Facing Our Other Side, East of Eden
Parashat B’reisheet, Genesis 1:1-6:1
Rabbi Paul Saal, Shuvah Yisrael, West Hartford, CT
As we begin to explore this story of humankind outside the Garden of Eden, we, like Cain, should be uncomfortable that our first encounter there is fratricide. Yet if we are honest with ourselves, we need to admit that we walk away with less emotional investment into this narrative than we put into the average Super Bowl. Lamentably, those of us who are most committed to the inspiration and historicity of the Genesis accounts often accept a pale one-dimensional rendering of these stories that strips away the great complexity of human drama.
Why then does the inspired writer force us at the outset of the human journey to confront such a violent accounting of sibling rivalry? I believe that the answer lies between the lines of the terse narrative found in the fourth chapter of B’reisheet. The sages engaged in a homiletic enterprise called midrash, which comes from the word that means “to search.” By developing stories that filled in the missing details to the biblical narratives, they searched out the unanswered questions that arose. Far more important than the static details of the stories themselves, are the challenges that they pose to the hearer, and the lessons they teach about the divine-human encounter. If this form of exposition sounds familiar, it should. The inspired authors of the Brit Chadashah, including Yeshua himself, used midrash, and engaged the existing “midrash-like” stories of the day.
If we approach the fourth chapter of Genesis in this way, we may be challenged by some perplexing questions.
What is the nature of Cain and Abel’s relationship?
Why does God accept Abel’s but not Cain’s offering?
What happened when the brothers confronted one another at the climax of the story?
Does Cain ever regret killing his brother?
And does he ever experience the forgiveness and peace of Hashem?
Tantalizing questions such as these invite us to respond personally to what is in many ways our own story.
Bonding With Another Bonds Us to Hashem
Even the opening words beckon us to be immersed in the narrative. V’ha’adam yada et-chavah ishto, “Now the man had known his wife Chavah (Eve).” The verb yada, “to know,” is more than a mere idiom for sexual relations; rather it expresses a genuine intimacy that joins companionship to procreation. Only through this relationship between man and woman can there be true reverence for the mystery, dignity, and sacredness of life. Companionship is the first and primary end of the male-female relationship. The Torah declares, “Hashem created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them” (Gen 1:27). This expression of primacy suggests that male and female are distinct, unique, and equal halves in the design of human totality.
One midrash suggests that the first person was created androgynous, with a male and a female side, two-faced and unable to see one the other until Hashem severed the two sides so they might face each other and truly come to “know” his/her other side (Genesis Rabah 8:1). Torah states, “Therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and cleaves to his wife, and they become one flesh” (Gen 2:25). This midrash illustrates that a wife is a man’s other self, and vice-versa, but the Creator is at the center of this wholeness and intimacy.
The narrative of chapter four goes on to state that the woman conceived and bore Cain, saying, Kaniti ish et-Hashem, “I have acquired a man with Hashem.” What a strange expression! The great medieval commentator Rashi elaborates, “My husband and I were created by Hashem alone, but through the birth of Cain we are partners with Him.” So by this reckoning the Creator is the unseen senior partner in the intimacy, and the man and woman are the junior partners in the work of sustaining creation outside the garden.
Finding Ourselves East of Eden
The sacred narrator remarks, “And additionally she bore his brother Abel,” almost an afterthought, an asterisk in the story of Cain. His Hebrew name Havel means a wisp or a shadow, and he is in fact a shadow of his older brother in this story. Though Abel brings the favored sacrifice, it seems only to illustrate the failure of Cain. Abel neither speaks nor protests until his blood, spilled by Cain, cries out from the ground, an obvious alliteration: the dam (blood) of adam (man) cries out from the adamah (earth).
Immediately following the birth of the brothers the narrator had informed us of their occupations. Like most people today the narrator seems more interested in the roles they play than in who they are. But they are the classic herder and farmer. Abel the herder would be the nomad, the one who would transverse the land. Cain on the other hand is tied to the land; staid and stable. But when Abel is murdered, he and his voice are permanently tied to the earth. Cain, on the other hand, is destined to wander the earth and essentially become his brother.
Responding to Adversity
Our brothers are destined to bring out the best or the worst in all of us. The contrast between Cain and Abel, two sides of one embryo, is further accentuated by the offerings each made and Hashem’s response to them, acceptance of one and rejection of the other. All the inspired author tells us of Cain’s reaction are these few terse words: “Cain was very angry and his face was downcast” (4:5). If only Cain could talk to us now, he might have said, “I’ve been wronged; I believed this world was created in goodness, but now I can see that good deeds are not rewarded. Hashem rules this world with an arbitrary power; why else would he respect Abel’s offering and not mine.”
There may be no adequate answer to give to Cain. Perhaps the Almighty is communicating one of the most important lessons about living outside the Garden. This world we live in is fraught with inequalities. There is simply no guarantee that our best efforts will be rewarded or appreciated.
Hashem again confronts Cain as his brother lies dead in the dust. Cain responds, “I do not know.” We began this chapter with the man knowing his wife, implying a certain intimacy and bonding. Here Cain replies “lo yadati,” translated either “I do not know” or “I did not know.” Cain suggests that he had neither knowledge of what transpired nor what was expected of him in relation to his brother. So Hashem gives him a last chance to face his actions and asks, “What have you done?!”
The earth, which is the symbol of his stability, is taken from Cain and he becomes a wanderer, a drifter, a wisp like his brother. In killing his brother he becomes his brother. According to one midrash, Abel’s dog became Cain’s dog wandering the earth with him (Breshit Rabbah 22:13). Still another legend suggests that Cain shared Abel’s fate and was later killed by Lamech, a blood relative five generations removed. “Cain and Abel could be compared to two trees that stood side by side, when a strong wind uprooted one, it fell upon the other and uprooted it” (Jubilees 4:31).
Perhaps Cain might better reflect on the lesson learned as we imagine his improved response, “My brother and I are one, I can learn from his lesson! He is not my foil, he is my compliment. Truly if I do well then the Creator, blessed be he, will reward my best efforts in kind! I am my brother’s keeper!”
A Better Word
We still live with the reality of human struggle and complexity. We live with the conflict between good and evil, and we wrestle with the apparent inequalities in our world. At times we bemoan our station and our fortune, as if to figuratively wave our fist in the air, as if challenging the design of the Master Architect. Sometimes the challenge is within ourselves, as we sense the tug of war between our God-breathed inclination and our propensity to sin, and at other times our brothers cover us like a reproaching shadow, replicating our own dark side. The Eden of our dreams, at times seems like a lifetime away.
But the promise of the letter to the Hebrews is that we can live in the light of the Age to Come.
On the contrary, you have come to Mount Tziyon, that is, the city of the living God, heavenly Yerushalayim; to myriads of angels in festive assembly; to a community of the firstborn whose names have been recorded in heaven; to a Judge who is God of everyone; to spirits of righteous people who have been brought to the goal; to the mediator of a new covenant, Yeshua; and to the sprinkled blood that speaks better things than that of Hevel. (Heb 12:22-24 CJB)
Cain the son of the first person is every person; human, vulnerable, sinful, even potentially violent; yet I believe he is able to grow. As he reconciles himself with his past and moves on, we are challenged to confront ourselves, our relationships with others and with Hashem. Are we willing to receive the grace of the Creator through the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Havel? Do we have the courage every day to allow the Spirit of Hashem to make essential changes in ourselves, so we are not destined to live out our lives as we are today? Will we move beyond the inevitable pain of disappointments and rejection, and receive healing, wholeness, and the peace of our Creator?