As you’ve noticed, no doubt, I’m working through some of the ancient stories in the Hebrew book of Genesis. Gleaning them for wisdom that we might apply to this project of being human, and making things better in the world. That’s what I’ve been doing the past few weeks. I preach about one of the stories on Sunday, then brush them up a little bit to share with you here on Substack. I’ve been tackling the stories in order. Sunday was Mother’s Day. The story that came up for Mother’s Day was the one about Cain and Abel. For the biblically uninitiated, that one’s not a conventional choice for a Mother’s Day reflection. It is a tale about the first man to have ever had a human mother, so there’s that. But in the story he ends up murdering his younger brother. It’s not a feel-good story. But I love a challenge from the pulpit. So I took a swing. Found my angle. And this is what I preached… This story doesn’t tell us how Eve responded to the drama and tragedy between her first two sons. We can only speculate about her grief and confusion. What we are shown are the ways that God mothers Cain through the movements of this story, giving him every chance to become himself—and when he loses himself, to be restored. Stories are meaning-making devices. They help us make meaning of the world—as we’ve seen the past couple of weeks. Two weeks ago, the stories of creation. Where do we come from? How is it that we live in a world so full of wonder? What is the origin of our experience of delight? Then, last week, the stories of our first ancestors and their stumbling out of innocence and into the possibilities and challenges of spiritual maturity. What do we do with this complicated world? Where delight and shame mingle? Where we’re compelled to grow things, birth things, love things—but where it’s also painful, where we must risk harm to grow and birth and love? These sorts of stories are not only about making meaning, but are also meant to change us. They are meant to invite us into personal growth and change. And meant to invite us into making a change in the world, seeing the world as it is and birthing new possibilities. Today’s story of Eve’s firstborn, Cain—like so many of our ancient stories—has been used and explored to make meaning for thousands of years in as many different ways. The meaning that we glean, and the change that we make, every time we read a story, hear a story, tell a story is affected by two things: * It’s affected by the perspective that we bring to the story—how we see the world, our biases and conclusions that we are already holding, affect what we might glean from any given narrative. * And it’s affected by the need that we bring to the story—this is related to the first, we come to stories seeking solutions to the problems that we face; seeking solutions to the problems that we give the greatest weight and priority to. So acknowledging that—acknowledging our influence in the task of reading sacred text and heeding what wisdom might be revealed to us there—I invite you, with me, to purposefully bring a particular perspective and expectation to this story. As we look at this ancient story, let’s look for the mothering ways of God—how the sweet spirit of the divine meets the deep longing of our hearts. And let’s look for how God invites us to participate in more motherful ways—how She moves us to meet the deep needs of our world. When I use the word “motherful” I am borrowing the word and its meaning from the queer, Black author, alexis pauline gumbs, who identifies as a ‘love evangelist’ and calls all humans, regardless of gender, into practices of mothering. A motherful world, she says, is one that is oriented toward ways of being that are most nourishing and lifegiving for the collective, for the common good. Motherful ways are unrelenting in their hope for life, in their conviction that love and creation are more powerful than any form of violence, sickness, or domination. And just to be clear—this reflection that I’m offering here is for everyone. To my brothers specifically—I think one of the most generous responses to Mother’s Day, one of the best ways to honor the mothers of this world would be for all men and male-identified souls everywhere to imbue their masculinity with motherful ways of being. So let’s crowdsource this a bit: What do you think are the qualities of a motherful world? Some of what came through from the folks I walk with at a little church in Maine: Listening. Empathy. To know what it is to be seen. Being present. Accompaniment. Unconditional love. Tenderness and compassion. Touch. Forgiveness. Patience. Hugs. Sacrifice. Joy. Laughter. Hope. Strength. Encouragement. Feeding us. Nurture. You have a list, too, don’t you? Funny how envy doesn’t go on the list, isn’t it? Neither does violence. Or retribution. The motherful ways of God, as we’re about to see in the story of Cain, call us back to ourselves as the remedy for envy. They hold us to account when we’re out of line. And they protect us, in order to provide the space that we need to participate in the processes of restoration. The story begins with Eve becoming the first mother. “With the help of the spirit of creation,” she says. “With the help of the Mother Hen Spirit that hovered over the waters at the beginning of everything—I’ve made this child. Brewed him into being just beneath my heart, and broke the waters and puffed him with breath and filled him with milk.” “With God’s help,” she says. “I’ve gained this child.” So she gives him the name Cain, which means acquired or gained, but we know might also mean learned, developed, grown. Which is good, because Cain has a lot of growing to do as a man. And Eve births another boy, and names him Abel, which means vapor or mist. Which is an interesting choice for a name, but makes sense in this story because this story is not about Abel. This story is about Cain. And Abel’s presence in this story is fleeting from the beginning. Time passes. And Cain and Abel both set out to do what they’re here to do. Cain is growing food and Abel is raising livestock. And then there’s this matter of them both making offerings to God, because we all know that God loves a farmer’s market, and delights when you gather for Her bouquets of flowers. And in the story there is seemingly something about Abel’s offerings that is pure and natural, and there is something about Cain’s offerings that is contrived or forced. And God can see that Cain is struggling to live with the same sort of authenticity that seems to come so naturally to Abel. And Cain can sense that God can see this. And Cain goes into a sulk. Now that’s relatable, isn’t it? We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Focusing so much on the gifts and blessings of others that we forget to live our own authentic lives. We forget that we also have a contribution to make. Not one that we need to force. Not something that we have to do, or that we ought to do, or that we should be doing. Not something that is a responsibility or a duty, even. But a contribution that it is our privilege and joy to produce. It can take a lifetime of practice to learn to recognize what it is that is ours to give. But also, in another way, it becomes clear instantaneously—doesn’t it?—the moment we are doing what we’re here to do. It flows through us as naturally as a river hugging her banks, when we let it flow. Alas, we all too often dam ourselves up with envy and petty resentments. But God is a loving mother, calling us back to ourselves, because God knows that living the life that is ours to live—that that is the best remedy for envy. So God says to Cain, “Why this tantrum? Why the sulking? If you do well, won’t you be accepted?” As if to say: “As often as you focus on a life that is not yours to live, you will be out of line. You’ll stray from your path. Cain, get back to being you.” This maternal wisdom doesn’t sink in for Cain. He’s too bent out of shape. And envy festers into resentment, and resentment decomposes into rage, and rage compels him toward violence, and with the impulse to do violence at the helm: Cain destroys life. Cain kills his brother. Rather than doing the work of living his own life, Cain takes the life of another. And God—who is always confounded by violence—says: “What have you done!?” And this is where we expect God to vindicate Abel, the innocent one, by punishing Cain; by delivering retributive justice. Lex talionis. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Which is, after all, only fair. And is itself a legal code that helps to reign in vengeance. In the ancient world, this ‘eye for an eye’ kept punishments from being disproportionate to crimes. But God is always confounded by violence. She doesn’t understand the return of violence for violence. Her way is a better way. The motherful God does always hold us to account when we’re out of line. She is not blind to sin. She does not simply disregard misuses and abuses of power—instead she applies a muscular love that overpowers violence. She makes known to Cain: “There are consequences to your actions. By letting your anger erupt in destructive violence—rather than channeling your passion through creativity—things will be harder for you. Because violence makes things harder. Makes things worse. Violence makes you a stranger to yourself.” This is motherful truth. And here, this is the moment where the story turns on grace. Grace was, of course, always available to Cain, at every turn. But this is his moment of surrender to the unrelenting love of the motherful God. And God always honors our free will. Until we are willing, God’s love does not take root. But Cain surrenders to the grace of God at this point in the story: “I can’t take it!” he says. “What I’ve done has caught up to me, and
