Cain

The air is chilly and I rub my arms, hovering as near the flames as I can without overstepping myself. I don’t want to get too close to the small, cobbled together altar that’s there.

The sun is about to rise over the top of the distant hills; pinks and yellows are starting to fill the sky, and it’s the time of day I would normally grab onto with both hands… but not today.

There’s a man standing a few feet away from me, and even though I can’t bring myself to look at him, I know that our postures are mirror images; tension in both of our shoulders; faces masked behind indifference. I’ve written about this encounter – this story – ten times and erased the drafts just as many, frustrated by what I can’t articulate, dissatisfied with it. But I can’t seem to leave it be. I get pulled back here, again and again, unable to walk away or move on to the next story, the next post.

Since I was a little girl, I’ve been told the man beside me is a monster. Evil might as well be stamped on his forehead like a brand. All of history from here on out remembers him only for what’s about to happen this day. He’s always used in stories; in sermons, as a contrast to his younger brother. Down through generations of preachers and pastors and theologians there will be debates about whether it was the type of offering he prepared, the amount, or just the intention behind it that made his God reject it. He will be called lazy, jealous, half-hearted and sinful… wicked. All the labels we like to use to put things in neat categories.

Boxes of right and wrong.

I used to be comfortable with those boxes, content in their certainty, but not any longer. My stomach twists over what he’s about to do – I’d rather avoid this place than be here with him – but in my mind I can’t dismiss him, consign him to hell, either. It would be too much like when I was little and taught there were simple categories of people – where he would be the goat or the chaff that’s spoken of in parables. The bad. Easily thrown away as if people can only be one thing or the other and not both.

But I know that if Cain can be thrown away, so can I. This morning, Cain and I are more alike than I want to admit. The difference between us is only in the scale of our mistakes – his is about to be an outcome impossible to hide; while mine are easier to bury from anyone but me and those closest to me.

He’s angry, jealous, about to lose control; I am disillusioned, disheartened and I can’t see my faith. Both of us are feeling rebellious even if it’s for different reasons. Both of us are building walls brick by brick around our hearts as we watch the flames lick at the offering he carefully prepared. The first fruits of his year long labor. We both watch as thin tendrils of smoke are just starting to rise from it in the muted colours of dawn.

My heart thuds heavily in my chest, a slow, weighted, beat of dread. Just as I knew it would – just as he knew it would – the smoke from his offering is fitful, blowing every which way except up. I feel his shoulders stiffen beside me. To him this means rejection. It’s a sign God doesn’t accept what he’s done – more, that God doesn’t accept him. My heart stings and throbs like a deep cut because I know that feeling of rejection, of abandonment, well. It doesn’t matter if we’re in the wrong. It doesn’t make it less painful – in fact it probably makes it more so. Defensive anger stings both our eyes; our throats.

“I don’t favour you.”

The words ring in Cain’s heart, twisted and harsh. I can hardly breathe. It’s one awful thing to be rejected by a human – but a whole different level to be rejected by a God you’re trying to please.

In the cold morning air, the man beside me says nothing. I say nothing. But I am aware of him even if I won’t look over. I know every little twitch and thought behind that mask as if it’s my own. Tears slip down my cheeks at the pain, at the rage, at the rebellion boiling over in his heart. I feel them too. His body is entirely still as he fights to keep the resentment, and the defeat, from showing. Once again he’s screwed up. Somehow I know this isn’t the first time – nor even the fifth this has happened to him. Nothing that’s happening is a surprise to him – not really. He already expected this.

The very worst part of this whole story is the stranger that stands on the other side of the flames. My throat squeezes painfully as I observe that massive, hazy silhouette from my spot beside Cain. This God Cain knows… it’s not the Jesus I’ve fallen in love with. There’s no safe harbour here, no compassion – only a deep seated fear. The shadow that looks back at us is more like the Greek gods of myth, capricious, exacting – a God who banished Cain’s parents from their homes. Cursed his mother with the pain of childbirth, and his father with hard ground that fights against yielding its fruit, fields that are overrun with weeds. This silhouette is the Judge who sees all our mistakes and flaws and points out each and every one. The defensive sting we feel turns into a boil of rebellion as we wait for the inevitable outcome. It’s so unfair. Just like Cain, I want to scream it at that stranger. Make him stop what’s about to happen here.

I can see Abel right now, kneeling not too far away, lost in his own world of worship, oblivious to the conflict and the churning and the chaos going on over here. In front of him the fire burns brightly; the smoke rises straight and true – right into the heavens above. Almost as if it’s being inhaled. A sign of favour that strikes both Cain and I straight through the stomach with all the force of a silently hurled spear. Impaling us both on our piles of resentment.

The scientists from my day analyze this sacrifice of Cain’s and say that the fruits, stalks of wheat and the seeds it feeds off of are not substantial enough, not heavy enough with fat and grease to rise straight up and black the way it should. Obviously it can’t give the same effect as an animal sacrifice. The two primitive men standing next to me are just too ignorant to realize the different types of smoke from different types of fuel. That there’s no such thing as inhaling happening here. God has nothing to do with it.

He’s not even here.

But the science, trying to understand the why behind the smoke doesn’t change anything when both of our hearts are already condemning us. I glance over, wondering if Cain might be thinking the same thing? Is he doubting God’s existence? I know I am. Either way it brings the same result: our view of the God that stands in shadows is one of rejection, disapproval, his features obscured, his heart unattainable. He’s looking straight at Cain and rejecting his gift. Telling him he’s fallen short.

I stand there shoulder to shoulder with Cain, my own heart seething with rebellion. This story reminds me of one I heard as a teen. Of a “book of life” being read out-loud to a crowd of onlookers, the purpose to pull out all the mistakes you’ve made before you get let into heaven or thrown into hell. Really, it’s just a story of humiliation and hoping the good you’ve done outweighs the bad. And I know that whole feeling well. It’s been a month of failure for me. Being faced with parts of me that I don’t like to look at: the ugliness of my ego and reactions that stemmed from insecurity, judgement and narrow-mindedness. I even got told I kept someone from feeling close to Jesus because of my views. Gah. The past week of Christmas holidays trickled by in a blur of events and noise that overwhelmed me. I wanted to be in Jesus’s birthday with him. I wanted to celebrate my kids and my husband – fall headfirst into the games and the events. But instead I was numb, I was fake, I hid in my room as much as I could. Right now I feel just as much out of favour as Cain. And when this happens, it’s magnified into a monster that I can’t get past. I start believing that I’m not worth being loved – either by myself or a God who’s perfect in all things. Nausea churns in my stomach – no wonder Cain is so full of hate, so full of jealousy when he looks at Abel.

So the both of us, Cain and I, stand outside the acceptance. Out of the corner of my eye I see him glance over at that straight column of smoke still rising, at the kneeling figure of his little brother who’s face reflects a quiet joy of acceptance. I feel the longing as it echoes through his heart, the hastily smothered wish, the rising jealousy that has been lurking in the background for some time. I watch the accusation of what he thinks God is saying to him settle into his mind and heart, sinking in clawed fingers of defeat and lies.

He thinks he’s not able to have what Abel has – that he’ll never be allowed into the intimacy of that space. He can’t see how to fix it – he’s too full of rebellion, of frustration, of resentment, to find the love – the grace – in Jesus’s eyes. And he doesn’t even want a second chance, because he’s too angry about the failure of his first. All he can see is God’s back as he walks away. I can feel it coming off him in waves – the helpless hate towards his brother. It’s his only defence against the vulnerability he feels, the shame of rejection. It’s a feeling I know, and it makes my stomach churn to recognize it. Cain won’t meet the gaze of Jesus. Neither of us will.

Cain moves with a sudden violence that scares me and kicks over the altar, demolishing the half spent offering. I can hear his anguished thoughts as if they’re my own. He brought the first and the best of his crops; of his fruit. Why wouldn’t God accept them? He’s worked from sun up to sun down and sometimes beyond to prove himself. And always, like a thorn in his side, his little brother stands there, perfectly obedient, accepted and favoured, a contrast to compare himself to. He’s stuck with his eyes trained outside himself and on his brother, and doesn’t realize the damage that is doing to his soul, to his heart. That he’s not giving God a chance. And I can’t even blame him – every time I come to this space of self hate I’ve painted God’s face in the same shadows and disapproval and unattainable favour. The alienation of it is unbearable.

Cain turns away from the fitful smoke, casting one last glance at his brother. He’ll do anything to silence the voice in his head that tells him he’s not worthy, that tells him all his work is useless. And the wrath – the rage – is a heady rush of relief and power. An escape from the crushing defeat of never meeting an exacting God’s expectations. Tears gush down my cheeks because I feel that helplessness. That defeat that’s hidden under it. He storms away, and I follow him, both of us stuck in the dark. And I wonder how many people see that hazy silhouette, that God you can’t trust to accept you instead of the Jesus I know?

“Don’t.”

The voice is quiet. Commanding… but there’s a hint of pleading in it too. My feet stop following Cain and my eyelids slide closed. I know that voice – that silent, deep one that sounds of thunder and green growing things, of unimaginable strength mixed with gentleness. With kindness. With such intimacy that everything around us stills.

I know that if I turn I’ll see him there. Tall and imposing – and… I know him. He takes my breath away – not just because he’s a King straight out of tale like Lord of the Rings, and he’s wearing a garment stained crimson. But because he looks at me like I am his. And he’s rolling up his sleeves – his arms bare and ready to work crazy big feats of salvation even if I can’t see any salvation here and now. I can feel his words reverberate inside Cain’s heart. Inside my own. Everything inside me recognizes who that voice belongs to and I instantly long for Cain to recognize it too. I can feel the balm of Jesus’s presence sooth away my shame, my rebellion, even if I know Cain can’t yet.

“Don’t do it, Cain.”

Cain’s footsteps falter as if he can hear it too, and he slows, casting another look behind him at the little brother who always tried to follow him everywhere, the one who always got him in trouble when he couldn’t keep up or got hurt. There’s buried love there if he could only remember it. But instead his eyes gaze past the figure to the altar, and the rage rushes right back over him, smothering his sudden hollow feeling, killing his hesitation. He banishes the longing to be accepted, to be seen. He doesn’t truly know Jesus’s heart yet. He doesn’t trust him. He stares at that infernal column of smoke still rising straight and true and he wallows in the hate, draping it over himself like a cloak of dark power. Soothing even as it taints.

“I know what’s in your heart.”

This King places a hand on Cain’s shoulder, his voice determined; his eyes focused. He’s fighting to reach through the smoke of rage, the wall of accusation that surrounds and isolates Cain’s heart from him. His voice is full of pain, full of knowing, full of understanding. If Cain would just talk to him, give him the stuff that’s tearing him up everything would change. But instead Cain stills, fear flashing through his eyes. I see the twist he puts on those words. He only knows this King as Judge and Jury and Executioner. And what Cain sees in himself is only darkness. To be seen by such a God is worse than anything when you can’t see who you are. Nor does he even want forgiveness from this shadow God with the impossible expectations.

“Don’t give in to it, Cain.” Jesus says, his voice calm, every syllable spoken a whisper of invitation, a reaching out that he tries to knit into Cain’s awareness. “Look at me! See me for who I am – let me in, it is not too late.”

Cain is still now, his back to his brother, his eyes traveling across the golden light spilling across the land he’s worked for as long as he’s been able to walk behind his father. He loves it, that land. Despite the scars on his hands from working it. Despite the long hours and painstaking work. It’s more real to him than God. And God rejected his work, his sacrifice. Cain shrugs off the hand on his shoulder and strides away, the rage thundering in his head, the adrenaline pumping. He’s already made up his mind. I hold my breath.

“Sacrifice and burnt offerings I have not desired,” A low, anguished murmur comes from Jesus, his eyes trained on Cain’s figure, love in every line of his face, “nor do I delight in them…”

I know what’s coming and I cannot watch it happen – the strike, the loss of control, the giving in to an anger so deep and wide it will destroy both Cain and his brother, so I turn my back. My stomach is writhing with tangled queasy knots. Haven’t I lost control at some point? Haven’t I given myself up to anger and let it rush through me like a drug? As Cain walks side by side with his little brother into the field of wheat I cover my ears. It’s swift, and awful, and Cain comes out, his face completely hollow, dead in a way that says he’s lost a piece of himself. He’s already walked into his own hell.

This is the part where I stall out, where I can’t stay in the story. Because I’m scared to take this too lightly – to dismiss the awfulness of what happened through compassion. Because I don’t want to say it’s ok. But at the same time my heart goes out to Cain – to the pain he’s in. Neither am I ok to throw him into hell when I understand what led to this – when I feel the buried defeat, the desperate hole he fills up with hate and hides himself from. How long should he suffer before he’s forgiven? How long should he be banished? When does it become ok to let a murderer let go? Does a specific length of time make any difference? And how can I call him a monster when I know he looks at Abel and sees a God who rejects him because he’s not good enough? When I’ve walked that rebellion and felt that rejection and seen the shadow side of my heart?

The King is there, waiting. His shoulders are slumped, his eyes… I look away from them, the lump in my throat a painful stone I can’t swallow. I am glad it’s not up to me. I am not the one who gets to decide Cain’s fate. I am not the judge. I’m not even sure Jesus is either – I don’t think any of us really understand that word the way it was meant. Besides, Cain has already judged himself – even before he killed Abel.

“Where’s your brother?” The King isn’t asking because he doesn’t know. He’s effectively reaching out and turning Cain’s chin towards the place where he killed Abel, not allowing him to pretend it didn’t happen.

Cain’s face twists in rage. He faces this God he hates as deeply as his brother and himself. Maybe more. The gulf between them widens. “What, am I his keeper? How should I know where he is?”

“Even now the land you love cries out to me with your brother’s blood. I know, Cain.” Jesus’s knees give way then, an anguish so deep and thunderous in his voice that tears spill automatically down my cheeks.

“Don’t you get it?” He says, his voice hoarse, frustration in his tightly clenched hands, “You will not be able to work this land you love so much – not now, not without being haunted by what you did. You will go out from my presence and even then you will find no peace no matter how far you wander.” The sound of his voice is unending grief, the loss in his eyes is not just for Abel’s death. He cherishes life, he values it above almost all things. Except for the heart of those he loves. Which is just as much Cain as it is Abel. His grief for Cain and the consequences of what he’s done is just as deep. It is not Abel that must live within the hell his decision has birthed. It is not Abel who is lost right now.

Cain is silent as the realization settles over him. As the rage cools and his brain starts processing. As he looks out over his beloved wheat fields first, and his gaze immediately sidles away, seeing only where he struck his brother down, hearing still the sounds of it, knowing his brother’s body still lies there, hidden in the wheat. It strikes him like he’s metal on an anvil – he’s unable to face the place he’s tended since he was a child. Sweat breaks out on his skin. He will no longer stand in wheat up to his chest and watch the sun rise, feel the peace of the land. He looks towards his mother and father’s dwellings in the distance, the safety he can never go back to, not after what he stole from them. He’s convinced he is the monster he feared he was, and he hates it.

He’s unable to catch a breath, panic floods his soul when he realizes he cannot take it back. He cannot fix it. To Cain there is no redemption from what he did. He thinks the God he doesn’t trust was right to reject him. His eyes finally meet Jesus’s. A pit yawns between them, stretching out to eternity, filling Cain’s soul with emptiness. He can not bear to be in the presence of this King who sees him and the darkness he thinks he is at his core.

“I can’t bear it.” The words are a harsh, broken rasp. All he can see now is his hand raised against his brother, striking him down. The vision plays itself on repeat. Fear trickles in to his every pore, covering his soul. If he can do such a thing to his little brother, then what would happen out there? Alone? He cannot trust anyone. Not now that he knows what people can hide. “Someone will kill me.”

Jesus stands up, his shoulders bowed, he can barely speak. His eyes reflect the weight and the sorrow of the alienation between them. Not separated – no. But a gulf of misunderstanding, of mistrust. He brushes a finger across Cain’s forehead and when he withdraws it he only says, “They will not.”

Cain turns away, breaking into a stumbling run, putting as much distance between himself and the Judge who sees as he can. Not finding any comfort in the mark Jesus left upon him to keep him safe.

I stand there and cry, great gulping sobs that wrack my shoulders. For Cain. For myself when I am just like him. Hell is an awful place to run into for escape. To see it happen so vividly is like watching loneliness swallow someone whole. Jesus stands beside me, and I turn to see the tears streaming down his face. He hates this more than me. He has to watch it happen, knowing every moment of self-separation and hardship Cain will walk.

“Did you see it, Ker?” He murmurs as he gathers me close. “The mark?”

I shake my head.

“Hupostasis.” He murmurs the greek word to me, tracing its letters across my palm. The one I just learned about that is tied to the concept of faith and something unbreakable. His eyes are on the far horizon, and they clear somewhat as he looks to the future and his promise of what he will accomplish there to knit us together and erase the shame that periodically keeps me from finding him. “My promise. My will and my faith.”

Here I am at the end, and I am still uncomfortable with this post. Maybe it’s just supposed to be that way. There is no math problem, no formula, no scientific explanation to any of this battle between our perceptions of God and self and our reactions that rise from them – there is no trite fix. I don’t know how much of Cain will be left at the end of his road – how much fire he’ll walk through before he lets himself find redemption, before he’s able to look back at himself, at the God who loves his soul and find forgiveness. Maybe his walls stay built against God all the way til death and beyond. Jesus is not a pansy – not a pushover, not a tame easy-to-manipulate thing. And if he speaks a truth we’d rather not look at (when we’ve forgotten who we’re meant to be), it can feel sharp and slicing. But what I do know is that when I look at this story with Jesus, I see a love that lasts beyond Cain’s hate. Beyond his rebellion. It stretches out further than all other things. Working slow and careful. It doesn’t mean they aren’t there – that they don’t linger, and cause pain. But with Jesus, grace always comes with truth. It’s clear that Cain didn’t trust the God he knew. But Jesus – he spent the majority of the story speaking to Cain, reaching for his heart, he offered protection even after Cain lashed out. I don’t know for sure if the mark Jesus put on Cain has something to do with hupostasis – that is my own theory and hope. He let Cain go into exile. He didn’t stop the murder from happening.

What I do know, is that the mark Jesus gave Cain tells a story of how he will follow Cain into exile. It’s about his promise that he will follow a single lost sheep for as far and as long as he needs to.