The tree is still there.
That’s what gets me about Genesis 3. God kicks Adam and Eve out of the garden, but he doesn’t destroy the Tree of Life. He guards it.
“And now, lest he reach out his hand and take also of the tree of life and eat, and live forever—” therefore the Lord God sent him out from the garden of Eden… He placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life. (Genesis 3:22-24)
Why guard it? Why not just burn it down, salt the earth, make it impossible?
Because the tree isn’t the problem. The state we’re in is the problem.
You can’t live forever like this.
Immortality in a corrupted state isn’t salvation. It’s eternal decay. Living forever while broken, alienated, grasping—that’s not the Tree of Life. That’s a curse with no expiration date.
So God blocks the way. Cherubim and a flaming sword. Not to mock us. Not to rub it in. To protect us from seizing something we’re not ready to receive.
Death becomes mercy.
But the way back still exists. It’s just guarded. And that guard tells you something: the path to life isn’t around the sword. It’s through it.
You can’t hack your way to God’s life. You can’t sneak past. You can’t brute-force immortality on your own terms.
The only way back is transformation.
Fast forward to Ezekiel. The temple’s been destroyed. Israel is in exile. Everything is ash and memory.
And Ezekiel sees a vision: water flowing from the sanctuary. A river that starts ankle-deep and gets deeper with every step until it’s a river no one can cross. And along its banks:
“There will grow all kinds of trees for food. Their leaves will not wither, nor their fruit fail, but they will bear fresh fruit every month, because the water flows from the sanctuary. Their fruit will be for food, and their leaves for healing.” (Ezekiel 47:12)
This is Eden language. But it’s not Eden before the fall. It’s Eden after devastation.
The trees don’t just sustain. They heal.
That word—healing—is doing something. Because what’s being promised isn’t just survival. It’s restoration. Repair. Integration of what’s been shattered.
And the source? The sanctuary. God’s presence. The river flows from where God dwells, and wherever it goes, life follows.
Then Revelation.
John sees the New Jerusalem—the city coming down out of heaven. And in the middle of it:
“…the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.” (Revelation 22:1-2)
The tree is back.
But it’s not in a garden anymore. It’s in a city. Culture, community, permanence. The garden hasn’t been erased. It’s been fulfilled. Eden wasn’t the end goal—it was the starting point.
And those leaves? Still for healing.
Which is strange, right? This is the new creation. Sin is gone. Death is gone. The old order has passed away.
So why do the nations need healing?
Maybe because healing isn’t just about stopping the bleeding. It’s about integration. Making peace with the scars. The residue of what was lost doesn’t just vanish—it gets metabolized into something life-giving.
The Tree of Life doesn’t erase history. It transforms it.
That’s resurrection logic. Not “back to how things were,” but “forward into something richer than you could have imagined.”
The garden becomes a city. One tree becomes many. Four rivers become one river, flowing from the throne. Twelve kinds of fruit. Every month. Not scarcity. Not striving. Abundance.
And here’s the kicker:
“Blessed are those who wash their robes, so that they may have the right to the tree of life and that they may enter the city by the gates.” (Revelation 22:14)
Access restored. But not by innocence. By cleansing.
Earlier in Revelation, Jesus tells the church in Ephesus—the one going through the motions but losing its first love:
“To the one who conquers I will grant to eat of the tree of life, which is in the paradise of God.” (Revelation 2:7)
Conquering isn’t moral perfection. It’s faithfulness. Endurance. Tested love that persists through the mess.
The flaming sword hasn’t been removed by force. It’s been passed through by transformation. By washing. By conquest that looks like surrender.
Here’s what this does to me:
I keep trying to optimize my way to life. Better habits. More discipline. Smarter systems. As if immortality is a life hack away.
But the Tree of Life was never owned. It was always hosted.
In Genesis 2, it’s just there. In the midst of the garden. Available. Like breathing. In Revelation 22, it’s there again. In the midst of the city. But now the access is explicit: washed robes. Conquered hearts. Cleansing, not cleverness.
You can’t seize God’s life on your own terms. You can only receive it on his.
And here’s the pattern that keeps showing up:
In the midst.
Genesis 2: the Tree of Life in the midst of the garden. Revelation 22: the Tree of Life in the midst of the city.
What sits at the center determines what flows out.
In Eden, life was central. After the fall, self became central. In the new creation, life is central again—because God is.
The river in Eden watered the earth. The river in Ezekiel healed the earth. The river in Revelation flows from the throne, and the tree produces perpetually. Not just survival. Flourishing.
So the question isn’t abstract.
What’s in the midst of your life right now?
Not what you say is central. Not what you wish were central. What actually is?
Because whatever’s there becomes the source. And what flows from that center—whether life or anxiety, clarity or grasping, peace or performance—that’s what irrigates everything downstream.
Your marriage. Your work. Your body. Your money. Your ambitions. Your rest.
The center always reveals itself in the overflow.
I think this is why the Tree of Life gets guarded instead of destroyed.
Because God isn’t trying to keep life from us. He’s trying to keep us from consuming a version of “life” that would lock us into death.
We keep reaching for immortality in a corrupted state. Trying to live forever without being transformed. Trying to bypass the flaming sword and grab what we think we need.
But eternal life isn’t duration. It’s a kind of life. God’s kind. Sourced in his presence. Flowing from the center.
And you can’t have that kind of life while organizing everything around yourself.
The tree doesn’t grow in isolation. It’s nourished by the river. The river flows from the throne. Access to the tree is access to God.
It’s not a transaction. It’s a relationship.
One last thing.
The leaves are for healing. Not the fruit. The leaves.
The fruit is for eating—sustenance, nourishment, life. But the leaves? Those are for mending what’s broken.
Which means the Tree of Life isn’t just about you getting what you need. It’s about you becoming part of what heals others.
The new creation isn’t a place where you finally get to rest from everyone else’s mess. It’s a place where healing flows outward. Where the life you’ve received becomes the life that restores.
Nations. Peoples. Histories. Scars.
That’s what those leaves are for.
So maybe the revelation is this:
You can’t live forever like this. Not like you are now. Not organized around yourself. Not grasping for life on your terms.
But the tree is still there. The way back exists.
It’s just guarded.
And the way through isn’t around the sword. It’s transformation.
Washing. Cleansing. Faithfulness. Endurance. Letting go of the reach and learning to receive.
The center matters. The source matters. The kind of life you’re after matters.
Because God’s not offering you immortality. He’s offering you himself.
And that—that—is the Tree of Life.