Abraham and Sarah (42 page)

What will become of my son? Abraham worried. His mother has made a toy of him. She’s bound him so tightly to her that the child won’t be normal. I can’t even reason with her.

He not only felt that he had lost her, but he also felt that some tragedy was waiting for them in the future. He could sense it. Old women often said, “If you love something too much, the gods will snatch it away.”

Of course, a child like Isaac who had been miraculously given to them by the Elohim was different. He had special protection. No evil thing could come near him because he was the child of the promise. How could the promise be worked out if anything ever happened to Isaac?

Nevertheless the feeling persisted. Sarah’s love was stifling and unnatural, and no good could come of it.

I
n the ensuing years Isaac was the delight of his father and of all who came in contact with the great man and his son. Abraham could not resist telling stories of his wit and cleverness. “He can oversee the shearers during the sheep shearing time. He’s only twelve, and yet he can recognize shoddy work. He can tally our profits at the market, and he knows a good bargain without being told. He can chart the seasons by the stars, and he commands the respect of all my men. More than this, he is a good, obedient boy who gives his father no cause to worry.”

Abraham didn’t add that the boy was often criticized for spending so much time with his mother and for taking no interest in hunting or fighting. He threw the javelin awkwardly and almost never joined the young men in target practice with the bow and arrow. “His mother is too protective,” they whispered. “She had such a hard time getting him, she doesn’t want to take any chance on his getting hurt.”

Sarah knew what they said but she didn’t care. She wanted to be sure Isaac was never in any danger. She could not bear to think of any harm coming to him. “If he never learns to use a bow and arrow or throw a javelin well, he’ll never have to fight,” she said with smug satisfaction.

When Urim came to deliver his cheese a few months later, he found Abraham in his tent conferring with some of his herdsmen, and so he waited quietly, off to one side, until they were gone. “My lord,” he said, “this cheese is quite delicious. I have used a new process. I think you’ll like it.”

Abraham nodded absentmindedly as he motioned for Urim to put the cheese on the leather mat just inside the door. “I’m sure it will be very good. You usually come earlier. Has there been some problem?”

“Not a problem, my lord. Just an unusual experience. I’ve been up the ridge to a festival at Bethlehem. They were harvesting their grain and giving the first cuttings to the storm god. ‘The celebration of firstfruits,’ they call the celebration.”

Abraham was immediately interested. “What do you make of it? I’m sure you can remember coming through the land when it was dry and parched with no harvest at all.”

Urim saw that he had captured his interest, and he took the liberty of squatting beside Abraham so he could reply in a whisper. “The Canaanites believe they have had no more famines because they have made many costly offerings to Ashtoreth, Baal, and Hadad.”

“What do you mean by ‘costly offerings’? It’s obvious their celebrations and customs are more base and depraved than any in Ur or Egypt.”

“They are bragging in their markets that by offering their children to the gods, they have at last won favor.”

“You said ‘children’? Are there many who will make such a sacrifice?” Abraham was no longer preoccupied. He was intensely interested.

“More than you can imagine.”

“I suppose it’s some of these people who have more children than they can feed or care for.”

Urim sat toying with the fringe on his tunic. He hesitated before blurting out, “No, my lord. The children have to be the most beautiful, most loved, or they say the sacrifice is worthless. Preferably it is the firstborn like the firstfruits the god wants. The god wants their best or he will wreak vengeance on them.”

Abraham didn’t answer. He was deep in thought. Urim sat and waited for his response.

Abraham’s thoughts had run wild. The mention of the firstfruits had done it. Abraham had been accustomed to the sacrifice of firstfruits and the firstborn of his cattle to the Elohim, not out of fear, but out of gratitude. He believed that to sacrifice of his increase was to recognize God’s ownership. He owned nothing; he was a steward of all he possessed. God, the Elohim, was the real owner.

Urim grew restless. There was one question he wanted answered and he decided to just plunge in. “My lord,” he said cautiously, “these gods they worship are only made of wood or stone, as you have often said. They may even be demonic beings, and these people are offering their very best to them. The Elohim is the true God, the Creator of all things. Do you think you could ever offer your son to him?”

Abraham was startled. The thought had once or twice occurred to him,
but he had quickly pushed it aside. To have it voiced in such a way was shocking. He looked at Urim with annoyance. “No,” he said firmly, “the Elohim has made promises to me. Isaac was given by the Elohim. He is essential if the promise is to be fulfilled.”

Urim could see that he had probed too deep and was about to annoy Abraham. He had only one more observation to make, and he blurted out the words, “As I see it, the difference between worshiping the Elohim and a god like Baal is that one can’t control the Elohim. We have no power over him, but their wooden and clay gods can be taken out in the field and beaten if they behave too badly after a sacrifice.”

Without another question he backed to the tent door and was gone. Long after Urim left, Abraham pondered the questions Urim had voiced. It was the most frightening thing he could imagine. “Sacrifice Isaac! Impossible!” Could he love Elohim if He should ask such a thing of him? His hurt would be monstrous, but nothing compared to what Sarah would experience.

A score of pictures flashed through his mind, Sarah’s delight in the little boy’s first steps, her laughter when he sang the tribal songs, her pride in his quick wit, and her utter and complete joy at being a mother. “No,” Abraham assured himself, “the Elohim would never ask such a thing of me.”

He went further and reasoned that he had left family and friends to wander among strangers and through alien lands in answer to the Elohim’s wishes. He had always given readily the best that he had whenever the Elohim had requested it. He even prided himself on being called by his neighbors “the friend of God.”

It was true, as Urim had pointed out, that none of these things controlled Elohim. Their relationship was not one of control but one of trust, and he had grown to trust Elohim.

He breathed a sigh of relief. The Elohim would never ask such a thing of him. He felt better. He felt a sense of relief as though some great issue had been settled. That night he sat among his men around the fire at peace with himself and his world.

If Abraham had not grown accustomed to hearing the voice of the Elohim and recognizing it, he could have excused what happened next as a trick of his imagination. As it was, the words were distinct, and the voice, one he immediately knew. There was no doubt what had been said and who had said it. He had insisted the message be repeated lest it be some trick his mind
or a demon was playing on him. It was no use. The voice was gentle and compassionate, but the message tore through his mind like a thunderbolt.

It wasn’t at night or at a time when he was daydreaming or praying. It was in broad daylight with birds singing and flowers bursting with fragrance, his flocks covering the valley as far as his eye could see.

As in the past his name was called. It was personal and intimate. “Abraham,” the voice said.

Abraham recognized it immediately. “Here I am,” he said.

Everything became silent. The leaves of the small fig tree no longer moved, a brown lizard dodged back under a rock, a spider hung motionless in its web, and no birds crossed the sky. The whole world held its breath.

“Abraham,” the voice said again, “take now your son, the son you love, Isaac, and go into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains I will show you.”

Nothing more was said. Gradually a soft breeze began to blow, the leaves of the small fig tree moved, the lizard went on its way, and the spider continued working on its web while flocks of birds appeared in the sky. Only Abraham stood motionless. The unimaginable order had been given. His worst fear had materialized.

Abraham was unable to sleep that night. He went over and over in his mind the exact words spoken by Elohim. He tried to imagine what it would mean. What would he tell Sarah and what would he tell Isaac? He tried to picture building an altar and then placing Isaac on it. That was as far as he dared imagine. It was too impossible. He had sacrificed many animals. He had the sharpest knife.

The horror of it made him spring up from his pallet and pace the floor with his arms wrapped tightly around his chest. He went to the tent pole where his girdle hung and reached for the knife. It had been the best of its kind, and he had always been proud of it. Now he lifted it out of its holder and looked at it with loathing. He grasped the hilt and stared at the blade. What a powerful thing it was that could kill this child he loved and lay waste his dreams and hopes. He ran his hand along the blade, wondering if he could really bring himself to do this terrible thing for Elohim.

This thin, sharp blade, he thought, will slay Sarah’s love for me. She would never understand. She’ll hate Elohim.

Slowly and deliberately he placed the knife back in its holder and wiped
his hands on his robe. If, he thought, by some chance the Elohim rescues Isaac, the lad will hate me for what I tried to do. Nothing will ever be the same. The terror he felt was worse than any he had felt facing his worst enemies.

Again and again he pictured what would happen if he ignored the request, if he went on as though Elohim had not spoken to him. He wouldn’t say no. He would just ignore the whole thing. Each time he felt as though some great abyss had opened before him, he knew he would find himself alone without the guidance and relationship he had come to depend on. If, he thought, I don’t do as the Elohim has asked, something fine and good in our relationship will be lost.

Then most frightening of all, he began to wonder what other terrible thing might the Elohim ask of him.

Interspersed in his struggle had been a recurring thought. It came from somewhere outside his fear and panic. The words were distinct and insistent: The Lord will provide. He heard them repeatedly as a background chorus to his tormenting thoughts. He briefly pondered what they meant. Would the Lord provide another son in Isaac’s place? He wanted no other son. Isaac was the beloved, the darling of his heart.

In the end he decided he had no choice but to obey and trust the Elohim. He resolved not to discuss his decision with anyone. He knew he must not think or reason; he must simply act. He must leave as soon as possible. If he gave himself any time for reflection or let Sarah have her say, he would not be able to do this dreadful thing. To not act on what he knew to be the will of the Elohim was unthinkable. It would be as the sin of Adam, a form of rebellion, and that he could not do.

“I must leave at daybreak,” he said to himself. “I will not have to explain to Sarah, and I will tell Isaac only what is necessary.” With a sinking heart he realized that if Sarah even suspected what he was about to do, she would see that he was stopped.

It all seemed so unreal. He couldn’t visualize doing such a thing. He couldn’t imagine bearing up on the long three-day journey to Moriah, knowing what would have to happen when he arrived. How would he explain all of this to Isaac?

He slept only fitfully and rose before daybreak to gather the things he would need, the fire pot, the wood, their knapsacks holding Urim’s cheese and some fresh bread. Last of all he woke up Isaac. He told the boy only that they
were going on a short trip. He cringed at the trust he saw in the boy’s eyes as he hurried to dress and say good-bye to his mother.

“Where are you going at this hour of the morning?” she demanded.

“I’m going with my father. I’ll only be gone several days.”

“What sort of trip is this that has been planned so hurriedly?”

“Something the Elohim has told him to do.”

The information that the Elohim had told Abraham to make the trip terrified Sarah. She sprang up from her sleeping mat and hurried out to where Abraham was talking to two young men who were going with him. “What is this? Where are you going, and why are you taking Isaac?”

Abraham had not wanted to have to explain anything to Sarah. He had hoped they could be gone when she awoke, and others would tell her they had gone on a little trip of several days.

He could see that this would not have been possible. With a sigh he motioned for Sarah to come back into the tent and he would explain. “Sarah,” he said. “It’s the Elohim. He’s asked this of me and I must obey.”

“Asked what of you?” Sarah questioned suspiciously.

“He has asked me to take Isaac and sacrifice in the region of Mount Moriah at a place he will show me.”