When Isaac and his father had said good-bye to Sarah, she had put her hand on her son’s head. He was almost as tall as she was now, though he was lean. She had kissed him and turned to Abraham, saying, “Be careful of Isaac. He’s not a hardy boy.”
Isaac thought about the drawn expression that had crossed his father’s face when she had said these words. In a husky voice he had simply replied, “I’ll do my best, Sarah.” Isaac had noticed that the lines of his face had seemed more marked, and his eyes appeared almost empty, not bright as usual. Now Isaac studied him in the quietness and by the light of their campfire. The only sounds were the popping of the burning wood and the scurrying of dry leaves across the hard surface of the earth.
“Are we going far?” Isaac finally asked.
Abraham seemed not to hear him for a moment, and then he shook his shoulders and cleared his throat. “About another day. We’re going to Mount Moriah.”
“And we’re going to make an offering to God there?”
Again the long silence was punctuated by a deep sigh from Abraham. “Yes,” he whispered. “We’re going there to make an offering to God Most High.”
Isaac considered this and focused his attention on his father. His father was much older than his friends’ fathers, but that had never bothered the lad. Even though Abraham was now more than a century old, he was still a strong man and could do more work than any of the older men in the tribe without growing weary. But in the last few days he seemed to Isaac to have aged suddenly, in a way the boy could not understand. Whereas a few days ago he was still standing erect, now his shoulders were slumped, his back bent, his lips drawn together in an expression of pain or sadness.
Abraham became aware of the boy’s gaze fixed on him and passed a hand across his face. He got to his feet stiffly, went over to the water bag and took a drink of water, then replaced the bag onto the branch of a stunted tree. He stood for a moment, gazing off in the direction they were to take in the morning, almost gasping for breath—as if he could feel the mass of Mount Moriah pressing down on him. Then suddenly he turned and came and sat down beside Isaac. He put his arm around the boy and hugged him hard.
Surprised, Isaac faced his father. The hug was not an unusual gesture, for Abraham was given to such things. Isaac was well accustomed to having both of his parents touch him on the head or squeeze his arm or hug him with an arm around the shoulder. He leaned against his father, still wondering about the silence that had enveloped him, then asked, “Will we build an altar out of stone when we get to Mount Moriah?”
“Yes, son, we will.”
“How did you know to do that? Did your father build altars?”
“No, he never did. But my grandfather did.”
“Tell me some more about Grandfather Nahor.”
Abraham began to speak of his grandfather, which he did often, telling Isaac as many things as he could remember that the old man had poured into him. He spoke for a long time about Nahor’s search for the Eternal One and how glad he had been to find out that he had a grandfather who, like himself, was eager to know God.
Isaac listened until Abraham paused; then he reached out and put two more sticks on the fire. The flames jumped up with the added fuel, and the sharp, acrid smell of smoke began to arise afresh. “Is the Eternal One kind, Father?”
Abraham recoiled at the question, and Isaac felt it. He turned to look at his father and waited for a reply. It came slowly, after some thought.
“The Eternal One is different from men,” Abraham began. “He’s not a man as we are. He has no body. He is everywhere. And He created all things, Isaac.”
“Everything?”
“Yes, every grain of sand on the desert. Every animal that walks or flies or swims. And, of course, every human being on the face of the earth.”
Isaac pondered this briefly, then said, “I wish I could hear Him speak to me as He spoke to you and to Grandfather Nahor. Do you think He ever will?”
“Yes, I think He will someday. You must wait and pray and seek His face.”
“Tell me again about the first time He ever spoke to you.”
Abraham told the story again to his son, as he had done many times in the past. He had thought about it for so many years that it was indelibly fixed in his mind, yet somehow it was still fresh at each new telling. Finally he stopped and looked at Isaac. The boy sat staring into the fire but was listening with rapt attention. He loves to hear about God, Abraham thought, and a searing pain tore anew at his heart. How can I do what you have commanded, O God?
Abraham waited, listening with every fiber of his being. But there was no answer…and in truth he believed there would never be one. He simply had to obey.
Isaac continued listening and asking questions, and finally Abraham spoke of the promise God had given concerning the boy himself. “I was an old man, and Sarah was too old to bear children,” he said. “Yet He came to me, and He told me that Sarah would have a baby.”
Isaac understood well the penalties of age. Even in his brief lifetime, he had seen older people wither up and die, and he knew that animals did the same. He also knew that old women simply did not have babies. He turned again to face his father and asked, “How could you believe that would happen when you knew it was impossible?”
Abraham remained silent for a time, then put a trembling hand on Isaac’s head, stroking the boy’s long hair. “Sometimes, my son, things have to be believed in order to be seen. I believed that God had made all things, and I believed that He could do all things. So when God told me Sarah would have a son, I questioned it at first, but then I ignored what I saw—that your mother was too old to have a child. That had never happened before, but I ignored the facts and put all my faith on God himself—on what He is. If He could make the world, He could make an old woman have a child. So I threw myself on Him. I ignored everything that looked impossible, and I simply believed God. Oh, I knew that men would say I was a fool, but I didn’t care.”
A log on the fire burned through, collapsing with a hissing sound and sending sparks upward. Isaac watched them go, and then he turned and said with a sweet smile, “That’s what I want to do, Father. Just like you did.”
“And that’s what I want you to do too, Isaac. Do you think you can love the Lord—even when things look bad and wrong? Can you put your faith in God Most High?”
“I…I hope so. But I might be afraid,” he added.
“It’s all right to be afraid, but what is wrong is not believing in God’s promises.” He sat there with his arm around the shoulders of his son, the son he loved more than life itself. He had prayed for God to take him in Isaac’s place, if someone had to die, but God had remained silent. The heavens had been cold and empty, and the silence had frightened him. Now, as he had done before when God had asked of him to believe the impossible, he whispered, “God Most High can be trusted, son. Others in this life may fail you, but He never will!”
****
Mount Moriah had been looming ahead of them all the previous day. It was not a high mountain at all, but rising out of the flatness of the desert land, it seemed to crouch there like some ungainly beast. They had camped on the third night, and now the morning had come. Abraham had commanded the young men to strip one of the donkeys of the supplies and load him down with wood.
He had not slept at all, and now he felt weak as he took the bridle of the donkey loaded with branches and turned to the servants. “You wait here, and my son and I will go up the mountain to worship.”
The two young men assented with nods, and Abraham turned, his face bleak. Isaac followed and, from time to time, picked up pieces of wood and carried them in his arms. They had eaten only a few bites of dried meat for breakfast and had washed it down with a little water, and he was hungry. Still he did not complain. Plodding along behind his father, he saw the sun rising behind the mountains, making a white line that grew brighter as they moved forward.
Finally the tip of the sun cleared the mountains, and looki
ng back, Isaac could no longer see Rayel and Uzziel. “Will we go far to make the sacrifice?”
“Not much farther.” Abraham’s voice cracked and sounded strange. It troubled Isaac, and he pulled up even with his father and looked up into his face. Abraham kept his eyes fixed on the distance. Isaac knew his father was deeply troubled and this caused him to be sad, for he loved his father with all his heart. He kept silent then, and while the sun slowly climbed above the mountain, they forged steadily ahead.
By midmorning they reached a broken place that had suffered some catastrophe, for stones were strewn all around, some of them no bigger than Isaac’s fist, others too large to move.
Abraham stared at the rocky area and said, “We will build the altar here, Isaac.”
“Yes, sir.” Isaac put down the wood he had carried while Abraham tied the donkey to a tree. Abraham began to gather stones into a big pile. Isaac wondered at his silence, but he began to do the same thing. As the sun rose directly overhead, the heat radiating from the rocky ground and their labor made both of them perspire.
Isaac had seen altars before. He knew that an altar was simply a pile of stones on which the sacrifice could be placed. A thought that had been lingering with him came to his lips. “Father, we have the wood and the fire, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?”
Abraham stiffened as though something had struck him. He did not turn to look at Isaac, and his voice was so muffled Isaac had difficulty hearing his father’s answer, but he made the words out. “My son, God himself will provide a lamb for a burnt offering.”
The answer puzzled Isaac, but he asked no more questions. He worked diligently, and finally Abraham paused and stood over the pile of stones they had raised. It was not a large altar, no more than two feet high, and the top of it was level. They put the wood on the altar; then Abraham stood absolutely still.
Isaac waited quietly, seeing that his father was staring at the altar fixedly. The silence ran on, and Isaac, seeing no movement in his father, thought he was praying. Then his father turned around, and Isaac saw that tears were streaming down his face. “My son,” Abraham said in a husky voice, “we have talked much about trusting God. You have heard how I had to trust God when things were very bad.”
“Yes, I know, Father.”
Abraham struggled for words. There seemed to be a great emptiness in him that was filled with the sound of a howling wind. His own voice sounded strange to him, and he said, “Isaac, my son, you asked about the lamb for the sacrifice, and I told you that God would provide it.”
Isaac stared at his father. “Yes, Father. When will He do that?”
Abraham licked his lips. “He’s already done that. Isaac, do you love your father?”
“Oh yes!”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” Isaac felt strange, for something in his father’s eyes made him fearful. “What’s wrong, Father?”
“Isaac, the Eternal One has spoken to me. He has commanded me…” Here Abraham could not contain himself. Tears ran freely down his face and he sobbed, “He has commanded me to offer my only son on the altar as a sacrifice.”
Isaac stood stunned. He stared at his father silently, and his lips began to tremble. “You mean me, Father?”
“Yes, my son.”
Abraham’s vision suddenly narrowed until he could see only his son’s face. He saw there the fear that anyone would feel at such a time. Isaac was a tender young man, not rough like others his age. He had never liked the butchering of animals for food, refusing to take part in it, and now Abraham saw in the boy’s eyes the impulse to run away. And for that moment he wished fervently that Isaac would do exactly that. That would take the matter out of his hands. He could not sacrifice Isaac if he could not catch him. He knew with one side of his mind that this was a futile thought, but it grew in him until he forced it away. Finally he said, “God is good. Everything He does is for our good, my son. I know you are afraid…and so am I. You cannot know how…how hard this is for me. It would be easy if He had asked for my own life, but He’s asked for the life of the one that I love most in this world. But it must be your choice too.”
Isaac listened as his father spoke. His limbs were trembling; fear was growing in him like a monster. He wanted to cry out, to scream, to run—but then something inexplicable happened. Suddenly, the terror that was piercing his heart like a sharp knife and sending his mind into a frenzy gently began to fade. He felt his limbs grow strong. Something he could only describe as a warmth filled him from the top of his head and flowed down through his body. All the fear, the agony, the terror drained away, and he knew that the Eternal One, God Most High, was with him.
“Yes, Father, it shall be as you say…and as the Most High says.”
Abraham could not believe what he was hearing. He had seen his son’s eyes grow clear and the trembling stop, and for a long moment he stared at Isaac, knowing that his son had been touched by God Most High. There was no other answer.
Isaac moved forward and allowed his father to bind his hands and lay him down on top of the wood on the altar. Abraham, with knees and hands trembling, leaned forward and kissed the boy, stroking his hair and letting his tears fall freely. Isaac was looking up at him with a calmness in his eyes that Abraham could not bear. He pulled the knife from beneath his garment and lifted it high in the air with both hands on the hilt. Beneath him Isaac lay perfectly still, and his eyes did not flicker. Abraham gave a great cry as he prepared to lower the knife.
“Abraham!”
The voice was loud and sharp and unmistakable. Abraham could see nothing, for the tears blurred his vision. But he knew the voice. “Here I am,” he uttered.
A bright light—brighter than the noonday sun—surrounded the father and son, and the voice was strong and warm and filled with love. “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.”
Abraham dropped the knife and fell across the body of his son. He was weeping as he had never wept before. Then he raised himself and helped Isaac sit up, frantically cutting away the cords and saying, “Did you hear the voice, my son?”
“Yes, Father, I heard it.”
“Then you have heard the voice of Him who made all things.”
While the two were clinging to each other, Abraham looked up and saw a ram caught in a nearby thicket. With a shout of joy, he said, “My son, did I not tell you that God would provide a sacrifice for a burnt offering?”
Together they ran to the thicket, freed the ram, and brought him to the altar. Abraham slew the beast and Isaac lit the wood. As the flames rose and consumed the offering, Abraham put his arm around Isaac’s shoulders and said, “We will call this place Jehovah-jireh, my son, for we have seen God Most High provide!”
While they bowed before the altar, with joy in their hearts at the mercy of God, the voice spoke again. “Because you have done this and have not withheld your son, your only son, I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will take possession of the cities of their enemies, and through your offspring all nations on earth will be blessed, because you have obeyed me.”
Father and son wept as the transcendent light slowly receded, and they began to make their way down the mountain. With each step Abraham remembered his words to Isaac two nights before: “God Most High can be trusted, son. Others in this life may fail you, but He never will!”
Before returning to the servants, Abraham stopped and hugged Isaac close, then looked into his son’s face and whispered, “Never forget this moment, my son!”
Isaac returned his father’s gaze with joy in his own eyes. “I never will, Father!”
****
Sarah had slept little since the departure of Abraham and Isaac. She had tossed fitfully on her bed, and now she hated to count the days. But on this day she was certain they would return soon.
> She helped Zara with the baby, and the two looked up when Eliezer came running in, his face alight. “The master and Isaac are back.”
Sarah felt faint, as if the world had suddenly rocked. She knew then how deep her fear had been, for Abraham had behaved so strangely. She forced herself to remain still until the faintness passed, and then she went out to greet them. As the four came into the camp, Isaac broke away, running straight for Sarah. She put out her arms, and he caught her and held on to her so tightly she cried out, “Don’t break me in two, Isaac!”
“Mother, listen. The Eternal One—He is also the Merciful One!”
Others had gathered around, and as Abraham joined them, Sarah saw a wide smile on his face. His eyes were alight, and he was standing tall.
“What happened?” she said as he put his arms around her.
“I will have to tell you tonight when we are alone.”
“All right.” Sarah hugged him tightly and then went to Isaac, who was more excited than she had ever seen him.
“I must tell you everything, Mother.”
“You will, and now come in and wash yourself and eat.”
****
Sarah sat beside Abraham. Isaac had been too excited to sleep. The three of them had talked until the boy’s eyes had drooped and Sarah insisted that he go to bed. He had kissed her then, embraced his father, and stumbled away.
Now Sarah took Abraham’s hand and said, “Tell it all again. Isaac was so excited he wouldn’t let you talk.”
Abraham squeezed her hand. He was weary to the bone yet not sleepy. “I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again,” he said. “I suppose I will, but it’s like nothing that ever happened before.” He began to speak of how God had commanded him to sacrifice Isaac. He went through the whole story and finally ended by saying, “I had the knife ready to slay our son when God stopped me.”
“I don’t think I could have done that.”
Abraham was silent. “You know what was in my mind as I raised that knife?”
“I can’t imagine. Fear?”
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