The “genesis” of this series of sermons was a book
published last March. The author is Marilynne
Robinson, my favorite writer and one of our great
living novelists. Dr. Robinson’s work pulses with the
influence of her deeply held Christian faith. Her novels
have been described by critics as luminous, filled with
a holy beauty. Robinson taught for many years at the
renowned Iowa Writer’s Workshop (once the academic
home to Kurt Vonnegut among others) and has also
written several excellent books of essays on topics
ranging from natural science to American history. But
this most recent book is different. The title says it all.
Reading Genesis. This is precisely what Marilynne
Robinson does for over two hundred provocative and
evocative pages. As soon as I read the book, this series
sprang to life. The Book of Genesis is a collection of
stories. And so, for the next five Sundays, we’re going to
explore five narratives, five moments in the Bible’s first
book that cast light on God’s relationship to humanity
and the reality of human beauty and brokenness.
We begin with brothers. The first two. The theme will
be recurrent in Genesis and in my household. Two
sons. Different in every imaginable way. Different
from the outset. Different in interest and aptitude.
Cain, the older brother, the farmer, the tiller of the
soil, the worker of the land. Abel, the younger brother,
the herdsman, the shepherd. Both boys present to
God a portion of their labor, and in a choice clearly
counter to custom in ancient culture, God accepts the
sacrifice of the younger brother and refuses Cain’s
gift. This too will be repeated in the Bible’s first book.
The Almighty has a soft spot for younger siblings.
There is no explanation for God’s decision. The act
is simply stated, and God’s sovereignty remains
unquestioned. The story is pointing to a different truth.
For his part, Cain is filled with rage. Despite God’s
invitation to a moment of self-reflection and a direct,
divine warning to consider carefully his next move,
Cain acts with great speed. He lures his brother
Abel into a field, and there he commits the Bible’s
first murder. For those keeping track, we are four
chapters from creation.
It is a critical moment in the course of human history.
How will God respond? First, with a question: “Where
is your brother?” What is this question? Is it an
accusation simply posing as a query? Or perhaps
one more chance to take responsibility for his action,
to recognize the wrong Cain has done? The story
points to something true about God and something
true about us. Cain—the main character and now
the only human character in this drama—deflects
and obfuscates. What? How should I know? Am I my
brother’s keeper? The rhetorical question represents
a sad and tragic moment as the distance between
God and this human creature grows. We recognize his
humanity. We see it as our own.
Aware of his sinful deed, he nonetheless denies. And
then, God acts. The consequence of Cain’s action will
be banishment from the land now soaked with his
brother’s blood. Only then, like the child whose rage
turns to remorse only after required reflection, Cain
releases a flood of emotion.
The nuance of the Hebrew language here is hard to
convey, but its brilliance is stunning. Our translation
renders his response: “My punishment is more than
I can bear.” But an equally valid translation of the
Hebrew would be: “My crime is more than I can bear.”
And both are true. Cain now grieves his act and
laments its effect. He simply assumes that the taking
of his brother’s life means that his is over as well. And
it is a fair assumption. In fact, one that ancient readers
of this story would surely have made. But that’s not
what happens. On the contrary, Cain is given divine
protection. If you read further in the narrative, Cain
builds a city. He has a son. He becomes the beginning
of artisans and shopkeepers, of commerce. Though
Cain’s story contains tragedy, this is not how it ends.
I realized that I have always assumed the mark Cain
received was meant as a symbol of a curse. But
it was Marilynne Robinson who pointed me to a
deeper current in this story, where we find instead
God’s profound restraint in the face of human anger,
vengeance, and evil. The sign of his sin is a mark of
God’s mercy. Robinson recounts an experience she had
once teaching a course on Genesis for her church in
Iowa City. Can you imagine Marilynne Robinson as your
Sunday school teacher? As they read this story of Cain
and Abel, one of the university students who was sitting
in on the class at the church, raised a hand and asked,
“What kind of a God would not kill a man who kills his
brother?” It’s a profound question. One that Robinson
believes is “relevant to the whole of scripture.”
What kind of a God would choose restraint over
retribution? Answer: a God whose relationship to
creation is defined by undeserved grace. God makes
room for redemption. Robinson writes, “We are…to
learn that mercy is nearer than justice to godliness,
that mercy can release an abundance far exceeding
whatever might come of attempting to impose justice.”
This is a confounding conviction. It complicates all
our assumptions about the nature of reality and the
will of God. Restraint. We find it woven throughout
the narrative of Genesis. We see it in the way God
deals with humanity’s sin at every turn. In the Garden
of Eden, after Adam and Eve eat the fruit, God does
not destroy them. God provides for them, an act
of extraordinary grace. After the flood, despite the
wickedness of humankind, God makes covenant with
Noah, promising never to destroy the earth again.
Divine restraint.
In the coming weeks, we will find the theme
running through the stories of Genesis. Again,
Marilynne Robinson has the right words. “The tacit
withholding of expected punishment may be the
primary point of these stories.”
But why? Why would God choose mercy over justice?
Why would God choose grace in the place of vengeance?
Friends, this is important. In the Book of Genesis, God
is not just another character. The distance between
the Creator and his creation is firmly established
from the outset. This is distinct from the ancient
mythologies that provided its context. The God of
Genesis is absolutely sovereign. Human vision is
temporal, but God’s vision is unbound by time. And
so, what God sees in Cain, in us, is not only a past but
also potential. Not only our brokenness but also our
beauty. God’s demand for justice is tempered by the
seed of possibility planted within us, the truth that
God-given goodness is at the heart of our humanity.
If God exercises restraint, if God prioritizes mercy,
we must do the same. So, what shape could this
take within and among us? In an era defined by
a constant rush to self-righteous judgment, could
the practice of restraint offer a Godlier approach?
Through the lens of divine mercy, could we see
the beauty and the sacredness of those we would
otherwise deem unworthy of forgiveness? Could we
begin with ourselves?
Cain sees his crime and the punishment he no doubt
deserves. God sees a future for this sinful, broken man.
Cain is protected. Cain is given a way to start over.
Listen, if you want a book of stories that satisfy our
human need for retributive justice, you’ll have to look
elsewhere. God’s response is not fair. It is merciful.
One of the most powerful books I’ve read in the last
decade is Bryan Stevenson’s memoir Just Mercy.
Stevenson, founder of the Equal Justice Initiative, is
an attorney who has spent his entire career defending
disadvantaged clients, seeking to overturn wrongful
convictions, and advocating for a more humane
judicial system. In the book, reflecting on that work,
Stevenson writes, “I have come to believe that the
true measure of our commitment to justice, the
character of our society, our willingness to recognize
the humanity of others, is not only in how we treat
the powerful, the privileged, and the respected. But
in how we treat the poor, the disfavored, the accused,
the incarcerated, and the condemned. No one is the
worst thing they’ve ever done.”
I wonder if we can believe that this is true, that grace
can change broken people, people like us.
If our God is defined by undeserved mercy, then
people of faith are not given the luxury of giving up
on anyone. We simply do not get to draw the lines
around God’s redeeming love.
As long as I live, I will never forget the words of
Orval Wintermute, my professor, pastor, and mentor,
who died last month at the age of ninety-seven. I
was a college sophomore, struggling with questions
of how we know who belongs and where to draw
lines of exclusion. Dr. Wintermute, a student of the
Socratic method, listened attentively, and only after
listening asked me, “Well, do you think it is possible to
overestimate the love of God?”
When we draw lines that limit God’s mercy, we’ve
overstepped our limits. Redemption is never
beyond reach.
Despite the accumulated baggage of the centuries,
Cain is not a monster. He is a man. He represents
us all. Subject to sin. Prone to wander. Fallen.
Fallible. And deserving of mercy. Why? Because he
is the creation of a loving and compassionate God.
Why? Because the potential within him remains
undiminished by the most heinous act of his life.
There is no overestimating God’s love. This is the
nature of grace. Like the gifts of this table.
Ours to receive. Ours to share. Amen.