July 2, 2017
Genesis 22:1-14
Isaac
Did you know that my name, Isaac, means laughter? What a joke that is. I think the last time I really laughed was way back when with my brother Ishmael. Before my mother sent him away. But ever since then, any time something starts to bring a smile to my face, that terror comes back to me. There I am again trudging up the mountain loaded down with wood for the fire. My father silently walking next to me. In my dreams I can see myself as I was then, still trusting that my father has my best interests at heart, still believing that I am a child of promise like my parents always tell me. I try to scream, to shake my boy-self awake, to warn him to turn around, to drop the wood and run away and never look back. But I can’t make a sound. And the silence is deafening.
After that time on the mountain I rushed down a different path from my father and never talked to him or my mother again. But I never really got free. They were still part of me when I married Rebecca and had my own kids. I thought it would be different for us, but all Esau and Jacob brought was more jealousy, more deception. Maybe God is the one laughing - at all of us.
Sarah
It all started out so well for Abraham and me. Although we’d been married forever, it seemed, without any children. And then one day he came up to me with his eyes lit up. “Sarah, it’s time for an adventure!” We left everything and started out under the stars - so full of promise, so sure that our God was with us.
I’ll never forget that morning when everything changed. I woke up early, as I always do, to start my chores, and both Abraham and little Isaac were gone. I didn’t think much about it at first - they’d probably just gone out to do some hunting. But as the morning sun rose in the sky and started baking my laundry dry, a sinking feeling of horror made its home inside my heart. Something was happening that couldn’t be undone. For days I stayed inside, praying and waiting. Until finally they returned. But not together. Abraham came first, looking older even than the old man he was. There was something in his eyes that I’d never seen before. Maybe fear, or self-doubt? That scared me more than the waiting, seeing that uncertainty from this man who always seemed so certain he knew the right thing to do. Isaac didn’t come home until days later. He looked much older too, his body sagging, his eyes accusing.
When he looked at me, I saw Hagar’s eyes. Her look when I forced Abraham to get rid of her and that child Ishmael because I couldn’t stand them being near us. I couldn’t stand the reminder of my pain during all those childless years. My hasty insistence that Abraham get a child from her. My ugly jealousy all those years when she had a child that Abraham loved and I didn’t. And then the even uglier years when I finally had Isaac and couldn’t stop hating Hagar anyway. I finally made Abraham take her and her son into the wilderness, hoping they would die there. Hoping all my ugliness and hate and jealousy would die with them. But when Hagar looked at me with those knowing and accusing eyes, I knew all of that would stay with me forever.
And I realized then that maybe everything had really started changing a long time before. We hadn’t been full of promise, we hadn’t trusted God to provide for us, for years. I couldn’t point my finger to the moment when we started turning away from God and making our own way, but I could trace that moment to this one.
I never found out exactly what happened to Abraham and Isaac when they went away, but whatever it was the end for me. My sweet boy who had always been so full of love and laughter never hugged me again. Never laughed again. He was like a shadow living in the house. The pieces of my heart never came back together again.
Abraham
I’ll never forget when I first heard God’s voice. “Abraham, I will make you the father of a great nation!” When God promised that through my offspring all the world would be blessed, it sent shivers down my spine. I would do anything to keep that closeness with God. And so Sarah and I left our home and families and headed out into the great unknown. So trusting, so full of certainty and joy. Every night I stopped at the edge of the desert and looked out at the stars and made an altar to the God who had chosen me. Me!
But then nothing happened. There was no offspring. The adventure began to feel foolhardy. And Sarah stopped believing that I was really hearing from God. I can’t blame her. Especially after I passed her off as my sister when we traveled through Egypt. I certainly wasn’t listening to God then. I was just scared. Scared I might get killed because someone wanted my beautiful wife for themselves and I was just a stranger in the land. When the Pharaoh found out his new concubine was already married he sent her back to me, thank God. Sarah looked at me with those accusing eyes. Said that Pharaoh might not have my “promise” but he seemed to have higher moral standards.
But I started rubbing off on her. And before long she was looking for ways to speed along God’s plan too. Bringing me Hagar to try to get a child, and I could tell, almost instantly, Sarah regretted it. It just got worse when Ishmael was born. But when our son Isaac was finally born, we seemed to return to that old feeling of adventure. The promise seemed real again. We started laughing again. We knew what love was again. But it wasn’t long before that wore away. Sarah started getting jealous of Hagar and Ishmael again. And I just got weak.
I think that’s what made me do it. I was so tired of being weak. I wanted to hear God’s voice again - to feel again like I was the Father of a Great Nation. I thought if I could just prove my loyalty to God, I could feel that blessing, that promise again. I could be important again. And so I took matters into my own hands.
I listened to the nagging voice in my head. The one that berated me for my impotence. The one that mocked the promise. The one that looked longingly at the simple faith of the heathens that sacrificed their sons to Baal to win their god’s favor. And I thought, “I can do that. I can prove my love to God.” And so I walked up that mountain with Isaac, hypnotized in the fog of my own ego. I laid him on the altar, avoiding his gaze, the voices in my head drowning out his questions and his tears. But as I lifted the knife, I heard another voice, a familiar voice, the one that had always been full of promise and blessing. Now it just sounded tired and sad. But it was forceful when it called me by name, “Abraham! Abraham!” and told me to lay down my knife. I looked out and saw the ram, caught in the thicket. I realized I’d gotten God all wrong. I’d gotten the promise all wrong. And suddenly all the voices went silent.
God
I thought my promise - the promise of the God Who Made Heaven and Earth - would be enough, but it never seems to be enough. Somehow my people always forget. Instead of love and blessing, they keep seeing fear and scarcity.
But it wasn’t until I saw Abraham with his eyes glazed over and that huge knife poised over Isaac that I realized how completely Abraham had gotten it wrong. After all this time, he still doesn’t believe that I desire love, not sacrifice. After all this time, Abraham still doesn’t trust the blessing. Abraham still doesn’t understand that I am with him and for him.
And that’s when it hit me - Abraham is testing me.
And so I shouted out his name and wrestled the knife out of his hand. I didn’t tell him what a stupid idea this all had been. I didn’t tell him that his wife and son would never forgive him. He knew that already, I could tell. Instead, I wrapped my blessing around him more tightly. And I stopped laying the weight of my voice on his ears.
Maybe in time Abraham will see that he doesn’t have to earn my promise, maybe someday they’ll all understand. But until then, I will do what I always do. I will love them and be merciful to them. I will walk alongside them, promise intact, just as I always have.
Comments
Post a Comment