A saying from the Zohar: On the sixth day, having created man, God said to him: I have worked heretofore, now you shall continue.

A Hasidic story: A disciple made the following remark in front of Rebbe Menahem-Mendl of Kotzk: God, who is perfect, took six days to create a world that is not, how is that possible? The rebbe scolded him:

— Could you have done better?

— Yes, I think so, stammered the disciple, who no longer knew what he was saying.

— You could have done better? the Master cried out. Then what are you waiting for? You don’t have a minute to waste, go ahead, start working!

Says the Midrash: The world we know is not the only one that God has created. God is forever building new ones and then destroying them, for they give Him no pleasure.

CAIN AND ABEL:
THE FIRST
GENOCIDE

ON THE SURFACE, the tale of Cain and Abel, this tale of absolute crime and absolute punishment, is reminiscent of today’s theater of the absurd. Between crime and punishment there appears to be no connection save that of the narratives, which are identical: killer and victim share the same story.

And a gloomy story it is: drab and devoid of beauty, tragic or otherwise, and truth, divine or otherwise—even though it describes a threefold confrontation: between man and God, at once present and hidden, between man and his brother, at once rivals and associates, and ultimately between man and himself, oscillating between good and evil, malediction and grace—timeless forces acting one against the other, one inside the other.

It is the curious and frightening tale of two brothers who, jealous of each other’s belongings, memories and solitude, are unable to coexist in a world they are still alone to possess. And so they call on death to be their arbiter, thus forever justifying darkness and doom—their own and ours.

What we have here is not yet the defiance of a father, Abraham, who much later challenged the Father of all men by leading his son to the altar at His command. Nor are we any longer dealing with the dream that the first man, Adam, in his first dazzling awakening, formed of his destiny and ours.

The place is everywhere, anywhere. The time is after the beginning, after creation, after Shabbat. Hence, the odd feeling of letdown, perhaps guilt, a feeling which normally follows creation, any creation—this is true for any artist, even the Greatest of all. Gloom hangs over the universe; the celebration is over, heaven has left earth behind. God’s creatures are tired. Disillusioned, disenchanted.

We may assume that Adam still felt the effects of the initial creative thrust of cosmic discovery, of the first surprise, that of the disciple admiring the Master’s work. This is no longer true of his sons; they remember only the fall.

There followed a period of transition when man was no longer alone but not yet mortal, therefore not yet fully conscious of his powers and shortcomings. His past was limited to his physical memory, he still did not have a future, yet he was no longer free to reject it: he was condemned to live. Irresistibly drawn to the unknown—though afraid of it—he moved forward, steadily, inexorably, toward murder and remorse. Irrevocable, his act was carried out in bloodshed and not in fervor. Irreversible, his search ended in senseless brutality, in darkness and not in prayer.