As we begin to explore this story of humankind outside the Garden of Eden, we, like Kayin, should be uncomfortable that our first encounter is with fratricide. Yet, if we are honest, we need to admit that we walk away with less emotional investment in this narrative than we put into the average Super Bowl.
Perhaps one reason is that we have heard the story so many times that it has become familiar, even predictable. John Steinbeck understood the power of taking an ancient story and giving it new life. In his novel East of Eden, he takes the biblical story of Cain and Abel and places it within the struggles of a contemporary family. By bringing the ancient drama into a modern setting, Steinbeck helps us see that Kayin and Havel are not merely figures from a distant past. Their struggles with jealousy, rejection, rivalry, guilt, and the longing for acceptance are our struggles as well.
Lamentably, those of us who are committed to the inspiration and historicity of Genesis can sometimes accept a pale, one-dimensional rendering of these stories, stripping away their great complexity. Perhaps what we need is not to make the story more contemporary, but to learn again how to hear the ancient story as though it were speaking directly to us.
Why, then, does the inspired writer force us, at the outset of the human journey, to confront such a violent account of sibling rivalry? I believe the answer lies between the lines of the terse narrative found in the fourth chapter of B’reishit. The sages engaged in a homiletic enterprise called midrash, a word derived from the Hebrew root meaning “to search.” By filling in the missing details of biblical narratives, they confronted the unanswered questions that arose. More important than the details of these stories are the challenges they pose to the hearer and the lessons they teach about the divine-human encounter.
If this sounds familiar, it should. The inspired authors of the Brit Chadashah, including Yeshua himself, used midrash and engaged the “midrash-like” stories of their day.
If we approach the fourth chapter of Genesis in this way, we encounter some perplexing questions. What is the nature of Kayin and Havel’s relationship? Why does Hashem accept Havel’s offering but not Kayin’s? What happens when the brothers confront one another? Does Kayin ever regret the killing of his brother? And does he ever experience the forgiveness and peace of Hashem? These questions 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 into the narrative. V’ha’adam yada et-Chavah ishto, “Now the man knew his wife, Chavah.” The verb yada, “to know,” expresses more than sexual relations; it speaks of genuine intimacy, joining companionship to procreation. The Torah declares, “Hashem created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.” Male and female are distinct, unique, and equal expressions of human wholeness.
One midrash suggests that the first person was created with a male and female side, unable to see one another. According to Rabbi Samuel ben Nachman, a third century Talmudist, Hashem separated the two sides so they might face one another and truly come to “know” one another (Genesis Rabbah 8:1). “Therefore, a man leaves his father and his mother and cleaves to his wife, and they become one flesh.” The midrash illustrates that husband and wife are, in a sense, each other’s other self, physically, socially, and spiritually. But the Creator stands at the center of this wholeness and intimacy.
The narrative continues with the birth of Kayin, as Chavah says, Kaniti ish et-Hashem, “I have acquired a man with Hashem.” What a strange expression. Rashi explains, “My husband and I were created by Hashem alone, but through the birth of Kayin we are partners with Him” (Rashi on Genesis 4:1). The Creator is therefore the unseen senior partner in the work of sustaining creation outside the Garden.
This idea is reflected even in the gender designations, ish and ishah. According to Rashi, they contain the letters yod and hey, letters associated with the divine name. Remove the divine letters, and what remains is aish, “fire.” Without Hashem at the center of human intimacy, what remains is passion without the fullness of divine purpose (Rashi on Sotah 17a).
Finding Ourselves East of Eden
The sacred narrator remarks, “And additionally she bore his brother Havel.” The birth of Havel is almost an afterthought, an asterisk in the story of Kayin. His Hebrew name, Havel, means a breath, vapor, wisp, or shadow. In this story, Hevel is almost literally a shadow of his older brother, Kayin. He seems to exist in Kayin’s shadow, and yet, as the story unfolds, Kayin will become like Hevel.
Though Hevel brings the favored sacrifice, the mention of his offering seems only to illustrate the failure of Kayin. Hevel neither speaks nor protests until his blood, spilled by Kayin, cries out from the ground: the dam (blood) of adam (man) cries out from the adamah (earth).
The brothers are then identified by their occupations. Havel is the herder, the traveler, the one who traverses the land. Kayin is the farmer, tied to the land, staid and stable. Yet after the murder, their positions are reversed. The one who was tied to the earth becomes a wanderer, a wisp like his brother. In killing Hevel, Kayin becomes his brother.
Responding to Adversity
Our brethren are destined to bring out the best or the worst in us. The contrast between Kayin and Havel is accentuated by their offerings and Hashem’s response to them, acceptance of one and rejection of the other.
All the inspired author tells us of Kayin’s reaction are these terse words: “Kayin was very angry and his face was downcast” (4:5). If Kayin could speak to us, perhaps he would say, “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 arbitrary power. Why else would He respect Havel’s offering and not mine?”
There may be no adequate answer to give Kayin. Perhaps Almighty is communicating one of the most important lessons about living outside the Garden: this world is fraught with inequalities. There is simply no guarantee that our best efforts will be rewarded or appreciated.
Hashem confronts Kayin again as his brother lies dead in the dust. “I do not know,” he responds. Earlier, the man yada, “knew,” his wife, suggesting intimacy and relationship. Now Kayin says lo yadati, “I do not know.” Hashem gives him one last opportunity to face his actions: “What have you done?”
The earth, the symbol of Kayin’s stability, is taken from him, and he becomes a wanderer, a drifter, a wisp like his brother. In killing his brother, he becomes his brother.
A midrash compares Kayin and Havel to two trees standing side by side. When a strong wind uproots one, it falls upon the other and uproots it as well (Jubilees 4:31). Perhaps Kayin might have learned a different lesson:
“My brother and I are one. I can learn from his lesson! He is not my foil; he is my complement. 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 wrestle with the conflict between good and evil and with the apparent inequalities of our world. At times we bemoan our station and fortune, figuratively waving our fist in the air and challenging the design of the Master Architect.
Sometimes the challenge is within reflexive, as we sense the tug-of-war between our G-d-breathed inclination and our propensity to sin. At other times, our brothers cover us like a reproaching shadow, replicating our own dark side. The Eden of our dreams can seem 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.”
(Hebrews 12:22–24)
Kayin, the son of the first person, is every person: human, vulnerable, sinful, even potentially violent. Yet I believe he can grow. As he reconciles himself with his past and moves on, we are challenged to confront ourselves, our relationships with others, and our relationship 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 Hevel? Do we have the courage to allow the Spirit of Hashem to make essential changes in us, so that we are not destined to live out our lives as we are today?
Will we move beyond the inevitable pain of disappointment and rejection and receive the healing, wholeness, and peace of our Creator?