Genesis 4: Adam & Eve, Bereaved Parents

"It’s unnatural for parents to bury their child.”  I’ve heard over and over.  People have said it to me, as if they think it’s comforting. (It’s not.) I’ve heard it said by well-meaning clergy at funerals. 

There are bereaved parents who say this, for whom it is comforting. If it comes from them, that’s the exception. In the same way you (the outsider, not the parent) should not impose your theology on a bereaved parent’s experience, so too this is one thing you should not say to them unless they say it first.

Please: Never tell a bereaved parent that a loss is “unnatural.” Certainly don’t say it in a eulogy.  If you’re clergy delivering a eulogy, this is the easiest way for you to show the bereaved that you don’t get it and you haven’t ever been there. This statement tells the hearer that her experience is incomprehensible, unsupportable, and closes a door for important communication between you. It’s a statement to which there’s no invited response. It tells the recipient that they are “over there,” that they are somehow outside the natural order of things. It tells her you don’t believe her experience has happened to anyone else, or could happen, especially to you. It tells her she’s alone. (She doesn’t need to hear that from you, she already thinks so.)

וְהָאָדָ֔ם יָדַ֖ע אֶת־חַוָּ֣ה אִשְׁתּ֑וֹ וַתַּ֙הַר֙ וַתֵּ֣לֶד אֶת־קַ֔יִן וַתֹּ֕אמֶר קָנִ֥יתִי אִ֖ישׁ אֶת־ה׳׃ וַתֹּ֣סֶף לָלֶ֔דֶת אֶת־אָחִ֖יו אֶת־הָ֑בֶל וַֽיְהִי־הֶ֙בֶל֙ רֹ֣עֵה צֹ֔אן וְקַ֕יִן הָיָ֖ה עֹבֵ֥ד אֲדָמָֽה׃ וַֽיְהִ֖י מִקֵּ֣ץ יָמִ֑ים וַיָּבֵ֨א קַ֜יִן מִפְּרִ֧י הָֽאֲדָמָ֛ה מִנְחָ֖ה לַֽה׳׃ וְהֶ֨בֶל הֵבִ֥יא גַם־ה֛וּא מִבְּכֹר֥וֹת צֹאנ֖וֹ וּמֵֽחֶלְבֵהֶ֑ן וַיִּ֣שַׁע ה׳ אֶל־הֶ֖בֶל וְאֶל־מִנְחָתֽוֹ׃ וְאֶל־קַ֥יִן וְאֶל־מִנְחָת֖וֹ לֹ֣א שָׁעָ֑ה וַיִּ֤חַר לְקַ֙יִן֙ מְאֹ֔ד וַֽיִּפְּל֖וּ פָּנָֽיו׃ וַיֹּ֥אמֶר ה׳ אֶל־קָ֑יִן לָ֚מָּה חָ֣רָה לָ֔ךְ וְלָ֖מָּה נָפְל֥וּ פָנֶֽיךָ׃ הֲל֤וֹא אִם־תֵּיטִיב֙ שְׂאֵ֔ת וְאִם֙ לֹ֣א תֵיטִ֔יב לַפֶּ֖תַח חַטָּ֣את רֹבֵ֑ץ וְאֵלֶ֙יךָ֙ תְּשׁ֣וּקָת֔וֹ וְאַתָּ֖ה תִּמְשָׁל־בּֽוֹ׃ 

וַיֹּ֥אמֶר קַ֖יִן אֶל־הֶ֣בֶל אָחִ֑יו וַֽיְהִי֙ בִּהְיוֹתָ֣ם בַּשָּׂדֶ֔ה וַיָּ֥קָם קַ֛יִן אֶל־הֶ֥בֶל אָחִ֖יו וַיַּהַרְגֵֽהוּ׃

Now the Human knew his wife Chava, and she conceived and bore Kayin, saying, “I have gained someone new with GOD’s help.” She then bore his brother Hevel. Hevel became a keeper of sheep, and Kayin became a tiller of the soil.

In the course of time, Kayin brought an offering to God from the fruit of the soil; and Hevel, for his part, brought the choicest of the firstlings of his flock. God paid heed to Hevel and his offering, but paid no heed to Kayin and his offering. Kayin was much distressed and his face fell.

And God said to Kayin, “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 couches at the door; Its urge is toward you, Yet you can be its master.”

Kayin said to his brother Hevel … and when they were in the field, Kayin set upon his brother Hevel and killed him. (RJPS, Genesis 4:1-8)

Among the first stories shared in Torah is that of Kayin (Cain) and Hevel (Abel). In anger, Kayin “rises up” and kills his brother Hevel, leading to the famous line, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Genesis 4:9).

In the modern world, it’s true that the death of children is rare, but this is a relatively new phenomenon. In his 1852 publication Solace for Bereaved Parents [1], the Reverend Thomas Smyth tells of a period of just a few months in which he, in his ministry, buried thirteen children. Smyth reflects that, at his time, “Almost all parents are called to endure the loss of children” (14); yet, he also finds that,

It is certainly strange, that while works of consolation and advice had been prepared for almost every other class of mourners in Zion, bereaved parents were left to comfort themselves by those general considerations only, which leave their peculiar sorrows unalleviated. (2)

Barukh HaShem—thank God—child death is not as commonplace today as it was even one century ago. And yet, as uncomforted as those parents were left in Smyth’s time, and even though resources in the Age of Information are so available, all the bereaved parents are singly unattended to.

In this neglect, and in the silence of the biblical Author on bereaved parents in general, it was particularly stark to re-read the following passage in our recent study of Kohelet/Ecclesiastes, during the Sukkot festival this month:

אִם־יוֹלִ֣יד אִ֣ישׁ מֵאָ֡ה וְשָׁנִים֩ רַבּ֨וֹת יִֽחְיֶ֜ה וְרַ֣ב ׀ שֶׁיִּהְי֣וּ יְמֵֽי־שָׁנָ֗יו וְנַפְשׁוֹ֙ לֹא־תִשְׂבַּ֣ע מִן־הַטּוֹבָ֔ה וְגַם־קְבוּרָ֖ה לֹא־הָ֣יְתָה לּ֑וֹ אָמַ֕רְתִּי ט֥וֹב מִמֶּ֖נּוּ הַנָּֽפֶל׃ כִּֽי־בַהֶ֥בֶל בָּ֖א וּבַחֹ֣שֶׁךְ יֵלֵ֑ךְ וּבַחֹ֖שֶׁךְ שְׁמ֥וֹ יְכֻסֶּֽה׃ גַּם־שֶׁ֥מֶשׁ לֹא־רָאָ֖ה וְלֹ֣א יָדָ֑ע נַ֥חַת לָזֶ֖ה מִזֶּֽה׃ (קהלת ו׳:ג׳-ה׳)

Even if a man should beget a hundred children and live many years—no matter how many the days of his years may come to, if his gullet is not sated through his wealth, I say: The stillbirth, though it was not even accorded a burial, is more fortunate than he. Though it comes into futility and departs into darkness, and its very name is covered with darkness, though it has never seen or experienced the sun, it is better off than he. (RJPS, Kohelet/Ecclesiastes 6:3-5)

Restating the text for clarity: Kohelet believes that the stillborn child is more fortunate than a person who lived his life fully, because unlike the fully-living adult, unsated by material wealth, the stillborn baby never had to experience disappointment and futility. Rashi clarifies: because the stillborn child never saw good, nor desired it, the stillborn child incurs no distress. 

Kohelet had said something similar a couple of chapters earlier:

וְשַׁבֵּ֧חַ אֲנִ֛י אֶת־הַמֵּתִ֖ים שֶׁכְּבָ֣ר מֵ֑תוּ מִן־הַ֣חַיִּ֔ים אֲשֶׁ֛ר הֵ֥מָּה חַיִּ֖ים עֲדֶֽנָה׃ וְטוֹב֙ מִשְּׁנֵיהֶ֔ם אֵ֥ת אֲשֶׁר־עֲדֶ֖ן לֹ֣א הָיָ֑ה אֲשֶׁ֤ר לֹֽא־רָאָה֙ אֶת־הַמַּעֲשֶׂ֣ה הָרָ֔ע אֲשֶׁ֥ר נַעֲשָׂ֖ה תַּ֥חַת הַשָּֽׁמֶשׁ׃ (קהלת ד׳:ב׳-ג׳)

Then I accounted those who died long since more fortunate than those who are still living; and happier than either are those who have not yet come into being and have never witnessed the miseries that go on under the sun. (RJPS, Kohelet/Ecclesiastes 4:2-3)

Christian biblical scholar Ellen Davis, in her book Getting Involved with God: Rediscovering the Old Testament (Cowley Publishing: New York, 2001), makes a striking connection between Kohelet's message, hevel havalim—typically translated as "all is futile," or "vanity of vanities!"— and the First Parents:

Kohelet may have had in mind yet a third association of this word hevel. The word appears once in the Bible as the name of an individual. It is the Hebrew spelling of the name Abel. Abel’s name is his history: ephemerality, absurdity. He enters the biblical story only to die young and senselessly. Kohelet has meditated long and hard on the first few chapters of Genesis, and he echoes its message of our inescapable mortality: “Everything returns to the dust.” In light of Kohelet’s preoccupation with death, it is quite possible to hear his initial comprehensive pronouncement—“everyone (or everything) is hevel”—as identifying us, every one of us, with Abel (Hevel), son of Adam, the first human being to die. Kohelet does not try to persuade us of the sentimental and ultimately cruel view that every death—or any death—makes sense. Rather, invoking Abel, he reminds us that death is at every moment a possibility for all of us, and therefore he would not have us live foolishly or die “suddenly and unprepared.” (111)

I am always curious about intertextual awareness. Do we presume that Kohelet knew the stories of Genesis as we have them today? Probably. And it certainly is feasible that, with his preoccupation with death and the fragility of life, that Kohelet might have been drawn to the first narratives of mortality.

I confess: Until Ronen died, I had never given much thought to Adam and Chava’s emotional expressions in this moment. Some classical artists have done beautiful and grotesque renderings of the moment Adam and Eve discover their son is dead, though our classical commentators say very little about their role in these biblical moments. Adam and Chava’s reactions are not recorded in the text, in the moment of that event.

What happened to them?  How did they respond?  Who buried Abel? (To this question, at least, the Midrash responds: Adam, after a raven modeled burial for him because he was clueless.)

What do I imagine?

Kayin, stunned, having struck his brother in anger and impulse but never having understood that the consequence could be finality.

Kayin, trying to shake Hevel awake. Realizing he would never, I imagine he let out a shriek so loud it cracks open the Heavens and roused God from complacency.

Adam, running over to see what has happened. Seeing Hevel splayed out on the ground surrounded by blood, fear in his eyes, Adam freezes.

Chava, observing from afar, sees Adam frozen. She has never seen him stilled by fear before. Chava observes Hevel's discolored foot on the ground to the left side of Adam and slackened hand at the other end, though his face is obscured behind Adam's body. She knows her son is dead, but she won't believe it. Why is Adam not helping? Not lifting Hevel up? She runs to her son and, without hesitation, pushes past her statuesque husband and throws herself on top of Hevel, but quickly reels, springing back onto her knees, from the shocking temperature of her son's lifeless body. The chill, the unfamiliar texture, the devastation of the living son she no longer recognizes, shatters her denial and her innocence.

She screams—a wail that further decimates the Heavens, seizing all the Holy Forces in trembling, tormenting and puncturing the Throne of Glory where the Supreme God suddenly understands the roaring blaze of Eternal Motherhood. She, the Bereaved Mother, has taught the Holy One that the consequences of loss are greater than God.

In memory of Chava, God determined that the women—the mekonenot—would be those called upon by Jeremiah.

כֹּ֤ה אָמַר֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה צְבָא֔וֹת הִתְבּ֥וֹנְנ֛וּ וְקִרְא֥וּ לַמְקוֹנְנ֖וֹת וּתְבוֹאֶ֑ינָה וְאֶל־הַחֲכָמ֥וֹת שִׁלְח֖וּ וְתָבֽוֹאנָה׃ וּתְמַהֵ֕רְנָה וְתִשֶּׂ֥נָה עָלֵ֖ינוּ נֶ֑הִי וְתֵרַ֤דְנָה עֵינֵ֙ינוּ֙ דִּמְעָ֔ה וְעַפְעַפֵּ֖ינוּ יִזְּלוּ־מָֽיִם׃

Thus said GOD of Hosts: Listen! Summon the mekonenot, dirge-singers, let them come; Send for the skilled women, let them come. Let them quickly start a wailing for us, That our eyes may run with tears, Our pupils flow with water. (RJPS, Jeremiah 9:16-17)

The shattered women, the bereaved mothers—they will be the ones who will pierce the complacency of the Blessed Holy One, puncturing the Throne of Glory, and ushering the Age of Eternal Peace.

The First People’s names are not even mentioned again in the narrative, until they procreate again for the sake of the continuation of Creation…

But read the biblical statement as Adam and Chava bring their next child into the world:

וַיֵּ֨דַע אָדָ֥ם עוֹד֙ אֶת־אִשְׁתּ֔וֹ וַתֵּ֣לֶד בֵּ֔ן וַתִּקְרָ֥א אֶת־שְׁמ֖וֹ שֵׁ֑ת כִּ֣י שָֽׁת־לִ֤י אֱלֹהִים֙ זֶ֣רַע אַחֵ֔ר תַּ֣חַת הֶ֔בֶל כִּ֥י הֲרָג֖וֹ קָֽיִן׃ (בראשית ד׳:כ״ה)

Adam knew his wife again, and she bore a son and she named him Shet (Seth), meaning, God has provided me with another offspring in place of Hevel, for Kayin had killed him. (RJPS, Genesis 4:25)

Notice that Chava names her third child, not Adam. The text says that she named him. (The text will “fix” this later in Genesis 5:3.) It resonates deeply for me, as the mother who chose the name for a subsequent child after a loss, both wanting to honor the new child’s namesake and acknowledge the loss we endured before her birth. The omission of Chava’s name here, too, resonates: her singular identity as Mother of All is subsumed by her story of loss and the need to continue on anyway.

Notice the hurt and pain embodied in Chava’s explanation of his naming, evoking the losses of both of her older sons: Hevel, who is dead, and Kayin, whom she has not forgiven. 

Notice that she uses all of their names. This is critical for bereaved parents: my child is dead, but I need to keep hearing, and saying, his name, even as life moves on and my family grows without him. When I mention my children, I need to mention all of them.  They were all siblings, all my children. Shet … Hevel … Kayin. 

We say over and over that the child conceived after a loss is not a replacement for the child that died, but… it’s complicated. A new child does not replace the deceased one, but the lost promises of the deceased child are easily projected onto the new life. And, perhaps like Chava, although I am not there with her, I can admit that if Ronen had lived, we might not have chosen to have another child. In some ways, in my most forgiving moments, I can thank Ronen for the gift that his sister has been to us.

But let’s be clear: The first parents in biblical history—in our religious history of the world—are bereaved parents. Adam and Chava’s subsequent child, who will be the common ancestor of all humanity, is named explicitly as a replacement for the deceased child. Even as Shet’s naming is one window into the grief experience of the progenitors of the world, perhaps we are to understand that child loss is an unavoidable part of the fabric of humanity. 

Child loss is unthinkable. It is the most pain one can endure as a parent. One never wants to think it can happen to them. 

But it is not “unnatural.”

Revealing that he, too, is a bereaved parent who buried two of his own children, Rev. Smyth writes,

The grief of a bereaved parent can only be known by those who have endured it. Of this it may be truly said, ‘the heart knoweth its own bitterness and a stranger intermeddleth not with it.’ (Proverbs 14:10). [...] Sure it is that the wounded heart of a bereaved parent can only be bound up by one whose own heart has been in like manner torn, and who can sincerely weep with him who weeps over the grave of his buried offspring. (9-10)

Newly-bereaved parents become inducted to the community of others by hearing, "welcome to the club no one ever wanted to belong to." And while it's true, and that our shared experience as bereaved parents makes us each others' chief consolers, we aren't alone. We were never alone. Even the First Parents in biblical history were members, too. Adam and Chava—they did have to carry the burden alone. Perhaps, in re-reading them into the story, and into the "club," we can compensate for their loneliness, and our own.

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[1] The striking (and long!) full title of this book is Solace for Bereaved Parents; or Infants Die to Live. With an Historical Account of the Doctrine of Infant Salvation. Also, Very Full Selections from Various Authors, in Prose and Poetry. by the Rev. Thomas Smyth, D.D. New York: Robert Carter, 1852.