I. Growing up, I felt an amazing sense of freedom. The world was open to possibility. I would walk for miles in every direction -- sometimes to pass the time and other times as our family searched for new soil to cultivate. And no matter where we walked, there was never an end in sight -- just wide-open spaces that stretched on forever. There was so much possibility in this space. I knew that my brother and I would have children and grandchildren enough to fill this world. Surely, God created us for great things.
II. Yet as I grew older I started to lose sight of this. The weight of the endless possibilities started to be a load upon my shoulders. I soon began to wonder if somewhere in that wide-open space God had created another family, and if not, why us? Why us with such a great capacity to sin? You see, I began to hear the stories of my parents' exile from the garden of Eden, which means "luxuriance." They were exiled from luxury for their sin, and they did not fit in this new land. This land that had been so open for me, and so full of possibility, had been a source of contention for my father. I loved to work with the land-- smoothing out the rough places, opening up the pinecones and fruits and sliding my fingers inside to take out their seeds, planting seeds deep in the ground, caring for them and watching them grow. When we grew old enough, my brother and I knew we had to choose what to do to maintain our living. It did not make sense that we both would do the work of our father -- both farming and caring for the animals--so we chose to each do what we liked best. For me, I knew automatically. I loved the soil and wanted that to be my work. In part, it was a way for me to make up for my parents' actions. This may be their punishment, but I would make things right again. Abel, my younger brother, chose to shepherd the animals. These were the animals our father had named, and he wanted to carry on that name. And so, here we were-- me striving to rectify the past, and him, striving ahead for our father's attention.
III. We worked well in this way for many years, side by side providing for our parents, and for our brothers and sisters as they came along. One day, the idea came to Abel that we should give back part to our God. He had provided so much to us, and it seemed only right to give part back. My father loved the idea, and I? I thought it was another attempt for my brother to take the forefront. Our parents' love was not enough -- was not I too providing in equal amount for our welfare. He wanted God's approval as well. I went along with the idea though--how could I not? As I was picking my crops, though, I couldn't help but pause. How does one determine what is the best for God? Is it wrong to want the best for my family? They are here. They are tangible. What I give to God, I cannot give to my family. And so, as I wandered the fields, I picked the second best. I picked a beautiful array -- of fruits and vegetables of every variety and fine wheat and grain that I had watched over all year with gentle care. I was pleased with my work, and I hoped silently that it was enough. I brought my offering first to the altar we had constructed. I hoped my eagerness might erase my doubt. But, alas, Abel arrived with the best of his flock, and he made great show of his sacrifice. Afterward, God commended him, and to me, he said nothing.
IV. Then, finally, he spoke, but his words were too big, and I did not understand. He said, "Sin's urge is toward you, yet you can be its master." Was it sin to give God second best? What was sin? I had known my parents' sin, but I did not yet know the capacity of my own. I did not understand.
V. The weight continued to build. Now, I had the possibility for good things so strong upon my shoulders that there was hardly any room for freedom. I wanted to rectify the mistakes of my parents. I wanted to love my brother. I wanted to follow God's words for me. I waited and I wrestled with these things upon my heart, but the load only grew and my heart became to heavy to love anything-- not even myself, for I felt worthless.
VI. And so, one day, I called for my brother in the fields, and I killed him. And then, I hid from God.
VII. It was rash, adn the guild was too much to even comprehend the details. Had I truly stabbed him with his own knife? I, who had never hunted? I, whose work was with the gentle care of plants had slain my brother. And I did not know what I was doing. But one thing I knew. Suddenly, that immense weight had been lifted. The pressure had broken from all sides -- for I was in hiding even from myself. And yet, I did not feel free. What had been a sense of purpose, though burdening, had been replaced with the weights of guilt and remorse-- under which I was helpless.
VIII. And so, God found me in this state, cowering. And as he demanded to know what I had done with my brother, his words were deafening to my ears. They rushed at high speed and stole all else from my mind. Was I my brother's keeper? I did not know, for I could not claim something I had not fulfilled. When God had finished speaking, I was low to the ground. It was my good-bye. For I could no longer work with the soil I loved. The blood of Abel was there now, and nothing was any longer as God had intended. I had violated nature's trust and it had rejected me in turn. I lay low to the ground, and I pleaded with God. I begged him, "At least, Lord, as I am wandering, may one along the road kill me." But that was not to be. I had killed my flesh. His blood shed was not only his own but that of his descendents. God knew I must live with this memory in order to be healed. But I was scared. A life of wandering was not for me -- to leave the famiyl I had provided for? to leave the rich land I had cultivated? I had no idea what was to come or even what I might encounter-- only that I would live through anything. I stood in the still wind, facing East-- even further away from the garden where it had all begun-- wondering that God had marked even me. God had marked even me.
Amen
