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.