Its End is the Way of Death

By the shores of Lake Macquarrie is the edge of the district’s airport. For perfectly good reasons, the path along the shoreline is fenced off and two official-looking signs prohibit entry. Walking across a runway does not strike me as the safest of rambling routes. Yet another sign is also attached to the fence, its original message painted over. In a childish, graffito-scrawl is written the words THIS WAY.

Ah, says the visitor. Which sign should I obey? The official one that suggests I ought not to walk across an airfield, or the informal one with its folksy style and care-free attitude, warmly bidding me enter? Sure enough, a gap in the fence allowed passage onto the runway. 

This is the choice that Eve had before her in Eden. God’s clear command vs the serpent’s whispered coax. Likewise, when we, too, are presented with an option of right and wrong, do we yield to our fallen nature’s wheedling charm, or the conscience’s plain admonition? The former, usually.