My fellow sinners, I want to tell you a story.

In front of us there are two men. They seem so far away because layers and layers of time and tradition intervene. The only record we have of their existence comes from a group of stories that tell us about the birth of the universe. No archaeologist or historian will ever be able to supply us with more information about them.

Two dim, shadowy figures are all they will ever be. Yet some things emerge vividly from this primitive tale and our imagination must supply the rest.

One man tills the ground; he thrusts his spade vigorously into the earth. Around him rise stalks of maize and wheat. He is tall and strong and bronzed from his outdoor work. There is something about his eyes that says he is not a man to be trifled with.

Have you seen farmers in little country towns, squatting in the courthouse square, a long slender weed held between their teeth? Often their eyes are nothing but narrow slits, which may be just a result of staying out in the hot sun all day, but such narrowed eyes also speak of a certain weariness with the world.

Or maybe cynicism. They have seen good seasons and they have seen bad, and they know they are more likely to see bad. Even if the season is good they may get cheated by a sharp-dealing trader from the big city. They know the score. By the way, we know the first man in our story as Cain.

Turn your attention to the other figure. He is no less strong or tanned than his brother, but how differently he uses his ability! One would say that he is graceful. Cain's brother, Abel, is a shepherd. Around his feet mill unruly sheep. Glancing up, Abel sees that a lamb has wandered off. How tenderly he gathers up the small creature and brings it back to the flock.

If Abel were not so unquestionably masculine, we might say that his actions were motherly. However, that's not the only contrast between Abel and his brother.

Once again the eyes tell us volumes. Abel's eyes are full of laughter. Abel's work, no less than Cain's, is subject to unpredictable factors, such as weather. Yet Abel has learned to take it in stride. And when one animal in his flock is hurt, Abel seems to hurt right along with it.

You know the next part of the story. Both men offered sacrifices to the Lord of the harvest. God accepted Abel's and rejected Cain's. I don't really think that Cain was insincere; I think that he offered the best that he had.

I guess what interests us most is the end of the story. Was Cain guilty of premeditated murder or not? Perhaps Cain's invitation to Abel, "Let us go out to the field," was like the school bully's invitation to a weaker kid to meet him behind the gym.

I think that Cain's passion just got the better of him when they got out to the field. Cain wasn't satisfied with punching Abel in the nose. Cain pulled out the knife he used for whittling and killed his brother.

Who knows? Maybe Abel had gloated just a little. Cain was sick of everybody, even God, who liked Abel better. Cain wasn't just killing Abel. He was killing all those folks who had liked Abel better, too. Cain was killing those sharp traders from the big city who had cheated him out of a fair profit. Maybe Cain was even trying to kill God who had sent the untimely snow or who had held the rain.