Recently, I’ve been in an online conversation with someone who respectfully challenges my thoughts on church and politics. These aren’t easy topics. They’re not neatly resolved. But I welcome it. Because of my own life and experiences, I’ve literally journeyed with people through life and death.
This isn’t abstract for me. I’ve seen what happens when contempt and neglect take root.
I’ve watched the hurt and pain of seeing a child in foster care die when they left care when they shouldn’t have. I’ve sat in rooms trying to get a youth into a psychiatric center after a suicide attempt. I’ve listened to kids in grief counseling choke out words after their parent took their own life.
I’ve seen what happens when love drifts away—when no one shows up, when envy and anger harden into neglect, when people stop being keepers of their brothers and sisters. And I can tell you: Cain’s path always leads to death.
And when you’ve stood that close to mortality, it changes what you can stomach. Contempt feels cheap. Outrage feels like a luxury. Winning arguments feels small. Love stops being theoretical and becomes urgent.
That’s why John’s words matter to me. This isn’t a theological curiosity; it’s a pastoral plea. Because every time we let envy and contempt harden in us, we are rehearsing death. We are practicing Cain. And I don’t want that for myself—or for you.
A Reflection on 1 John 3:11-15
When John writes, “Everyone who hates his brother is a murderer,” my first instinct is to ask: Who is my brother?
I want to narrow the definition. Fellow believers. People in my church. People who think like me.
But John’s not giving me permission to narrow the circle—he’s forcing me to widen it.
Because when Jesus was asked about the greatest commandment, He didn’t just say “Love God.” He added, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” And when the lawyer tried to narrow it—”Who is my neighbor?”—Jesus told a story about a despised outsider showing mercy to an enemy.
Neighbor. Brother. Anyone in need. Even your enemy.
So when I read “everyone who hates his brother,” I can’t escape the question:
The coworker whose politics exhaust me—is he my brother?
The family member I’ve muted—is she my neighbor?
The person whose righteousness makes me feel exposed—are they included?
John won’t let me off. And suddenly, I’m not so sure I’m not walking Cain’s path.
What if the first murder wasn’t about anger—but envy?
Cain didn’t kill Abel in a rage. He killed him in a field, after a conversation, after God Himself had warned him what was coming.
The story starts with offerings. Abel brought the best from his flock—the firstborn, the choicest. Cain brought “some” of his produce. Not the best. Just some.
God accepted Abel’s offering. He didn’t accept Cain’s.
And here’s what we might miss: God didn’t reject Cain. God came to him.
“Why are you angry? Why has your face fallen? If you do well, will you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin is crouching at the door. Its desire is contrary to you, but you must rule over it.” (Genesis 4:6-7)
Cain had a choice at that moment.
He could have asked, “Why wasn’t my offering accepted? What do You want from me?” He could have celebrated his brother’s acceptance instead of resenting it. He could have confessed his envy and brought better next time.
But he didn’t.
He nursed the grievance. He let comparison become contempt. And when Abel’s righteousness made him feel exposed—when his brother’s generous offering revealed the poverty of his own—he removed the mirror.
John writes about this moment centuries later:
“We should not be like Cain, who was of the evil one and murdered his brother. And why did he murder him? Because his own deeds were evil and his brother’s righteous.” (1 John 3:12)
The murder wasn’t about Abel doing something wrong.
It was about Abel doing something right—and Cain couldn’t stand the reflection.
And afterwards? When God asked, “Where is Abel your brother?” Cain replied with chilling defiance: “I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper?”
Spurgeon was shocked at this response: “The cool impudence of Cain is an indication of the state of heart which led up to his murdering his brother…He would not have proceeded to the cruel deed of bloodshed if he had not first cast off the fear of God and been ready to defy his Maker.”
The hardening happened long before the hands got bloody.
The Path I Recognize
Here’s what stops me cold:
I know what it’s like to resent someone else’s righteousness. I know the taste of envy.
Their “right” (perceived or real) can expose my “wrong.” And instead of letting it convict me, I let it harden me.
I don’t celebrate their offering. I dismiss it. I find reasons why it doesn’t count. I snooze them. Unfollow. Let the relationship drift.
Not because they wronged me. Because their righteousness made me feel exposed.
John says: “Everyone who hates his brother is a murderer.” (1 John 3:15)
Wait. Hate equals murder?
That feels extreme. I’m not Cain. I haven’t killed anyone.
But then I think about how it actually happens:
The snooze becomes avoidance.
Avoidance becomes dismissal.
Dismissal hardens into contempt.
And contempt—given enough time, enough fear, enough envy—becomes something that looks a lot like hate.
We have media and algorithms that throw fertilizer on this contempt. Every scroll. Every feed. Every curated outrage designed to keep us engaged by keeping us angry.
Not the hot rage kind of hate. The cold kind. The kind where someone just… stops mattering to you.
The Greek word John uses—miseō—doesn’t just mean hostility. It means to disregard. To withhold care. To treat someone as negligible.
John’s saying: That posture is already murderous.
Righteousness vs. Self-Righteousness
Before I go further, I need to make a distinction. There’s a difference between righteousness and self-righteousness. And this matters deeply.
Righteousness is Abel’s offering. It’s genuine faithfulness that flows from a heart surrendered to God. It’s costly. It’s humble. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t crush others to elevate itself. Righteousness convicts—but it also invites. It shows you what’s possible, not what’s wrong with you.
Self-righteousness is something else entirely. It’s the Pharisee thanking God he’s not like other men. It’s using obedience as a weapon. It’s “righteousness” that judges, excludes, shames, and crushes. It looks like devotion, but it’s really about superiority. It doesn’t invite—it condemns.
If someone’s “righteousness” has wounded you—if you’ve been judged, shamed, or excluded by someone who used their obedience to make you feel small—you’re not Cain in this story. You’re Abel.
The self-righteous killed Jesus. They crushed the broken. They made the law a burden instead of a gift.
If someone’s self-righteousness has crushed you, know this: God sees the difference. He always has. The Pharisees crushed people. Jesus welcomed them. You’re not the problem here.
But here’s the harder truth: that wound is real. And sometimes we protect it. We rehearse it. We let it harden into something that feels justified—a hatred we’ve earned the right to carry.
And here’s what John won’t let us escape: even justified hatred is still hatred. Even righteous anger, if we let it curdle into contempt, becomes the air we breathe. It still isolates. It still kills—first in us, then in how we see everyone else.
The self-righteous hurt you. But if that hurt has turned into a hatred you’re nursing—if you assume every faithful person has the same motives as the one who crushed you—you’re not protecting yourself anymore. You’re walking a different kind of Cain’s path.
Not because your anger isn’t valid. But because hatred—even justified hatred—still abides in death.
So if that’s you, my encouragement is this: Ask God to heal the wound they inflicted. Not so you can pretend it didn’t happen. But so bitterness doesn’t become your prison. So you can discern the difference between the self-righteous who crush and the faithful whose righteousness might actually bless you.
Abiding in Death
“Whoever does not love abides in death.” (1 John 3:14)
Hate isn’t just an outburst. It’s a place you live.
Jesus said, “Abide in me…apart from me you can do nothing” (John 15:4-5). And here’s the stark reality: love and hate cannot coexist. If I’m abiding in Christ, there’s no room for the contempt I’ve been nursing. If I’m abiding in hatred—even justified hatred—I’m not abiding in Him.
I can’t produce love apart from Christ. And I can’t harbor contempt while remaining in Him.
So the question isn’t “Can I manage both?” It’s “Where am I actually abiding?”
And I know the air I’ve been breathing. The curated outrage. The subtle comparisons. The way I scroll, rehearse irritation, and call it “being informed.”
But John calls it something else: abiding in death.
Love shows up. Hate drifts away.
Which am I doing?
The Choice at the Door
Here’s what I keep coming back to:
Cain had a choice at the door. God came to him. God warned him. “Sin is crouching at the door. Its desire is contrary to you, but you must rule over it.”
Cain chose to feed it instead.
I have the same choice. Every day.
When someone’s righteousness makes me feel exposed, I can confess my poverty or resent their wealth.
When someone’s politics exhaust me, I can engage with curiosity or withdraw in contempt.
When someone’s success triggers envy, I can bless it or let bitterness grow.
Love shows up. Hate drifts away.
Which am I choosing?
Not once and for all. Today. Right now. In this relationship. With this person who just triggered me.
Sin is crouching at the door. But I don’t have to open it.
The Practice: Interrupting the Path to Cain
So here’s what I’m trying to do—what I’m practicing when I feel the drift begin:
When a name triggers irritation, numbness, or envy—I try to stop.
I don’t always catch it. Sometimes I’ve already scrolled past, already snoozed, already let the comparison sink in. But when I do catch it, I stop.
I ask: Am I on Cain’s path right now?
- Am I resenting someone’s genuine righteousness because it exposes me?
- Or am I nursing a wound from someone’s self-righteousness that I won’t let heal?
Both lead to the same place: contempt. Death. Isolation.
Then I try to pray a blessing—out loud if I can.
If it’s envy exposing me:
“Father, bless [name]. I see their generosity / patience / faithfulness. Instead of letting it harden me, let it convict me and grow me. Help me celebrate their offering instead of resenting it.”
If it’s a wound I’m protecting:
“Father, heal what [name] broke in me. I don’t want to carry this hatred anymore, even though it feels justified. Help me discern between the self-righteous who crush and the faithful who bless. Don’t let bitterness become my prison.”
Some days the words come easy. Some days they stick in my throat. But I’m learning: I don’t have to feel it for it to interrupt the drift.
And then I try to do one tangible act of love this week.
A text. A note. A call. An apology. Showing up when it costs me something.
I don’t always want to. But over time, the action reshapes the heart. Love becomes a path I walk, not a feeling I wait for.
I’m also trying to change what I breathe.
I’m unfollowing voices that traffic in outrage and contempt—even if they’re “on my side.” I’m replacing them with voices that build compassion, celebrate others’ faithfulness, and speak truth without demonizing.
This isn’t about creating an echo chamber. It’s about refusing to rehearse Cain’s envy and comparison—or justified bitterness—six hours a day.
Because John’s warning is clear: if I abide in contempt, I’m abiding in death.
These aren’t practices I’ve mastered. They’re how I interrupt the pathway before I end up on Cain’s side of the field.
We Have Passed from Death to Life
Here’s the hope John offers:
“We know that we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brothers.” (1 John 3:14)
Not because we feel charitable all the time.
Not because we’ve mastered our emotions.
Not because we never feel envy or comparison.
Because we choose love. We show up. We celebrate others’ offerings instead of resenting them. We interrupt the drift before it becomes contempt.
That’s how we know we’re not walking Cain’s path.
Not perfection. Not sinless relating.
Just persistent direction.
Love shows up. Hate drifts away.
And every day—every moment someone’s righteousness exposes my poverty—I get to choose which path I’m walking.
A Prayer for Choosing Abel’s Path
Father,
I see it now. The envy I’ve normalized. The comparisons I’ve let harden into contempt. The people I’ve snoozed because their righteousness made me feel small.
I see Cain in the mirror. Not in violence, but in the slow withdrawal. The resentment I’ve rehearsed. The offerings I’ve dismissed instead of celebrated.
John says that’s already murderous. That I’m abiding in death when I withhold love—when I treat my brother, my neighbor, as negligible.
I don’t want to walk Cain’s path anymore.
So today, I choose to interrupt the drift. To celebrate the offering that makes mine look poor. To let conviction grow me instead of harden me. To show up when it costs me something.
Rewire my heart. Replace envy with celebration. Replace comparison with generosity.
Teach me what it means to abide in life instead of death.
Love shows up. Hate drifts away.
Help me show up.
Amen.
Love shows up. Hate drifts away.
Stalwart means: Choosing Abel’s path even when someone else’s righteousness exposes your poverty. Celebrating their offering instead of resenting it. Refusing to let envy become the air you breathe.