The silence descended again, Eve imploring Adam with her eyes. Finally he said, “You who were once bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. You are my wife, you are the mother of life.”
Freed to continue the ritual, Eve turned to her son, her eyes welling with tears, her voice trembling. “You are Cain, our son. In you, we know that when we return to dust, our life will not end.”
At this, Cain erupted. “Enough, Mother! Did you not see? I am rejected.”
Eve reached for him, her voice a plea that sought to deny his anguish. “You are not rejected, my son. Is your father rejected when you make the offering? Please, Cain.” She began the prayer again, “You are our son. In you—”
Cain would not be placated. “I did everything right. My offering was perfect, as it always is. I spoke the words. But the True Fire did not fall for me. It did not fall on the family altar. It fell on the lamb, on that embarrassing pile of rocks. It fell for—” He was unable to finish. Anger swelled again, cresting over his shame. “The Name has rejected me. Does a prayer change that?”
Silence descended again over the table, and this time Eve did not move to finish the prayer. Finally Adam looked to the doorway and inquired, “Where is your brother?”
Cain pushed himself up from the table, his frame cutting through the silence as he stormed away. At the doorway, he snatched his hoe. He saw Abel, playing shepherd again with his little flock, laughing and leading them toward the nearby stream. He spat back, “Apparently the offering was food enough for Abel.” With that, Cain stalked toward the field.
At the table, the cheese sat uneaten.
BEFORE
Adam and Cain had found the earth especially receptive to seed and were anticipating the most fruitful growing season in a long time. Cain rose early; truth be told, he had barely slept. He rarely slept much the night before he made the offering. By the time the rest of the family had roused themselves, he had prepared all the fruits and grains and placed the wood on the altar. A rare smile crept across Adam’s face.
Cain led the offering, and the True Fire came at once, as it always did. The presence of The Name enveloped them all, as it always did. And they returned to break their fast, as they always did. Except Abel hadn’t come with them.
After they spoke the blessing, Adam turned to Cain and asked, “Where is your brother?”
They rose from the table and looked outside. Abel knelt at his stone pile, and smoke was rising from the makeshift altar. Cain rushed out. Is Abel burning more food? As he drew nearer, the unfamiliar fragrance of roasting meat filled his nostrils, and his mouth watered even as disgust rose in his throat. Cain saw a lamb burning, consumed, and not revealed.
After his offering burned, Abel came in, his tear-stained gaze downcast. Adam said softly to him, “Abel, you did not offer on the family altar. You are not the eldest. You cannot summon the True Fire.”
Abel smiled faintly. “I know, Father. I did not offer to receive the True Fire.”
Confused, Eve prodded him. “Then why are your cheeks wet, Abel?”
“I am only sad, Mother. The lamb I offered was the strongest of those born this year. I had grown fond of him.”
As it so often did where Abel was concerned, exasperation quickly replaced concern. “What now, Abel?’ she asked. “How many more of these offerings will you subject us to before you choose yet another distraction?”
Abel murmured an apology. “The offerings are for The Name, Mother. I will make them after we break our fasts, so as not to disturb you.”
They finished their meal in silence. Though as Cain was heading toward the field, he heard his parents’ voices, already escalating into shouting. His father did not come to the fields for a long time that day, and they did not plant nearly as much as they had planned.
The next day, Abel made his offering alongside Adam.
NOW
In the field, Cain worked alone. Behind him, the next row of rich, tilled earth was straight and true. Again and again, the hoe flashed in the sky. Again and again it cut into the soil. More often than not, the hoe struck a stone. After several strikes, Cain fell to his knees and removed the excavated rocks, dropping them into the lanolin sack slung over his shoulder. Always more quickly than he liked, the sack was full, so he walked to the stream to deposit the rocks near the waterway. During the times when the fields were fallow and when the work didn’t consume their daylight, Cain and Adam used the stones to dam the stream and to repair the sheepfold or the home. Even the stones had their uses.
That day Cain’s hoe cut deeper, his bag filled faster. Near midday, as he turned again toward the stream, his shadow burned into the ground, as though the sun had suddenly doubled. Shielding his eyes, Cain cringed even as the presence of The Name fell upon him. A figure stood before him, feet straddling his carefully tilled row.
Cain fell back, staggering several steps before falling to his knees. The figure standing before him burned with True Fire. Its multicolored tongues danced and licked the earth, running along his row before dissipating. Awe swelled in his chest, followed closely by fear as he felt the figure’s gaze upon him.
“Mercy!” Cain finally croaked, his hands shielding his face. “Have mercy, Strength!”
The figure laughed. Its voice came as a whisper, and Cain heard in his bones rather than with his ears. “I am not Strength, Cain. Do not fear.”
This figure looked to have stepped from his imagination, from the stories his mother had told him of the Garden, of the serpent and the fruit, of Strength and his flaming sword, barring them forever from paradise. As his eyes adjusted to the figure, Cain saw no sword. But if this is not the Strength—
Cain threw himself to the ground, the stone sack pressing uncomfortably on his stomach. “The Name!”
Kind laughter came again from the figure. “Get up, Cain. I am not The Name. Let us say I speak for The Name. You and I have much to discuss.”
Cain rose carefully from the dirt. He tried again to look at the figure but found his eyes couldn’t hold its image. It was shaped like a man, more or less. There was an impression of wings, though it may have been the True Fire licking and dancing about it. And waves of power flowed off the figure. Cain realized these were the source of his fear. They gave the impression of violence, of strength. It was not a threat, exactly—just raw power.
Cain straightened. “What does The Name wish of me?”
Kindness washed through Cain. “You are angry. The Name wishes to know why.”
Stunned silence filled the air. The muscles in Cain’s shoulders tightened. The whisper came again, “Why are you angry?”
Cain spoke, cold and hard. “Better to ask why The Name is angry with me.”
“The Name is not angry with you. Did The Name not come to you this morning?”
“The Name did not come to me this morning,” Cain spat. “The True Fire fell on Abel’s offering.”
“It does not matter on whom the True Fire falls. When your father makes the offering, do you not still experience the coming of The Name?”
Again the air between them filled with silence. At length, the angel repeated, “Why are you angry?”
Rage boiled in Cain. “Why did The Name not receive my offering? I was appointed to give this day. I prepared the fruits perfectly, as I always do. I gave them on the altar.” Cain paused, his blood hot, his voice cold and razor sharp. His eyes searched for a hint of compassion, of understanding, but found only intimations and whispers. “I burned the fruit on the altar. Not on some pile of stones held together with a boy’s folly.”
“Why are you angry?”
Cain’s voice rose now, his anger flooding over his natural stoicism. “I am Cain. By the sweat of my brow I have tilled these fields.” His arms swept out, encompassing carefully terraced hills packed with perfect rows. He pointed to field after field, stabbing the air with his finger. “Where was Abel when I tilled this soil? Where was Abel when I planted that field? Where was Abel when we saved that terrace after
the great storm three seasons ago?
“Where is Abel even now? He’s not here. He’s not working our fields.”
Gently the whisper echoed, “Cain, where is your brother?”
Cain’s rage churned within him like a storm. “Why does The Name care so much for Abel? If you want to find him so badly, follow the smell of the sheep.”
“Why are you angry? If you do what is right, you will be accepted.”
The storm of Cain’s rage broke the levees of his restraint, flooding onto the field. “If I do what is right? I have done everything The Name asks. I have honored my father and mother. Do you think I can’t see how my father aches for the pastures? Our fields are a prison to him, a reminder of his curse. Yet still I have made peace with the land. I have worked tirelessly alongside my father, learned his craft, imitated his every move. I have worked to make food by the sweat of my brow. I have labored against thistles and weeds while my brother does nothing.
“You say I will be accepted? I have made offerings as often as my father instructs. If that is not enough, if The Name prefers my brother, then go to him. Let The Name feast on lamb and cheese.”
The figure did not move. If anything, tendrils of True Fire reached higher and wider, threatening to embrace Cain. And though kindness remained in the whisper, the laughter was gone. “The Name received your brother’s offering today. What is that to you? Your family received blessing. You are not rejected. This day is as every other.”
When the figure made no move to leave, Cain turned to stalk away, anger bleeding away, soaking into the earth in the wake of his explosion.
The whisper stopped him midstep. “Cain, you stand at a precipice.” The angel was pleading. “Do you not understand? Death is crouching at your doorway. It seeks to consume you. Do not let it.”
“I am Cain. No man or beast can master me.” His voice was once again low, cold, and firm. “I am life for my parents. If The Name believes me to be weak, The Name is mistaken.”
Then he realized he was speaking to an empty field. He turned to find the figure gone—and with it the presence of The Name. He had barely noticed its passing.
The Name thinks me weak? The Name prefers Abel, the child, the shepherd? Abel, who has not harvested a single crop? Abel who tills no earth, who splashes in streams with sheep while my father and I wrestle thorns and weeds and stones that we might live?
This Cain would not abide. He had never said a word when his mother and father encouraged Abel’s frivolity. He built the sheepfold when asked. He ate the cheese, drank the milk when offered. He watched as Abel enjoyed the fruit of his labor: the breads and fruit made by the sweat of Cain’s own brow. And never had he spoken a word.
Standing at the edge of the field, his sandals on the uneven, untilled earth, Cain saw his brother chasing the sheep across the pasture, laughing, calling to them. For this The Name rejects me? Despite a lifetime of faithfulness, despite endless work? No. Cain would not be rejected. He called to his brother and waved him over. As always, Abel was quick to obey. He left the sheep, hurrying to his brother’s summons.
As he approached, Cain knelt in the dirt, his hand coming to rest on a stone.
2
You Wouldn’t Like Me When I’m Angry
How Anger Might Be an Invitation to Life
I committed the sin of Cain when I met Tom.
No, I’m not a murderer. I wasn’t in a field, and Tom wasn’t my brother. But I committed that sin all the same. I was sitting in a seminar room on the third floor of the Arts and Science building at the University of Missouri, beginning my second year of graduate school.
Before coming to Mizzou, I had attended a small Christian college in Southwest Missouri. I studied religion, which meant each of my classes was filled with students who saw the world the way I did, more or less. We were all evangelical Christians.
But grad school found me at the University of Missouri, studying religion in a state college. I went from being one of a few dozen Christians in every class to often the only evangelical. In those first few months, I was anxious, intimidated, and overwhelmed. Many of my classmates had a background in secular religious studies and had already read many of the theorists and scholars we were assigned. I struggled as I never had in high school or college.
Within the first few weeks, the other students took to calling me the religion department’s token Christian. One of them joked, “Every religion department needs a token Christian student, and JR. is ours.” Though it was a friendly jest, the nickname helped to ground me and give me confidence. As the “token Christian,” I knew my role in the department. I didn’t fear speaking up, offering my insights or opinions. It was suddenly acceptable for me to offer a Christian perspective, because I was the token Christian kid from the small, confessional liberal arts college who had come to the big state school to study religion.
Over that first year, I settled into my role as the token Christian and began to enjoy my studies. I was still challenged, still intimidated, but the new identity I had adopted provided a context in which I could act, think, and grow.
This brings me back to Tom and to my first class, year two. We began class by introducing ourselves around the table. Tom explained that he had recently graduated from a small Bible college in Northeast Missouri and had come to Mizzou to study religion with people who didn’t share his worldview.
I hated Tom immediately. “What a jerk,” I observed to a classmate later that day. My classmate was genuinely confused. Tom had struck him as a likeable, friendly guy. But I wouldn’t hear it. As far as I was concerned, Tom was the devil.
I couldn’t see it at the time, but I disliked Tom because he challenged my identity as the token Christian. Compared with the other students in our program, he and I had identical stories. He was me.
If Tom became as integrated into our program as I had become, I would no longer be the token Christian. And if I wasn’t the token Christian, who was I? That identity had made it possible for me to navigate the program and had given me confidence to build good, healthy relationships with my classmates and professors. It had made it safe for me to learn the tools this very different educational experience was offering me.
Tom threatened all that. So I lashed out in anger, desperate to protect my status.
IDENTITY CRISIS
The same trajectory of sin that led Cain to murder his brother is one we can all walk if we’re not careful to identify Cain’s sin in our own lives and root it out before it manifests. What was Cain’s sin? The obvious answer is murder; he killed his only brother. But why did Cain do it? The superficial answer is that he was mad because God accepted Abel’s offering but not his. This raises another question: Why would God receive one’s offering but not the other’s?
Again, the obvious answer may not be the best. Abel gave the best of his flock, while Cain gave only some of his crops. That’s the common answer in sermons and commentaries and Bible studies. But that obvious answer isn’t obvious to the characters in the story. Cain didn’t seem to have any idea why his offering was rejected in favor of his brother’s.
Cain’s anger blossomed from confusion and hurt over his rejected offering. In response to his anger, God didn’t chide him but pleaded with him: “‘Why are you so angry?’ the LORD asked Cain. ‘Why do you look so dejected? You will be accepted if you do what is right. But if you refuse to do what is right, then watch out! Sin is crouching at the door, eager to control you. But you must subdue it and be its master’” (Genesis 4:6-7 NLT).
God implied that Cain had not yet been rejected, which is confusing, given that Cain’s offering was rejected. But if we take God at his word—that Cain had not yet been rejected—this conversation was an invitation to Cain.
Put yourself in Cain’s sandals. Even in the opening of his story, he was the favored son. At his birth, his mother named him Cain, which means “strength” or “spear” in Hebrew. She chose that name because “I have produced a man with the help of the LORD” (Genes
is 4:1). Abel’s birth, on the other hand, is presented as an afterthought. Even his name, Abel, means “vapor,” a word describing the morning mist burned away by the sun.
This story was told and written down in a culture in which the firstborn son carried the whole weight of the family, their past, and their future. He was their historian and their legacy. He embodied their hopes and allayed their fears. Cain was clearly this sort of child; even his name reveals that. Cain was strong. Cain was life for his family. Cain was future, hope, dreams. Abel, on the other hand, was a mist that’s gone with the sunrise—an afterthought.
Firstborn. Most important. Carrier of our hopes. Cain had woven an identity out of those titles, those roles. As we all do, he came to inhabit his identity. Just as being the token Christian informed my place among my fellow students, Cain’s role as the firstborn informed who he was in how he related to his parents, to his brother, and to God.
We all inhabit labels, which ground our identities in something. Some of us ground our identities in a relationship: I’m a faithful spouse or a productive employee. I’m a loving parent or a dutiful child. I’m a loyal friend or a peacemaker. These identities we take on help us to know our place in the world. They teach us how we ought to relate to the people we encounter. They give us confidence to act, to move, and to know and be known.
But according to the Scriptures, these roles don’t make for reliable foundations. When we look to our identities to give our life meaning, they become idols. Andy Crouch described an idol as anything that “advances a claim about the ultimate nature of reality that is ultimately mistaken. And since the Creator God is the ultimate meaning of the world, an idol is a representation of a false god. Implicitly or explicitly, all idols represent a challenge and counterclaim to the identity and character of the true Creator God.”1
Empathy for the Devil Page 2
