5 min read

Cain's Line Forgot the Prayer and the Rain Came Down as a Flood

Lemekh kept one wife to bear children and gave the other a drink that made her barren. Neither of them had anything left to ask anyone for.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. Nothing Grew Because Nobody Had Asked
  2. What One Mouth Could Pull Out of the Sky
  3. Lemekh Kept One Wife for Children and One for Show
  4. Removed, and Sitting in His Shadow
  5. The Names Were the Verdict, Written in Advance
Cain's Line Forgot the Prayer and the Rain Came Down as a Flood Click for full size

Nothing Grew Because Nobody Had Asked

The ground was finished and the ground was bare. The seed was down in it. Nothing had come up.

Genesis gives two reasons in one breath. No rain had fallen on the earth, and there was no man to work the soil. Rabbi Hanina sorted out which trees were which. The ones God grew straight up out of the ground belonged to the garden, a walled place with its own arrangements. Everything past the wall was on a slower clock. Rabbi Hiyya cut through both. Garden trees and open-field shrubs, neither came up until rain fell on them, and rain was not falling.

The world had been built and it was standing still, waiting for weather that had no reason to arrive.

What One Mouth Could Pull Out of the Sky

There was no man to work the ground, the verse says. Bend the word one notch and it stops being farm labor. There was no man to bring people to serve, nobody yet who could get a crowd to lift its head.

Two names come attached to that job, and both of them are men who pulled rain out of a shut sky with a prayer. Elijah climbed Carmel in a drought and stayed bent to the ground with his face between his knees while a servant went to look at the sea seven times. Honi HaMe'agel drew a circle in the dirt, stood inside it, and told God he was not stepping out of it.

Without a man like that, no agreement gets made with the ground at all. Job puts the question flat. Who brings rain on a land with nobody in it, on a wilderness where no person lives?

Man was made for labor, and there are two kinds. If he earns it, his labor is in Torah. If he does not, his labor is in the dirt.

Lemekh Kept One Wife for Children and One for Show

The generation before the Flood worked out an arrangement, and Lemekh, the most prominent man in it, ran the standard version in his own house.

A man took two wives. The first was for children. Once she had borne them she was finished, and she sat in her husband's house like a widow while he was still alive, in the same rooms, at the same table, not spoken to.

The second was for him. He gave her a drink that made her barren so nothing would come of it and nothing about her would change, and then he dressed her and hung ornaments on her and kept her beside him like a woman for hire.

Job saw the practice from outside and got both women into one line. He keeps company with the barren who will not bear, and to the widow he does no good.

Removed, and Sitting in His Shadow

Their names carried the arrangement in them. Adah, because she was removed from him. Tzilah, because she sat in his shade.

One woman put out of reach inside her own house. One woman kept close and kept empty. That household forgot how to ask for anything, because there was nobody left in it who was allowed to want.

The Names Were the Verdict, Written in Advance

Read Cain's line straight through and it is fathers and sons and nothing else. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi read the same list as a sentence being handed down one syllable at a time.

Irad. I will expel them from the world.

Mehuyael. I will wipe them off the world.

Metushael. I will uproot them out of the world.

And Lemekh, which comes apart into a question with nothing under it. What have I to do with you? What do I need from you or from anything that comes out of you?

Four generations of men stood over their newborn sons and chose those names, and the ruling was already inside every one of them. Nobody in that line ever asked for rain. Rain came down anyway, forty days and forty nights of it, and the ground that had waited since the first week for one person to look up and ask went under without ever being asked.


← All myths

From the tradition

Sources

3 sources

The texts behind this telling. Some cards carry a translation of the source; others are our own retelling of it, and each card says which. Every card links out to the original.

Bereshit Rabbah 13:1Bereshit Rabbah

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Sefaria Midrash Rabbah, 2022 · CC-BY

Bereshit Rabbah turns to Why Rain Did Not Fall Until Adam Prayed for It.

(Genesis 2:5). It's a verse that but it's packed with layers. "All the shrubs of the field had yet to be in the earth, and no vegetation of the field had yet to sprout, because the Lord God did not cause it to rain upon the earth, and there was no man to till the ground." for a second. The world is… waiting. Nothing is sprouting. Why? Because there's no rain, and there's no one to work the land. It's a picture of potential, yes, but also of something incomplete.

The text emphasizes, "All the shrubs of the field had yet to be in the earth… and no vegetation." The Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations of Genesis, picks up on this. It points out the seeming contradiction. Here, it sounds like nothing grew before Adam. But later, in (Genesis 2:9), it says, "The Lord God grew from the ground every tree." So, which is it? Was there vegetation before Adam or not?

It’s a question that has occupied Jewish thinkers for centuries.

Rabbi Ḥanina offers a beautiful solution: (Genesis 2:9), where God "grew from the ground every tree," refers specifically to the Gan Eden, the Garden of Eden. That was a special case, a pocket of divine abundance. The rest of the world, though? That was developing at a different pace, on a different schedule. It was waiting.

Then Rabbi Ḥiyya adds another layer. He suggests that both the vegetation of (Genesis 2:5) and the trees of (Genesis 2:9) needed rain to grow. So, (Genesis 2:9) isn't necessarily about things growing before Adam. It simply means that even the Garden of Eden needed that essential ingredient – rain, divine blessing – to flourish.

It requires sustenance, nurturing, and perhaps even the active participation of humanity. Adam, in this context, isn't just a person; he's a symbol of our role in bringing the world to its full potential.

What "rain" are we hoping for? And what part do we play in tilling the ground, in making ourselves ready to receive that blessing and bring our own potential to life?

Full source
Bereshit Rabbah 13:8Bereshit Rabbah

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Sefaria Midrash Rabbah, 2022 · CC-BY

We take it for granted, but the ancient rabbis saw something profound in that simple act of nature, something deeply connected to humanity's purpose.

Bereshit Rabbah, that incredible collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Genesis, dives right into this question. It focuses on the verse, "And there was no man to till [laavod] the ground." (Genesis 2:5). But here’s the brilliant move: The rabbis connect the word "till" (laavod) to the word "worship" (lehaavid). It’s a play on words, a glimpse into a deeper meaning.

So, "there was no man to till the ground" becomes, in their eyes, "there was no man to inspire people to worship the Holy One, blessed be He." Who could do that? Well, the rabbis give us two examples: Elijah the prophet and Ḥoni HaMe’agel. Remember them?

Both Elijah and Ḥoni were known for their powerful prayers that brought about rainfall. They weren't just farmers; they were spiritual leaders who could connect with the Divine and, in doing so, influence the natural world. They understood that our actions, our spiritual state, have cosmic implications.

But there's another layer here. The rabbis continue: "And there was no man to till the ground" – meaning, humanity was created for toil, for work. That’s just part of the deal. But what kind of work? If we merit it, our toil is with Torah, with learning and living a life of meaning. If we don't merit it...well, then our toil is simply with the earth, a more mundane existence. “Fortunate is the person whose toil is with Torah.”

It's a powerful idea, isn't it? That our daily grind can be elevated, transformed into something holy, simply by connecting it to something bigger than ourselves.

The passage goes on: "Because the Lord God did not cause it to rain upon the earth, and there was no man..." This is where it gets even more interesting. According to the rabbis, were it not for humanity, there would be no covenant made with the earth to cause rain to fall! They back this up with a quote from Job (38:26): “Who would…bring rain on land with no man, or on a wilderness with no person in it?” The rain itself, the very lifeblood of the earth, is somehow connected to our existence, to our presence on this planet. We have a role to play, a responsibility to uphold. Our existence matters, and it influences even the most fundamental aspects of the natural world.

What does it all mean? Perhaps it's a call to recognize the sacredness in the mundane. To see our work, our actions, as opportunities to connect with the Divine. To remember that even the rain, that life-giving force, is in some way linked to our presence and our purpose here on Earth. It makes you wonder: what kind of rain are we calling down?

Full source
Bereshit Rabbah 23:2Bereshit Rabbah

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Sefaria Midrash Rabbah, 2022 · CC-BY

We choose them carefully, hoping they’ll embody certain qualities, or perhaps carry on a family legacy. But what if a name wasn't a blessing, but a curse? What if it foreshadowed impending doom?

That's precisely what some of our Sages suggest when looking at the lineage of Cain in (Genesis 4:18). "Irad was born to Hanokh and Irad begot Mehuyael and Mehuyael begot Metushael and Metushael begot Lemekh." Sounds like a simple genealogy. But Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi, as quoted in Bereshit Rabbah, sees something far darker: "These are all expressions of rebellion."

He doesn't just see rebellion, he sees God's reaction to that rebellion, baked right into their names. It's a chilling thought. Irad. Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi interprets the name as connected to the Hebrew word ‘ored,’ meaning "I will expel them from the world." Mehuyael? That name becomes a prophecy: "I will eradicate them [moḥeh] from the world.” Metushael? Another step towards annihilation: "I will uproot them [metish] from the world."

Then there's Lemekh. The final name in this short, bleak chain. Here, the interpretation gets even more intense. Lemekh, according to the Rabbis, is an acronym. An acronym for 'ma li valakh' – "what need do I have of you?" And by extension, "what need do I have of you and his offspring?" A complete rejection of responsibility, a severing of connection.

Heavy stuff. But the story doesn't end there. We then read, "Lemekh took for himself two wives; the name of one was Ada, and the name of the other Tzila" (Genesis 4:20). This seemingly simple statement opens a window into the morality, or rather the immorality, of the generation before the Flood.

Rabbi Azarya, citing Rabbi Yehuda bar Simon, paints a disturbing picture of marital practices in that era. According to their teaching in Bereshit Rabbah, men would take two wives. One for the purpose of having children, and the other… well, for pleasure. The wife designated for procreation was treated as if she were a widow, neglected and ignored. The other wife? She was given potions to make her infertile and paraded around, adorned like a harlot.

It’s a brutal depiction of prioritizing personal gratification over everything else. It’s a world where the value of human life, and especially women’s lives, has been utterly debased.

The Book of Job (24:21) seems to allude to this very practice: "He consorts with the barren who will not give birth, and to the widow he will do no good." A chilling commentary on the callousness of the time.

And Lemekh, the descendent of Cain, becomes the poster child for this depravity. "Lemekh took for himself two wives; the name of one was Ada" – and here the Rabbis offer a play on words: Ada, because she was removed [ada] from him, distanced and unwanted. "And the name of the other Tzila" – because she was sitting in his shadow [tzilo], a mere ornament, existing only for his amusement.

So, what are we to make of all this? It's easy to dismiss these interpretations as ancient allegories, but they offer a powerful reflection on the choices we make, the values we prioritize, and the consequences of living a life divorced from responsibility and compassion. The story of Lemekh and his wives, through the lens of the Rabbis, serves as a stark warning: our actions, and even our names, can echo through generations, shaping the destiny of the world. Are we building a world worthy of inheriting?

Full source