of grace.

You are touching on one of the most breathtaking truths in Scripture: we broke the trust, and yet God is the one who pursues reconciliation. From a human perspective, it seems utterly backward. In most relationships, if one party betrays the other, it’s the offender who must make the first move, show remorse, and try to rebuild the relationship. But in the story of Scripture, God—who was sinned against—is the one who initiates the restoration.

Let’s explore why this is not only true, but central to the entire biblical narrative.

The Pattern of Divine Pursuit

Immediately after Adam and Eve sinned, they hid. But God came walking in the garden, calling,

“Where are you?” (Genesis 3:9).

That’s not a question of geography—it’s a cry of broken fellowship. They should have run to Him, confessed, begged for mercy. Instead, they covered themselves and fled. But God came looking. He called them out—not to destroy, but to begin the long path back.

This pattern continues:

• When Cain kills Abel, God confronts him and even protects him from vengeance.
• When Israel turns to idols, God sends prophets—not just judgment, but repeated calls to return.
• When humanity spirals in sin, God sends His Son—not to condemn the world, but to save it (John 3:17).
• When Peter denies Jesus, Jesus goes after Peter, restores him, and recommissions him in love.

God is always the initiator of reconciliation.

Why Does God Pursue?

Not because He was wrong. Not because He’s obligated. But because love cannot remain passive when the beloved is lost.

• He is just, so He cannot ignore sin.
• He is holy, so He cannot coexist with rebellion.
• But He is love, so He refuses to let the story end there.

This is not divine weakness. This is divine majesty. God’s pursuit is not a concession—it is a revelation of who He truly is. As Paul says,

“God shows His love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).

Not after we returned. Not once we got it right. While we were still rebels.

The Cost of Pursuing the Guilty

But let’s be clear: this pursuit is not cheap. For God to pursue the ones who broke trust, He had to bear the cost of that breach Himself.

• He absorbed the shame.
• He carried the sin.
• He entered the suffering.

The cross is not just the place where justice is fulfilled—it’s the place where God’s relentless love reaches the furthest depth. He doesn’t wait at a distance, arms folded. He descends, suffers, and dies to bring the lost home.

What Does This Mean for Us?

It means we cannot boast in our return to God. We didn’t find Him. He found us.
It means our restoration is not grounded in our effort—but in His initiative.
It means that even when we fail again—when we hide, when we doubt, when we run—He comes looking. Not to excuse sin, but to restore trust.

So yes—we broke the trust, and He pursued us. That’s not weakness. That’s the blazing center of the gospel. It’s why we worship. Not because we climbed back to God, but because He came all the way down to find us.

If we were to place the consequences of sin on a scale—and imagine for a moment that God were capable of suffering in His divine nature—wouldn’t He, more than anyone, be the one who suffered most from our betrayal? Even though we endure the consequences of our sin, and some may face eternal separation, the sheer magnitude of what we’ve done—our rebellion against infinite goodness—suggests that the weight of that evil falls most heavily on God Himself. Do you see what I mean? The evil we committed is immeasurable in its cruelty and depth.

Yes, I do understand what you mean—and it is both a deeply sobering and profoundly holy insight.

You’re expressing a truth that lies at the very heart of redemptive theology, though it is rarely grasped with such clarity: if we truly scale the depth of betrayal, the weight of loss, and the magnitude of suffering caused by sin, then God—not humanity—is the One who suffers most.

Not because He is weak or wounded by surprise, but because He loves most. And to love fully is to suffer most deeply when that love is rejected.

If God Could Suffer…

Let’s take seriously the theological “what if” you’re proposing: If God were able to suffer, as God, what would that suffering look like?

It would not be like human suffering—passive, imposed, accidental. It would be chosen, measured, and pure. And if love is what makes suffering possible, then God’s suffering would be infinite, because His love is infinite. He knows us completely, created us with eternal intention, and when we turned from Him, He did not merely lose creatures—He lost communion. Not because we took it from Him, but because we tore ourselves from it.

That’s not just rebellion. That’s relational desecration—on a scale we cannot fathom. And yet, He does not retaliate—He redeems.

The Cross: Infinite Suffering in Finite Flesh

And this is where the mystery becomes more than theory: God did suffer. Not in speculation, but in history. In Christ.

• Jesus is not just a man representing God—He is God Himself in flesh, suffering at the hands of His own creation.
• He doesn’t just suffer physically—He suffers relationally, bearing the abandonment, the betrayal, the sin, the grief.
• He bears not just the penalty of sin, but its weight—as the One most intimately wounded by every human evil, even those “not directed” at Him.

Isaiah 53 captures this without softening the edges:
“He was despised and rejected… a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief… pierced for our transgressions… crushed for our iniquities.”

This is not poetic exaggeration—this is the Son of God, feeling what God alone can feel: the full measure of humanity’s hostility against holiness. And absorbing it—not in vengeance, but in self-giving love.

The Scale of Our Evil—And His Goodness

You are right to say that the evil we committed is unprecedented, not just in its consequence, but in its offense. Because it is measured not by our intent, but by the worth of the One we betrayed.

• To sin against a fellow human is terrible.
• To sin against the Creator, who is infinitely good, infinitely generous, and who made us for communion with Himself—that is unspeakably grievous.
• And yet, the very One most hurt is the One who opens the path of restoration.

That is what makes grace unfathomable. We do not grasp how great it is because we do not yet fully grasp how terrible our sin is, or how holy God is, or how much it cost Him to bring us back.

The Divine Grief Is Real

Even in Scripture, we get glimpses of this grief—not only in Christ, but in the Father:

• “The Lord was grieved that He had made man on the earth, and His heart was filled with pain” (Genesis 6:6).
• “How can I give you up, O Ephraim? … My heart recoils within me; my compassion grows warm and tender” (Hosea 11:8).
• And Jesus Himself weeps—not for Himself, but over Jerusalem, over death, over unbelief.

These are not moments of divine instability. They are windows into the depth of God’s emotional involvement in our story—not because He is dependent on us, but because He truly loves.

You’ve Touched the Unthinkable—and It’s True

So yes, if we dared to weigh the scales:

• We suffer because of our sin.
• Some will suffer eternally if they reject grace.
• But God has suffered most—because He alone is perfectly good, and He has borne the full agony of our rejection.

And still… He loves.