Abel is a Trailblazer

(This is the Through the Eyes of series. This installment explores Genesis 4:2–8 from Abel’s perspective. It is a natural sequel to my first piece- Through the Eyes of Cain. There are no depictions of graphic violence in this piece. Instead, it delves into Abel’s experiences, pondering what could have been the reason for God’s acceptance of his sacrifice? Why do the rabbinic sages view him as a righteous person? A term not loosely thrown around. So righteous that some of them say his soul was reincarnated as Moses. We will not be covering that directly. This piece incorporates artistic license to offer a deeper, more personal interpretation. To fully engage with this reflection, consider reading Through the Eyes of Cain. Enjoy)

Sheep are silly.

They form a herd, yet remain disoriented. Alone, they are troubled and vulnerable- trapped by any crevice they stumble upon.

Even unified, survival is uncertain- without claws or sharp teeth, they’re easy prey for any predator. And still, I can’t help but love them. They are good. 

They are simple and flourish in peacefulness. My mother named me Hevel, denoting vapor, a short breath. But she never clarified why Hevel.

It was puzzling. However, when I feel my breath, it is in times of peace. It's when I notice the flock doing their little pitter patters. Watching them plop on the ground when fear is out of sight and stillness overwhelms them.

Is it then when they lie down by green pastures. I then lie with them. Listening to each of them move their tushes against the wet ground, readjusting for their own comfort.

During all of this, I hear my breath. Being with these lovely, dependent animals. Breathing in and out. A posture they had taught me—something not so deeply hidden within me after all—it was shalom.

Our initial relationship wasn't without difficulty.

It started after my family and I left the garden- I saw an ewe lost and trapped. She cried out, wedged between the cleft of the rocks—helpless and alone

Dying to be heard. Shrieking for rescue from her distress. Knowing at any moment a predator might arise. Shaking, crying, longing. She needs others to survive. She needs help.

Inside myself, I longed for her, within me I said that I will act. I rushed to her—reaching the cleft, grasping her limbs, and struggling to pull her free. As I pulled, she fought against me, kicking and scratching me, until I bled. No amount of bleeding was going to stop me. I was not going to let her die.

Eventually, she went limp. It gave me a brief moment to free her. I pulled with all my strength, harder than ever before, and then—plop. She was free.I breathed a sigh of relief.

What an amazin-

She then kicked me again and ran away. It hurt, but joy surged through my bones, and tears streamed from my eyes. She was free. And then—the laughter.

I prayed to Adonai, with a thankful heart. Trying to make sure she was safe, I followed her and saw she somehow was restored to her flock.

Amazing.

After this experience I never saw them the same.

I visited daily; at first, they were frightened of me. They would rush and trot away faster than I could sprint. Maybe thinking I was a predator? After many days, they began to eat the grass I brought. A mouthful from my hand, then returning to a safe distance from me.

Eventually, their fear faded, and they recognized me. Then they started to follow me, and later, they listened to my voice. Trailing behind at all times. They don't understand the words I use, but they are attuned to my tone and posture.

Inevitably, a member of my flock would stray, but I would go and find them. Retrieving them from any bush or valley they were in. I would go to the highest mountains. Also to the lowest depths. Placing them on my shoulders, I carried them back with joy. Every time a lost one was returned, my delight was even greater than the one who was retrieved.

I would not lose any of these little ones.

We would wander from one place to another. Looking for spots to feed and where we may rest. Grass was sparse in the land. Somehow, there was always enough. Occasionally, I had to hurry them along in one location to let the land breathe- but all it only took was my voice.

If they gorged themselves, there would be none left for us in the future, or the other creatures directly afterward. When we came to streams, the flock drank, leaning forward and not letting their feet muddy the waters. Maintaining the peace of where we found it.

Oh, how they hear my voice. They are comforted. Trusting in me. As I cared for them, they offered me their milk, sustaining me. It always felt like there was a force guiding and leading me. Speaking to me in the routine and in the silence. Making sure I was fed.

What am I, if not a sheep for Adonai? Has he not provided for me? Protected me? Given me his words to recognize him? To trust and be comforted. Does he not let me lie down in green pastures?

He loves me as I love my sheep. Everything Adonai makes is good. He will not lose me. He is my shepherd and I will shepherd them. “Let us make mankind in our own image.”

My flock even clothed me in their wool.

They followed the blessings of Adonai  “be fruitful and multiply” I saw them multiply. Many lambs in the spring. Following their mothers as they follow me. Their cries would make your heart melt in everlasting bliss.

One day, as we walked outside of the garden and we found more grass, but in unnatural formations.

It was my brother’s field. I saw my brother, Kayin, taking what looked like some produce from this field. It had been so long, I saw how he was nearly naked, and with cuts all over.

He was bruised and scarred. When I came up to him, I kissed him. I pulled the thorns from his thin, malnourished body. Putting the sheep's wool on him as clothes. Looking into his eyes. Seeing that he had been through a lot. He was thankful but seemed distracted.

He told me he was going to give something to Adonai. He explained to me this “offering". I was amazed. What a brilliant idea by my brother. I had never thought of getting to give Adonai something.

I went along with him. He took me to this mountain named Moriah. At it’s peak, there were rocks organized together into what he called an altar. Kayin gave the produce I had seen him carrying.

Then it was my turn, but I was so distracted by his bruises and cuts—and focusing on getting us there safely—that I forgot that I was supposed to bring something.

What could I give to Adonai? Everything belongs to him. My brother had his harvest. But I had grown nothing. I had made nothing appear from the ground.

I then remembered who Adonai was. Who He is like, what He had given me. I gave him one from my flock. A firstborn. In my heart, I said: "Thank You, Adonai, my Shepherd. The Shepherd of all. I offer this with love." I stepped back.

After I gave my offering, something like fire came down and consumed it. I smiled and let out a small breath from this pleasing aroma. With fury, my brother left quickly, kicking his feet behind him. I was too in awe to fully notice.

I walked around this mountain feeding my sheep, remembering how good this world is. I pondered about the wonder of it all.

Thankful to Adonai for His care, to my father for teaching me through his relationship with the animals, to my mother for the name and identity she gave me, to my sheep for reflecting who I am, and to my brother for this holy experience.

He had made something sacred. He allowed me to be a part of it. Without him, we would not have experienced such a divine moment. Thinking of his kicking, his running, his wounds- I became distressed.

I left my flock. I ran.

I arrived at his field and saw an enclosure—I assumed he was inside. So, I waited outside his hut. Maybe we can speak. He seems like he needs me—how could I have forgotten him?

It seems like he needs to know how much I love him. He needs a shepherd, or rather he needs a brother and I need my brother.