Walking To Moriah

I didn't join them at the fire. I huddled against a boulder nearby. I refused food, and sat, brooding. Every now and then, I stared up into the low-hanging stars, and a careful observer might have noticed tears in my eyes. God was up there. I knew it, perhaps better than any man living. I had spoken with God many times; people called me the friend of God. "I might be God's friend," I thought, "but is He mine?" Despite my years, my sight was still clear. I looked up at the stars, and began reciting their names, the names that God had taught me. It was calming.

Again, my thoughts drifted back to earlier days. After years of study, searching, and striving, I found God. Maybe, more accurately, God found me. I returned to my father's house. I was surprised by the welcome that I received. Everything had seemed better. He hadn't screamed curses at me; he kept his religion to himself, and left my religion alone. One morning, though, I woke to find a priest of Elkanah, and four heavily armed guards standing in my chamber. Strong arms bound me with heavy cords. The priest cautioned the guards against being overly rough, though, saying, "Elkanah will not accept damaged goods." The memory of the priests words jarred me back into the present. "Once," I muttered, "I thought that I could say that I knew what God would and would not accept. Now, I do not know. Once, I thought I knew God. Now, I can't say."

I glanced over my shoulder. The fire had burned low. My son, and the servants were asleep, careless as the stars wheeled overhead, confident in the care and protection of God. Would He protect them? I couldn't say. I can't be sure of anything now. Slowly, painfully, I got to my feet, and walked over to the fire. I laid there, near my son, tossing and turning, but the memories came back, and wouldn't let me sleep.

The guards dragged me through the pre-dawn darkness toward the hill called Potiphar's Hill. As they left my father's house, I saw my father, standing by the door. I called out, pleading for help, but my father just nodded to the priest, and turned away from me. We soon reached our destination: the Temple of Elkanah, at the head of the plain of Olishem. There, I was cast into prison to await, along with others, my turn to be sacrificed to Elkanah's insatiable thirst. There were many of us in those cells. Some were young children, sold by their parents to pay debts, or given to the gods in an attempt to gain their favor. Some were slaves who had offended their masters. All of us stood in awe, though, in the presence of the daughters of Onitah.

They were princesses, beautiful virgins who were to be sacrificed because they refused to bow down to gods of wood or stone. Somehow, amid the squalor of the prison, they remained clean. None of the fear that haunted the rest of us seemed to touch them. I will always remember the day that the priests came to take them away. I hid my face in my hands as they were bound to the altar. I heard them cry out to God in prayer; over the noise, I heard their screams as the knife of Elkanah pierced them. In my mind, I saw their beautiful faces distorted by the rictus of death. That image, will I see it on my son's face? Will I hear his voice begin to pray, and then listen as his words die under the knife?

I don't know when I fell asleep, but morning came long before I was ready for it. My limbs felt heavy. I pushed forward, as if against a heavy weight, moving ever nearer to Moriah. Why? Why God? What have I done? What has he done? Isn't there some other way? Night came without any answer. My questions drowned in the darkness, and once again, my memories came to haunt my attempts to sleep.

A few days after Elkanah drank the blood of the daughters of Onitah, my turn arrived. The priests dragged me from my cell. As the hot morning sun shone down, they bound me to the altar. Sweat ran off me, wetting the blood that clung to the altar, so that it felt sticky against my back. As the priest raised his knife, I called out to God, hoping that my prayers would have greater effect than the prayers of the daughters of Onitah. I watched as the knife began to descend, and then, through the din of the ceremony, I heard His voice. He spoke to me, and opened my eyes to His visions, and His angel stood beside me. I felt the bands fall from my hands and feet. The priest dropped his knife with a clatter, shaking before the power of the true God. Moments later, he collapsed, never to rise again in this life. The gods that stood watch over the altar fell before Him, smashed into dust. The altar cracked, and fell into pieces. I walked as if in a dream. The crowd parted before me, wailing, and I left that land.

We left the servants at the bottom of the mountain with the donkey, and went on, just me, and my son. I carried the firepot and the knife. He carried the wood. Once, just as we began the climb, he asked, "Father, where is the lamb for the burnt offering?"

My voice broke when I replied. "My son, God will provide himself a lamb for the burnt offering."

Atop Mount Moriah, I began building my altar. "God, is this what you saved me for? You let so many die, but you saved me. Did you save me just so that I could follow in the fouled footsteps of my father, and try to kill my own son? What about all of the promises? How am I to become the father of many nations if you tell me to kill my own heir?" The stones seemed to fit themselves together without my help, but the voice of God, that voice which had comforted me so many times in the past, remained silent, and my son watched in puzzlement as I began to weep.

I untied the bundle of wood, and stacked it upon the altar. Then, taking the cords that had bound the wood, I turned to my son. He could have run. I wouldn't have been able to catch him. He could have fought against me. I wouldn't have been able to overcome him. He just looked at me, tears in his eyes, and a question on his lips, "Father, is there no other way?"

I looked down at my son, lying bound on the altar. In his eyes, I saw my own memories of him, my joy at his birth, the incredible pride I felt when he first began to walk, and to talk, the pain that I felt as I watched him struggle. Once again, my thoughts went to God. He called me His son. How could he ask this of any father? Could he not hear my pleas? Was He now as deaf and dumb as my father's idols? I listened for the voice that had guided me so many times in the past, but all I heard was a deafening silence. Looking down at my son, my only son, my heir, I raised the knife, and braced myself against his scream. It was then that I heard the voice, calling my name, "Abraham, Abraham."

"Yes, I am here."

"Lay not thine hand upon the lad, neither do thou any thing unto him: for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son from me." With that voice came comfort, and the knowledge that God would never take my son from me. Though He Himself would have to sacrifice His Only Begotten Son, that would not be required of me. God would provide himself a lamb for the offering.