Everybody Wants to Rule the World

In 1985, Tears for Fears released what would become one of the most recognizable songs of the decade. "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" has a deceptively breezy feel to it -- brushed snare, bright synthesizers, an almost carefree rhythm. But underneath that polished surface, the lyrics tell a different story. They speak to something ancient and restless inside of us: the desire for power, control, and dominance. The desire to be the one who calls the shots.

It turns out that this was not a fresh idea in the 1980s. It was not born from the pressures of the modern world or the rise of technology. It is, in fact, one of the oldest stories humanity has ever told. And if you want to find it in its rawest form, you do not need to look any further than Genesis 3.

Most people think they know what Genesis 3 is about. Apples. A snake. The reason we have pain and suffering. But when you slow down and actually sit with the text, you find something far more layered and far more personal. This is not a story about fruit. It is a story about people who were given a good world and decided it was not enough -- because they wanted to be the ones in charge.

The chapter opens with a serpent, described as the most crafty of all the creatures God had made. In the literature of the Ancient Near East, the serpent was a symbol of chaos, disorder, and confusion. And that is exactly what this serpent brings. It does not storm in with threats or demands. It simply asks a question: "Did God say, 'You shall not eat from any tree in the garden'?" (Genesis 3:1)

That is it. Just a question. But it is enough.

The question distorts what God actually said. Back in Genesis 2:16, God's instruction was generous -- eat freely from every tree in the garden, with one exception. One limitation within an abundance of provision. But the serpent takes that one limitation and holds it up to the light until it fills the entire frame. And here is the uncomfortable truth: we fall for this constantly. We can have the whole world laid before us, and the one thing we cannot have is exactly what we want.

What happens next is equally telling. The woman responds to the serpent, but her version of God's instruction is not quite right either. She adds a detail God never mentioned -- that they were not even to touch the tree -- and leaves out the generous framing of everything they were permitted to enjoy. It reads like a game of telephone, where the original message gets slightly altered with each retelling until the distortion feels like the truth.

And notice who is absent from this entire conversation: God. The one who could clear everything up is never consulted. Instead, assumptions pile on top of conjecture, and the serpent moves in for the final blow -- suggesting that God is holding out on them, that eating the fruit would make them like God, capable of knowing good and evil, capable of judging, capable of ruling.

Verse 6 describes the moment the woman looks at the tree, and it is worth pausing here because what she sees reflects a progression that is painfully familiar. First, the tree was good for food -- a matter of appetite, of basic hunger. Second, it was a delight to the eyes -- a matter of desire, of wanting what feels good. Third, it was to be desired to make one wise -- a matter of control, of wanting to see the whole board and move the pieces.

Hunger. Desire. Control. That is the slow descent. At some point, every one of us decides that the life we have been handed is not quite enough, and that we could do a better job of managing it ourselves.

There is another detail in verse 6 that often gets overlooked. When the woman takes the fruit and eats, the text notes that she gave some to her husband, who was with her. He had been standing there the whole time, quietly watching it all unfold. This matters because the story is not simply about one person's failure. It is about two very different kinds of failure. There are sins of commission -- the things we actively do that we know we should not. And there are sins of omission -- the things we fail to do when we should have spoken up, stepped in, or said something. Both carry weight. Both matter.

Then comes the part of the story that might be the most recognizable of all.

God shows up. The man and woman hear God walking in the garden, and they hide. In trees. From the God who created everything. It is almost absurd -- and yet, is it really so different from what we do? We know we have done something wrong, and instead of turning toward the one who already knows, we run in the opposite direction.

When God calls out and they finally respond, the blame-shifting begins immediately. The man blames the woman. In the same breath, he subtly blames God for giving her to him. The woman blames the serpent. Nobody says, "I did this, and I know it was wrong." Everybody wants to rule the world -- until it is time to be accountable for the consequences of that pursuit.

But here is where the story takes a turn that deserves far more attention than it usually gets.

God does not lead with punishment. Before there are any consequences, before any verdict is handed down, God comes looking for them. God walks into the garden and calls out. Even after the disobedience, even after the hiding and the blame and the excuses, the first move God makes is to seek them out.

That is the heartbeat of this ancient story. The desire to rule, to control, to be like God -- it leads us into hiding every time. But God keeps walking into the garden anyway.

The invitation is not complicated. It is simply this: stop hiding. You were never built to run the world. And the God who made you already knows where you are.