Timshel

John Steinbeck may not be the most obvious place to begin a discussion on biblical philology and theology, but for the purposes of understanding the drama of the Garden of Eden, if not the human condition as a whole, it is as good a place as any. The passage can be found in chapter 24 of Steinbeck’s famed 1952 novel East of Eden. Three central characters – Lee, Adam, and Samuel Hamilton – debate the meaning of the sixteen verses of the fourth chapter of Genesis, better known to us as the story of Cain and Abel.

Familiar as it may be, the background is important to review: Cain and Abel are the two sons born to the first couple, Adam and Eve. Both make offerings to the Lord. Abel’s is received, but to Cain and his offering the Lord paid no heed. Cain is downcast and depressed, and God addresses him: “Why are you distressed and why is your face fallen? Surely if you do right, there is uplift. But if you do not do right sin crouches at your door; its urge is toward you, and you … v’atah timshel bo.” (4:6-7)

Traditionally, the focus of our attention is on the subsequent murder of Abel, Cain’s reprimand and punishment by God, and the consequences of the incident on the rest of human history. But for the characters in Steinbeck’s novel, the focus is on that one word timshel, which I consciously did not translate. In the King James version, Lee explains, timshel is translated “You shall rule over it.” In other words, God extends to Cain a promise that he will conquer sin. In the American Standard Bible, however, Lee continues, the word timshel is translated differently, as “Do thou rule over [it].” By this translation, God’s words to Cain are not so much a promise, but an order: “Do thou,” a commandment to Cain that he triumph over sin.

Steinbeck’s Lee relates how, faced with competing translations, his Chinese relatives immersed themselves in the study of Hebrew in order to discover the true meaning of that one particular Hebrew word – timshel – a word that, in their estimation, was the key to unlocking not just the meaning of the biblical narrative, but “might be the most important word in the world.” How that one word is understood, they reasoned, would clarify the degree to which, and the manner by which, a person can contend with sin and adversity. For years, the Chinese men engaged a learned rabbi, taking to the study of Hebrew grammar and vocabulary, eventually surpassing even their teacher’s knowledge – all for the purpose of understanding this one word, which, after two years' time, they finally concluded meant neither “Thou shalt rule,” nor “Do thou rule,” but “Thou mayest rule.” God’s counsel to Cain was not that if he set his mind to it he would or should triumph over sin, but rather that he “may” triumph. In other words, it would be neither predestination nor obedience that would determine his fate, but his own choice. He “may” do it, but he also “may not.” God had empowered Cain to make the decision on his own. Steinbeck explains that these sixteen verses are not just the tale of two biblical brothers, but “a history of humankind in any culture or race,” a signal to Cain and all his descendants that “[one] can choose his course and fight it through and win.” “Think,” writes Steinbeck, “of the glory of the choice! That makes a man a man. A cat has no choice, a bee must make honey. There’s no godliness there. ... But this [thou mayest]—this is a ladder to climb to the stars … It cuts the feet from under weakness and cowardliness and laziness … The way is open, the choice is thrown onto Cain and all of humanity.” 

As I opened up the book of Genesis once again this year, I was struck by the fact that almost none of the characters in this book, a book ostensibly all about new beginnings, is ever really extended the courtesy of a fresh start. Everyone is thrust into less than ideal circumstances. Think about it. Even before Adam and Eve arrive in this world, the tree bearing the forbidden fruit lurks temptingly in the center of the Garden. Noah is born into a world filled with violence. Over and over again, Abraham is tested. As for Abraham’s son Isaac, having survived a near death experience as a child, he spends the rest of his post-traumatic life triangulated between the love of his wife Rebecca and that of his sons Esau and Jacob. Jacob spends the first half of his life fleeing his past and his later years believing that his beloved son Joseph had been torn apart by wild beasts. As for Joseph, by the time he was seventeen years old, he had already been thrown into a pit and sold into slavery. Ishmael and Esau, Leah and Rachel, Dinah – any of them you name – the hand the Bible deals its central characters is almost always unfair. And nobody understood this painful reality more than Cain himself. As Elie Wiesel explains in his treatment of our narrative: “Cain … was guilty of no wrongdoing; he had transgressed no interdiction. Not yet. Indeed, he had not done or said anything as yet. Even his thoughts about God seem almost irreproachable … And what did Cain receive in exchange? A rejection … Offended, unjustly rejected, encumbered with offerings nobody wanted …” (Messengers of God, p. 45) Indefensible as Cain’s act of violence may have been, there is no getting around that his story is a tale of a good person thrust into an unfair situation, placed into circumstances that were decidedly not of his own choosing.

And yet it is precisely this acknowledgement of just how unfair and unjust the circumstances are that Cain and his biblical contemporaries faced, that serves to clarify the nature of biblical morality. Steinbeck correctly understood that the stories of Genesis are driven not by the context in which the protagonists find themselves, but by the degree to which they wrestle with and triumph over the “thou mayests” of their lives. Abraham fails in his attempt to save Sodom and Gemorrah, but he is a hero because when he could have walked away, he instead chooses to argue the case before God. Jacob’s moral rehabilitation occurs only when he puts himself at personal risk to reconcile with his brother Esau rather than deceive him as he did in the days of his youth. To the very end of his life, Joseph may have been a bit of a dandy and braggart, but history judges him a tzaddik, a righteous person, because when given the opportunity to lie with Mrs. Potiphar, he chooses otherwise, and, more importantly, when given the opportunity to exact vengeance on his brothers, he opts for reconciliation. Each and every biblical figure of note, at some point, stares a “thou mayest” in the eyes. They may choose one path, they may choose another; the calculus of biblical theology always insists on the choice being given. Our heroes are the ones who, when faced with the choice, choose godliness. Our biblical tragedies, as in the case of Cain, are those who choose poorly, allowing themselves to be overwhelmed by their baser instincts.

From the opening chapters of Genesis to Steinbeck to the narratives of our own lives, not a whole lot has changed. The stakes of our narratives may not be on a biblical scale, but I would dare say that each and every one of us has, at some point, felt the sting of being denied the courtesy of a proper “In the beginning.” There is nobody who walks this earth, without, as my insurance carrier puts it, a pre-existing condition – physical, emotional, familial or otherwise. A challenge to our own health or to the health of a loved one, a loss, a setback that is not our doing but is, nonetheless, a circumstance with which we must contend. Not Adam and Eve, not anyone enters this world without a bit or a whole lot of adversity. Even if you are one of the lucky ones who walk this world uplifted by the blessings of your existence, even you too must know that sin always crouches at the door. We are all, always, just a half step away from sliding into the baser potentialities of human nature. Anger, callousness, pettiness, pride, brutishness, you name it, these behaviors may always be our fate if we allow it to be the case. The key word is “may,” because they need not be. As American author Napoleon Hill once wrote: “Every adversity, every failure, every heartache carries with it the seed of an equal or greater benefit.” Whether we choose to see that benefit, whether we choose to act to make that benefit a reality – that is a choice that is ours alone.

The title of one of Rabbi Steinberg’s sermons, which became the title of one of his sermon collections, is “Only Human, The Eternal Alibi.” Far too often, far too many of us see the limitations of our humanity as an alibi. Our behavior, our potential is self-circumscribed by our personal foibles and the cracks of this broken world that we inhabit. “Look at the hand I have been dealt, look at this world in which we live – what do you want from me?” We forget that as Jews, being aware of the shortcomings built into both our humanity and the world we inhabit does not permit us to avoid responsibility; nor for that matter, does it allow for our aspirations to be set any lower than they would be otherwise. To be human means to set the bar high. We are, as the prayer book teaches, a little less than angels – humans created in the likeness of God’s image. We may always choose to climb that ladder to the stars. Each one of us is extended the choice whether to be a spiritual pauper or an aristocrat of the soul. Each one of us has the God-given potential for moral grandeur. In this new year, let us use the gift of choice wisely, and boldly choose to make the year ahead one of blessing for us all.