J: The Woman Who Wrote the Bible

by Mary Burns

  The next morning, as the two strangers had instructed them, Lot and his family are miles away. Behind them, the screams and wailing, the crackle of flames whipped by the cleansing wind, and the stink of burning flesh rise to the heavens.

  The Sacrifice of Isaac

  Now his father has brought him to this stony ground. It is so hot he can barely draw breath, and yet, his father has set him to building up a fire. Wood cracks and sparks as he feeds the flames. But where, where is the sacrifice? They have brought no animals, there are none to be hunted here, as far as he can tell.

  Father, he starts to speak, and stops at the look on Abraham’s face. The boy is wearing only a cloth across his middle, and his arms and chest, thin but strong, are streaked with the dust of rocks, rivulets of sweat from the work of the fire.

  Silent, Abraham reaches down and picks up his son in both arms, walks swiftly to the ledge of rock at the far end of the place.

  Silent, he takes the rope from around his own waist that holds his garment closed, and binds his son’s hands in front of him with one end of the rope, then loops it down to ensnare the small ankles, the bare feet, dust-covered and calloused. He lays the boy down on his side, turns his face away.

  The only sound that can be heard is the fire crackling.

  Isaac’s eyes are open, his face turned away from his father. Surely, he is not meant to die here. His heart thumps mightily in his small chest, but somehow, he is not afraid. His father has been Blessed, and the Blessing will pass to him, Isaac, as a sign of the greatness of a people to come. How many times has he heard this, the wonderful story of the stranger who said it, the miracle of his own birth? He stares into the thorn bushes which crowd against the shelf of rock and suddenly he sees: two eyes stare back at him! A man is in the bush, well hidden except for these brown eyes which bore into Isaac’s very heart, eyes that glitter and captivate him. Ishmael’s eyes.

  The curved knife ascends. Isaac feels his father’s hand grasp his hair, draw his head back. In that instant, he closes his eyes.

  NO! A voice shouts, loud. It echoes among the rock walls NO No No no no.

  Abraham whirls around to find the one who shouted.

  See: nothing, no one appears. Abraham lifts his head, listens. He drops the knife in the dust.

  Isaac has heard the shout, even over the pounding of his heart. He opens his eyes, looks, sees the thorn bush. No brown eyes look back. There is a sound of wind in tree branches, though there are no trees in this place. Tight, tight he closes his eyes again.

  There is a rustling in the thorn bush. Isaac opens his eyes and there: a ram’s yellow-striped eyes look back, it bleats as it struggles in the thorns. At last his father speaks.

  There! Our holocaust. Yahweh provides, he provides. Praised be Yahweh.

  Abraham has fallen to his knees, his arms around Isaac. His tears wash the dust from their faces in smudges and streaks. Quickly he pulls the rope from Isaac’s hands and feet, uses it to ensnare the ram, now thoroughly caught by the thorns deep in its wool. Abraham makes fast work of it, binding it, hanging it from a branch above the rock ledge, slashing its throat to drain the blood. He is almost dancing, and indeed, as the ram’s blood drips upon the place where Isaac had lain, bound and quiet, Abraham whirls about the clearing, singing, shouting words that Isaac has never heard before, and can scarcely understand now. His own ears are ringing, the suddenness of all that has happened overwhelms him.

  In all the noise of their own making, neither one hears the pebbles dislodged by stealthy feet nearby, departing.

  * * *

  It has been three days, and Sarah lies prostrate on her bed. Did Yahweh lie? Has this all been a game to him? Men! Never to be trusted, always testing, restless, jealous. They forget the things that last, and look always to what is in front of their noses. She has not slept since they left, three mornings ago. She does not care if what she thinks accuses Yahweh. If he is unjust, it should be so named!

  Her eyes are dry, hot like her old flesh. Her maidservant creeps in, places a cool, damp cloth on her forehead. Sarah is motionless, lacking the will to even open her eyes. If he has done this thing, she swears to her heart, I will … what? She has had this argument with herself already many times. What will she do? Kill her husband? Tear down the sacrifice place to Yahweh? All these years, believing in this new god that her husband has followed. Where did he come from, this Yahweh? Why are they supposed to follow him rather than other gods, the gods of the people who surround them in this land? They believed him, and now this! She grinds her teeth, frightens her maidservant with the sound. Other women appear at the door of the tent, worried. What has happened, they wonder and whisper among themselves. What has our master done?

  Now see: the small birds burst from the trees at the edge of the tents, and a shout goes up from the lookout. The master! He is coming!

  Sarah hears the sound, hears the singular word and pain invades her heart. The women around her hurry outside the tent, she can hear them through the sandstorm rising in her mind, they scream the question for her: And our son? Isaac, is he with him?

  The women’s cries are louder, she cannot tell between rejoicing and sorrow. Her maidservant rushes in.

  Madam, he is alive, they are both alive, both of them. Isaac is returned.

  A fierceness of heat and flame explode in Sarah’s chest as she tries to rise from her bed. The tent flap snaps aside as Isaac runs in, flings himself on his mother’s breast. She wills her hand to touch his head, and it does not obey her. The uproar in her heart and brain has diminished to a sound like fine, drizzling rain, and her eyes blur. The last clear thing she sees is his face, his laughing smile at her, the son returned.

  Jacob and Esau: The Stolen Blessing

  Isaac breathes lightly, his eyes are milky, and voices are becoming blurred to him. Rebecca’s voice he always knows, especially when she speaks close to his ear. It is time for me to go to my fathers, he thinks to himself, half-sitting, half-lying down on a bed near the window. Now that Esau is back, both of them here where they should be. The cooling autumn breeze feels good on his face, and he is content to be as he is. Then he recollects, and the joy that first bloomed in his heart is dampened by even the little he catches, understands: with Esau, there seems to be no respect for Yahweh, no value for the ways of his father’s house—and there is an Egyptian wife! Isaac’s heart sinks at this; to him, it means that Esau is not the chosen one of Yahweh—the one to receive the Blessing.

  He has thought it for some time, what with Esau being gone and Jacob remaining at home, serving his father and family so well. He must make sure that Jacob does not marry except from among his own family. But Esau must have some share in the inheritance, of course, and perhaps that will settle him down some, perhaps he will return to the family path once he has more responsibility. He ponders all these things, wishes he could speak about them to Rebecca, his beloved, his confidante, but he finds his heart is too heavy to put it all into words. And she, since Esau’s coming, has been aloof, closed to him.

  Someone enters the room, he turns his head, the scent of sweat and a musky perfume, Esau.

  Father? Do I disturb your rest?

  Isaac hears the words as from a great distance.

  No, my son, please come in, come closer. Isaac holds out a hand, and Esau grasps it in his own. Isaac can feel the rough hairs on the back of his son’s hands, knows it is he. His heart suddenly beats fast, fluttering, and it makes him gasp a little. Now must be the time.

  Son of mine, he says, I feel my death-day drawing ever near. If you love me, go hunting one last time for your father, find me a nice plump hare or partridge, and have it prepared the way I used to like it so much, do you remember?

  Yes, father. Esau blinks away sudden tears. With citrus rind, and juniper berries, wrapped in leaves and herbs, I remember! You shall have it, whatever you ask.

  Thank you, my dear boy. He holds tight to Esau’s hand. And when I have eaten this lovely feast from you, I shal
l bestow on you a blessing, for you in this land that we hold as a promise from Yahweh, that you may prosper after me.

  Yes, father! Esau’s heart leaps. I will go now, and you will have your feast.

  As he leaves the room, he does not see Rebecca standing near the door, overhearing.

  * * *

  Jacob! Your father intends to bless Esau, to give him the Promise of Yahweh! He is going to give everything over to Esau, after a special meal he’s asked him to prepare.

  Jacob is silent, upheaval in his heart and mind. Rebecca has already thought it through.

  Listen to me, son of mine, and be guided by my voice. Go pick out a choice kid from the flock, bring it to me, and I will prepare the dish your father is waiting for—then you will bring it to him, and receive the Blessing.

  But, there’s no way he will think I’m Esau! And I will get a curse instead of a blessing!

  Let your father’s curse, if any, fall on me, my son. Listen to me, I to whom Yahweh said, the younger shall take place of the elder. We will put the skins of the kids on your hands, and your neck, and Isaac will touch you, and think you are Esau. Neither his eye, nor his ear, is so sharp anymore, that we need fear.

  You must always listen to your mother—Ishmael’s words come back to Jacob, they ring in the air like a prophecy.

  I will do as you wish, he says, and runs off to choose a kid for the meal.

  * * *

  It is just before noon. Isaac waits, patient, sleeping. He feels moving air as someone enters the room, smells roasted meat, lemons, thyme. He struggles to sit up, and speaks.

  Who is it? Is that Esau, my son?

  Yes, Father, it is Esau. I have brought you the dish you asked for.

  So soon! You have had good hunting, my son.

  Yahweh our god has provided for me, father.

  But is this truly Esau? Isaac is puzzled. Give me your hand, so I may know it is he.

  Jacob stretches out his hand with the kid skin on it, Isaac grasps it in his gnarled fingers.

  The hand is the hand of Esau, but the voice … sounds like Jacob. Ah, well, Isaac says, my hearing is not so good, and brothers’ voices can sound alike. Help me to eat, my son, and afterwards, I will bless you.

  Isaac eats the meal, finds it delicious. But he hesitates, feels uneasy.

  Come closer, son, that I may know it is truly Esau.

  Jacob leans over his father to embrace him, thankful for the sharp wits of his mother, who made him wear a shirt of Esau’s, one not yet washed. The Egyptian perfume he always wears still hangs about the shirt.

  Yes, it is Esau, that fragrance I remember, when I was in Egypt that time, I would smell it everywhere. He places his hand on Jacob’s head, speaks.

  May Yahweh grant you children, wine, grain, flocks and peace in this land, sky’s water and earth’s milk! May those who bless you, be blessed! Those who hate you, be hated! May foreigners bow to you, and may you seem as a lord to your brothers!

  Jacob bows his head, takes the blessing: it pierces his heart.

  Isaac lays back against the cushions, weary and satisfied, sleeps as Jacob steals out the door in silence.

  * * *

  Father! I have brought you your feast, wake up and be refreshed! With a start, Isaac hears a booming voice that rouses him from his nap, smells roasted meat, stirs in alarm.

  Who is this? Who brings me a feast?

  Why, it is I, Esau, your son! Did you not ask me to hunt for you, prepare you the dish you used to love, and promise to bless me afterward?

  But… I have already eaten! Isaac, amazed, sorrowful. I have already blessed!

  Esau lets out a howl of outrage. That trickster brother of mine, Heel-Clutcher! Again he has taken from me my birthright, my blessing!

  Isaac trembles, pieces together what has happened. Jacob has done this thing?

  Have you no blessing for me, father? Esau kneels beside him. May I not receive my share?

  Son of mine, Isaac says, weeping, I have bestowed on your brother blessing, abundance, peace in this land—the service of foreigners and lordship over his brothers! What you would have had!

  Is there nothing left for you to give me? Esau pleads.

  Isaac’s eyes roll back in his head, it is a strange voice that comes from his mouth. Esau feels the very air in the room shift, eddy around him, like smoke.

  The mountains of earth will be walls to you, the rain of heaven your roof. You will live by your sword, and use it to serve your brother. But if he disregards you, use it to cut his yoke from your neck.

  The room settles back into place, Isaac’s eyes close, and he sinks back, tired, breathing low.

  I’ll have nothing to do with these prophecies! I should kill him now! Esau, grim, cries aloud, wants to shout it from the roof. He won’t get away with this! I will drive him away! I curse him here and now, three times—if I let him live, may he be deceived as I have been, may he struggle against man and god, and may he one day require my blessing to return to this land!

  Jacob Wrestles with the Stranger

  Alone on the isolated bit of land east of the river: Jacob. Across the way he can see the fires in each camp, there his wives and children, there the men with the flocks and goods intended as a peace offering for Esau. Above the rushing water he hears the sounds of a family, a small village: children crying, shushed and rocked to sleep, men’s voices low, grumbling, a sudden laugh abruptly cut off.

  He sits in darkness—outward the night, inside his own heart— yet he is calm. Whatever comes, will come. He feels strong, there is power racing through him like the water in the deepest parts of the river.

  * * *

  The moon rises, the moon sets. A night watchman, Jacob paces back and forth, pauses, listens, resumes pacing slowly. It is the time before dawn, dark and quiet. Doubt creeps into his heart— is he truly alone, after all? Will nothing come of this long night of watching? Who am I, Yahweh Lord? He wants to shout aloud. Will I always be Jacob, Heel-Clutcher, disgraced and cursed?

  A night bird’s cry pierces the silence and there! a man stands before Jacob, naked except for a loin cloth, his face hidden by the dark. A wrestler’s stance, knees slightly bent, arms open as if for a tender embrace.

  Wordless, tensed, Jacob throws off his cloak and faces him. They begin circling, closing in. Try as he might, he cannot see the face of his opponent, a mask-like shadow hangs on his features. A sudden lunge, an iron grip closes on Jacob’s upper arms, but he is able to reciprocate. Now, locked in each other’s grasp, they strain and push, mighty levers trying to unseat the other’s place upon the earth. So equal is their strength that neither one gains nor loses ground.

  The first glimmer of dawn lights the edge of the eastern sky. Jacob’s opponent turns his head toward it fractionally, and Jacob seizes the advantage with a sudden burst of strength, shoves him back several feet, he stumbles, and they fall. Over and over they roll on the dusty ground, still soundless, still holding each other in a death grip. His opponent’s right hand abruptly releases Jacob’s arm, and in the next instant, a rock smashes hard into Jacob’s hip, a paralyzing pain shoots through him. But he does not release the man. Enraged, Jacob thrusts hard against him, throws him on his back, his forearm across his throat, pinning him to the ground. The man, gasping, throws up his arms in defeat.

  Let me go! His voice, rasping, strangled. It is almost dawn! Let me go!

  Not until you bless me, and give me your name! Jacob demands it. Give me your name!

  A moment’s silence. The man’s face is still hidden by an inner darkness, though dawn is fast breaking.

  You have my blessing, he says. And as for the name, Jacob Heel-Clutcher — no longer, but now Isra-el, God-Wrestler, for you have held on and overcome, among both men and gods.

  And having said this, the man’s form melts into the air.

  Jacob rolls over on his back onto the stony ground, sore, weary, elated. After a moment, he slowly rises and walks, limping on his wounded hip, to the shallows i
n the river Jaboc, and crosses to the other side.

  Ishmael’s Dream

  Behold: A young pharaoh enthroned, his sister-queen at his side. Before them, in the court, a young man stands, dark, curly-haired, eyes flashing. At his right hand, seven fat and healthy cows appear, a ghostly vision, even there in the pharaoh’s court! On his left, a vision of seven sickly, thin and dying cows. The pharaoh leans forward, asks a question, and sits back satisfied with the young man’s answer. A river of gold flows from the pharaoh’s throne to the young man’s feet.

  The scene changes: the desert, where twelve men travel in a tight clan, wary of danger, they are huddled over a fire, and the eldest is weeping. The group of men multiplies and grows ever larger, until it becomes an immense throng of people, wailing, tearing their clothes, while a pillar of flame burns in front of them.

  Out of the flame comes a voice: And it shall be written on your hearts — You shall be my people, and I will be your God.

  Note to the Reader

  Scholars agree that the Hebrew Bible (the Christian “Old Testament”) was written and composed over many hundreds of years by different people. The oldest or earliest sections of the text were probably composed at Jerusalem in the tenth century B.C.E. (“before the common era”) during the reigns of David and Solomon. Later versions often completely suppressed earlier stories for political, social or religious reasons; sometimes duplicate versions were tagged on, and of course, many new stories, histories, poetry and polemics were added over time.

  “J” stands for the original author, the “Yahwist” named for Yahweh—or Jahweh, in the German spelling, as it was German theological scholars who started this author naming process in the 19th century. They named this first author after the name of God most frequently used in those texts. The later strands of Bible stories in Genesis, Exodus, and Numbers are all revisions or censorings of J, and their authors are known as “E” (Elohist for “Elohim,” the plural name of God used for Yahweh in that version); “P” for the Priestly Author or School that wrote Leviticus; “D” for the author(s) of Deuteronomy; and “R” for the Redactor who performed the “final” revision after the return of the Israelites from the Babylonian Exile.