Lent, the talking serpent, and the courage to read scripture honestly

Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent – forty days of disciplined preparation for Easter, not counting Sundays, which remain Feasts of the Resurrection. From the ashes traced on our foreheads, the Church calls us into a season of self-examination and repentance, prayer and fasting, the reading and study of Scripture, and works of mercy. These practices are not ends in themselves. They are meant to sharpen our vision – to help us see ourselves, our world, and even God more truthfully.

Among these disciplines, the reading of Scripture holds a special place. Yet Lent challenges us not merely to read the Bible, but to read it well – attentively, humbly, and honestly. This includes allowing Scripture to unsettle us, to question our assumptions, and even, at times, to expose our pretensions.

One of the most familiar – and most misunderstood – passages read during Lent is the story of Adam, Eve, and the serpent in Genesis 2:4–3:24. Often reduced to a simplistic tale of “disobedience” or a literal explanation for human suffering, the story is far richer, sharper, and more unsettling than many realise. When read carefully, it bears striking resemblance to another biblical story involving a talking animal: the account of Balaam’s donkey in Numbers 22.

Far from being childish fantasies, these narratives use irony, satire, and reversal to probe the human condition. They are, in a precise literary sense, what scholars call polemical burlesque – stories that use humour, exaggeration, and inversion to expose human folly and challenge false claims to wisdom and authority.

WHEN ANIMALS TEACH AND HUMANS FAIL

In the story of Balaam, a famous international diviner is hired to curse Israel. Balaam boasts of his prophetic sight, claiming to “see the visions of the Almighty”. Yet on the road, his donkey sees what Balaam cannot: the angel of the Lord blocking the way. Three times the donkey turns aside. Three times Balaam beats the animal in frustration. Finally, the donkey speaks – rebuking the prophet with a simple question that exposes his blindness and rage.

The humour is deliberate and biting. The celebrated seer cannot see. The supposedly dumb animal perceives divine reality. The one who claims spiritual authority must have his eyes opened by God. The story is not merely amusing; it is deeply critical. It mocks religious pretension and reminds readers that claimed insight is no guarantee of true vision.

Genesis 2–3 works in much the same way.

Here, humanity is created from dust – adamah – a reminder of fragility and dependence. The human beings are placed in a garden of abundance, entrusted with responsibility, and given a single prohibition. Then enters the serpent, described not as demonic, but as ‘ arum’ – shrewd, clever, perceptive.

The serpent does not roar or threaten. It asks a question: “Did God really say…?” With that question, the story turns. The humans, made in God’s image, endowed with reason and vocation, prove surprisingly unsure of what God actually said. Eve misquotes the command, adding a prohibition God never gave. The serpent presses further, reframing the command as divine insecurity rather than divine care.

The irony is devastating. Humanity, crowned with responsibility, is outreasoned by a creature from the field. The ones meant to name the animals are led by one. The seekers of wisdom grasp at forbidden knowledge and discover not enlightenment but shame.

Like Balaam, Adam and Eve discover that their confidence exceeds their understanding.

SCRIPTURE THAT EXAMINES US

Lent insists that Scripture is not merely a source of comfort but a mirror. When we read Genesis carefully, the question is not simply, “Why did they disobey?” but “How do we still mishear God? How often do we exaggerate, distort, or weaponise divine commands? How easily do we mistake confidence for wisdom?”

The serpent’s role in the story is not to glorify evil but to expose vulnerability – particularly the human tendency to believe that wisdom lies just beyond obedience, that God is withholding something essential, that we know better.

This is not ancient history. It is painfully current.

In public life, in religious institutions, in our own homes, we see the same patterns replayed: loud certainty paired with shallow understanding; authority claimed without discernment; the refusal to pause, listen, or admit ignorance. Like Balaam, we strike out when challenged rather than examine ourselves. Like Eve, we add to God’s words and then blame others when the consequences unfold.

Lent calls us to resist that instinct.

BURLESQUE AS MERCY

It may seem strange to speak of humour or satire in sacred Scripture, especially during a penitential season. Yet burlesque, in the biblical sense, is not cruelty. It is mercy. By exaggerating our flaws, Scripture invites repentance without despair. By mocking pretension, it clears space for humility.

The Bible does not portray humanity as monsters but as fragile creatures — dusty, impressionable, capable of wonder and failure alike. The serpent eats dust. Humanity returns to dust. The shared image is sobering: all our striving, all our claims to mastery, are provisional.

And yet God does not abandon the garden. God seeks the humans. God clothes their nakedness. Even judgement is wrapped in care.

This, too, is a Lenten truth.

Reading for Transformation

The Church’s call during Lent is not to read Scripture defensively, anxiously guarding inherited interpretations, but to read it courageously — trusting that truth deepens faith rather than diminishes it.

When Genesis 2–3 is read as polemical burlesque, it does not lose its theological seriousness. It gains it. We see a text that warns against arrogance, exposes shallow spirituality, and insists that genuine wisdom begins with humility before God.

Ashes on the forehead remind us: “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Scripture read honestly teaches us how to live wisely in between.

As we journey through these 40 days — praying, fasting, reading, serving — Lent asks not whether we are religious, but whether we are teachable. Whether we will listen when Scripture unsettles us. Whether we will allow even a talking donkey, or a cunning serpent, to expose what we would rather not see.

Because Easter, after all, is not for the self-assured. It is for those whose eyes have finally been opened.

Dudley McLean II is the Church Teachers’ College Diamond Jubilee Alumni 2025 Awardee for Journalism and a graduate of Codrington College, UWI, Cave Hill, Barbados. Send feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com.