Abraham and Sarah

by Roberta Kells Dorr

  “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.”

  Abraham could see that the full import of what was to be done had not occurred to Sarah and he couldn’t tell her. He could see that she was against Isaac’s going as it was.

  “There’s no need for our son to go. He can be a part of many sacrifices right here,” she said.

  “But that’s what the Elohim told me to do. I am to take Isaac, and so that is what I must do.”

  Sarah frowned. “What if some accident should happen? What if our son finds the journey too difficult?”

  Abraham could see that she didn’t understand and he was relieved. He must give her some encouragement for the fears she seemed to have, and so he said, “The Elohim has told me to do this and I trust Him.”

  “And where is the animal for the sacrifice?” she asked.

  Abraham had started to leave, and now he came back and took Sarah in his arms, hoping she wouldn’t see how disturbed her questions made him. “I have only the words, ‘The Lord will provide,’” he said. “And I can only trust the Lord to provide.”

  She pulled away and looked at him with fear glinting in her eyes. “There’s something strange about this. What are you doing with Isaac?”

  “Don’t worry, Sarah,” he said, “please don’t worry. It’s true the Elohim told me to take my son and sacrifice him but …”

  “Sacrifice him! Sacrifice him! How can you even think of such a thing?”

  “Sarah, listen to me,” he said. “I don’t know what will happen. I just trust the Elohim. He will do what is best.”

  Sarah began to scream and cry. She clung to him so fiercely her nails dug into his flesh, “No, no!” she cried. “Not Isaac! Not my son Isaac!”

  Abraham loosened her fingers and tried to reason with her, but it was useless. She backed from him, her face twisted in horror and anguish. She clawed at her hair and ripped her robe. In a frenzy she began scooping up the cold ashes from the night’s fire and pouring them over her head.

  Some of the women heard the commotion and came running. Abraham bade them comfort her until he returned. He turned quickly and started up the path to where Isaac and the two young servants were waiting. At the crest of the small incline he looked back and could see women from other tents running toward their tent, but he could see nothing of Sarah. “Oh, my God,” he prayed, “if I am to do this thing, comfort Sarah.”

  The journey for Abraham was fraught with anxiety and terrors. He plodded on, putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to think. Isaac seemed not to notice but ran along exclaiming over each new bird or small dark animal. He whistled and sang with the joy of the fresh air, the sunshine, and the adventure with his father.

  On the third night, Abraham was awakened by a gentle shaking of his shoulder, a whispering of his name and then the instructions, “You will see Salem tomorrow. The village threshing floor is called Moriah. You will go
to the west a ways to the tallest mountain, a mountain with the face of a skull. There you will build an altar and sacrifice Isaac.”

  In the morning, when he arose, he remembered the instructions perfectly, but he began to doubt it was anything but his imagination until he came to the mountain with the face of a skull.

  “Stay here with the donkey,” he told the servants, “and the lad and I will go yonder and worship and return.”

  He placed the wood on Isaac’s back, then fumbled around among the trappings on the donkey’s back, almost hoping the knife would not be there. A knife was a rare and costly thing. He had paid dearly for it, but now he wished with all his heart it would be lost. His hand touched the cold hardness of the metal, and he drew it out. He held the knife at arm’s length, as though seeing it for the first time. It would have been so easy for the Elohim to send an angel to destroy the knife, and Isaac would be saved. Reluctantly he stuffed the knife into his belt, took the fire pot from one of the servants, and started up the steep incline.

  Isaac had become quiet. He no longer dawdled along chasing butterflies and tossing rocks. It was as though he had begun puzzling over the strangeness of their journey. “Where is the lamb for the sacrifice?” he finally asked his father when they stopped for a few minutes to catch their breath.

  Abraham hesitated. He could find nothing to say but to repeat the words that continually drummed in his head. “The Lord will provide,” he said with a catch in his voice. He turned and started back up the hill, his steps getting slower and slower until it was obvious that something was wrong.

  When they reached the top of the hill, Abraham took a long time looking for the right spot and then a great deal of time collecting stones for the altar. Isaac helped him, and seeing that Abraham was having more and more difficulty, he laid the final stones.

  Abraham carefully and methodically placed the wood on the altar, then took from his belt a coil of hempen rope. Slowly he tied Isaac’s hands and feet and then lifted him onto the altar. Isaac said nothing but looked at his father with calm, trusting eyes that so disturbed Abraham, he was almost turned from his purpose.

  He could no longer look at his son. The trust he saw was crushing. He looked down and struggled to loosen the knife, then lifted it high and, looking up, hesitated only a moment as he felt the wrench and pain of abandonment. Elohim was not going to save him. His son, and with him all the hope and joy and meaning of life itself, was going to die. It was only a moment, but the pain he felt was akin to a whole lifetime of disappointment.

  Then, just as he had lost all hope of rescue, a voice loud and jubilant cried out, “Abraham! Abraham!”

  “Here I am,” he whispered while his eyes strained to see where the voice was coming from and his arm trembled.

  “Do not lay a hand on the boy. Do not do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.”

  Through tears of joy Abraham saw a ram caught by its horns in the thicket. He lowered his arm and released Isaac. “My son,” he said, “you see? The Lord has provided. We will name this place Jehovah-Jireh, the Lord provides.”

  Three days later, as Abraham approached the region of his tents, some of his men saw him coming and ran to meet him. When they saw Isaac, they yodeled for joy, grabbed his hands and kissed them, and kissed the hem of his garment as though he were a dignitary. Everyone talked at once. They all tried to tell of Sarah’s suffering, and they asked so many questions, no one waited for answers.

  The only information that was repeated was the news that for the first time in the six days Sarah had combed her hair, anointed herself with oil, and changed her clothes and was at the well.

  “My son,” Abraham said, “run to the well. We must not let your mother suffer one more moment of wondering how you are.”

  Isaac ran to do as his father asked, and the men drew back to let Abraham enter his tent alone. Abraham lifted the flap and entered Sarah’s side of the tent first. He saw at a glance the awful scene of her suffering. There was the torn robe that had been her favorite. He picked it up and noticed how the ashes fell from it. He saw that all the bright-colored throws had been put away. Only Isaac’s belongings were evident, as though she had clung to them in desperation. He picked up the brass bowl that had been filled with ashes and saw the untouched bread the women must have brought. “Oh Sarah,” he said, “how you must have suffered. With what tortured thoughts you were tormented. Three extra days you suffered, not knowing how the lad was saved.”

  Jehovah-Jireh, the Lord will provide. The God who provides. How lovely it had seemed on the mountain, but how difficult it would be to explain to Sarah. It had been to him a new revelation of who his God was and how He cared for those who trusted Him.

  Since leaving home six days earlier, he had eaten nothing but bread and cheese. Suddenly he became acutely aware of being hungry. Along with this awareness came the distinct recognition of a familiar odor. Quickly he pulled the heavy dividing curtain aside and stepped into his part of the tent. It was just as he had left it, except on the leather mat in front of his seating area was the old fire pot with a clay stew pot on top.

  Curls of smoke drifted up from the pot, and Abraham realized it was indeed his favorite stew. He hurried over and lifted the lid to see the delicious contents. As he did so he saw that beside the pot were sitting two bowls. “It’s Isaac’s bowl set out by mine!” he said, holding them up. Such joy flooded through him. He laughed. “Dear Sarah,” he said, holding the bowls high, “you knew nothing of what happened, but you trusted enough to set out both bowls.”

  He heard laughing and singing and rushed to the door of his tent in time to see Sarah coming with Isaac. The whole camp came with them. Everyone was singing and dancing in an explosion of joy. Abraham saw a new Sarah before him, and in a rush of love, he held out his arms to embrace his wife.

  Urim waited until a decent time had passed before he came again with cheese and questions. “My lord,” he said, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, “what do you make of all this? Are we to sacrifice our children now?”

  Abraham was startled by the lesson Urim seemed to be gleaning from the whole experience on Mount Moriah. “No, no, Urim,” he said, “we must sacrifice, for love and worship demand it. If we truly love, we want to give our best. However, the Elohim has made it clear that he does not want the firstborn of our sons. He will accept a substitute in their place.”

  The answer didn’t satisfy the clever cheese maker. “Then why,” he asked, “did the Elohim tell you to go and make the sacrifice?”

  There was a long silence as Abraham pondered the question he had asked himself over and over again. Nothing was entirely clear. He had no answers that a simple man like Urim could understand. He sighed and started to take the cheese and dismiss Urim. Then seeing the eager, expectant look in Urim’s eyes, he felt obliged to give an answer. “I suppose,” he said, “one way of looking at it is to see that the Elohim was testing this creature that He’d made. How much love and trust was he capable of. If He was going to bless him with descendants and possessions and make him a blessing to the whole earth, He had to know just what the man was made of.”

  Urim’s eyes grew large with reverence and wonder. “Did he tell you that? Did he tell you all people would be blessed because of what you did?”

  Abraham picked up the cheese and nodded. “Yes, Urim, He told me that and much more, much, much more.”

  He watched the cheese maker go and was aware of another thought that had recurred many times since the trip to Moriah. It wasn’t something Urim would understand, but it was something very profound that he had learned. “Just because you get some word from the Elohim doesn’t mean you should stop listening. One should never stop listening,” he muttered. Listening was everything. If he had not continued to listen, if he had hurried along with the first instructions and hadn’t continued to listen, he would have sacrificed Isaac needlessly.

  He wished Sara
h could accept and understand all that he had learned and experienced. He had been encouraged by her big step of faith in putting out the bowls, but he suspected that he hadn’t heard the end of her frustration and fear.

  Sarah had learned only one lesson from the Moriah experience, and it was that Isaac was not something she owned or possessed. She no longer hovered over Isaac but tried to relax and let Abraham take over the training of this special child. To her amazement they were soon inseparable. A noticeable bond grew between them that had not been there before.

  She had assumed that Isaac would resent his father, even hate him, for what had happened on Mount Moriah. Fearing his reaction, she had not dared mention the episode.

  Though she had expected a change in Isaac, she was surprised to sense a change in Abraham. In the past he was willing to leave the boy in her tent when he checked on his shepherds or went hunting; now he constantly took Isaac with him. There was a new pride in Abraham when he looked at his son or mentioned him to strangers.

  All this puzzled Sarah, but she could not bring herself to ask the questions that tormented her. Most of all she wanted to know what Isaac had felt and thought on that fateful trip. At the moment of decision, had Abraham faltered? Had Abraham discussed what he was about to do with his son? She had heard about the ram caught in the thicket, but what had gone before, she could not even imagine. Neither Abraham nor Isaac went into details, and she found it increasingly difficult to ask.

  Years passed quickly with the same seasonal rounds of activity until one spring when Sarah lay weak and frail in a borrowed house in Hebron. At last she came to a final reckoning with the past. She had been fearful that she might die and leave Isaac without a bride. If that happened, Abraham would have to make the choice. Would this be fair to her son? Could he trust his father to pick wisely, or would Abraham again consider only the Elohim’s wishes? She summoned the courage to ask the questions she had pondered so long.