Abraham and The Binding of Isaac:
I have always had problems with the narrative about Abraham's devotion to God with regard to sacrificing his own son. Obviously, I'm not alone. This narrative from Genesis, which is where we leave Primeval history and begin with the Story of the Patriarchs, has inspired writers and artists from countless eras to express their pleasure or pain at reading the story. The incident is called, in Hebrew, the akedah, which means "binding"; readers who are more modern add the sense of "ordeal" or "sacrifice."
Eric Auerbach's important essay,
Odysseus'
Scar from the collection called Mimesis, brilliantly uses the
Abraham narrative to demonstrate the distinctions between Hebraic and Greek
writing. We in the West are products of both imaginations and both
peoples. To summarize, Auerbach illustrates that Odysseus' return home in
the Odyssey has all the marks of Greek literary style. Every action
and event is evenly highlighted and fore-grounded. No such thing as mystery
is allowed to creep into the text. The scar that Odysseus suffered as a
child when attacked by a boar will give him away as the old nurse, whom he
hasn't seen in nearly two decades, prepares tow wash his feet, as custom and
honor demanded for strangers. But Odysseus has come home, only to find his
home besieged by drunken louts who have made his property, wife, and all
else their own. From the moment that
Euryclea, the old nurse, recognizes Odysseus by the scar on his leg until
she drops his foot in the bowl of water due to her surprise, some four pages
will pass: when did he get the scar, what was he doing, who was there, what
did the scene look like, and on it goes.
Auerbach maintains that the Greeks wrote vertically; that is, all events accrued, built up--with one no more important than another--were taken in their sum. Hebraic writing, on the other hand, is everything that Greek narrative is not, which Auerbach uses the so-called "trial" of Abraham or the "ordeal." Where was he when God spoke to him? What else is happening in this picture? When Abraham finished speaking with God, what happened? We don't know, because the narration then shifts to "early next morning." What did he think about? Did Abraham not make a single sound of protest as to what God wanted, given the promise of "nations" that would come from his son? There's drama in the scene; we have words, but more importantly silences. Consider, for instance, that at verse 7 when the child Isaac notes that wood and a means to light it are at hand, but then asks about the absence of the sacrificial animal, Abraham says "God will see to the sheep for his burnt offering, my son." We don't find greater irony, or a more chilling response, especially from a father who intends to kill his child. Moreover, the final line of verse 8 is, as Speiser notes, perhaps the most poignant and eloquent silence in all literature": for immediately after the ironic response of Abraham above, the narration then says, "And the two of them walked on together." No sounds. No discussion. Just us as an audience, knowing what we know, what Abraham knows, and what Isaac does not. If this were a drama, we would call this dramatic irony: whenever an audience knows more than its audience. We imagine and see the visual action, pick up the irony or action in the background as well, and perhaps wait for God, Isaac, or Abraham to break the tension.
But to amplify Auerbach here, the tension or mystery is not broken; rather, note how this is skillfully written: when they get to the spot, the narration says,
He laid out the wood. He tied up his son
Isaac. He laid him on the altar on top of the wood. He put out his hand
and picked up the
cleaver to slay his son.
Everything is short and matter of fact. And then, another voice from heaven (or did God speak from heaven earlier? We don't know, but this time the voice comes from above and we recognize what the action is; but an angel of the Lord, not God, stays the hand of Abraham. And we have, as Auerbach says, "gaps." There are enormous gaps in the narrative that moves horizontally, not vertically as with the Odyssey; interpretation is demanded. And certainly interpretation it has gotten. The idea of the allegorical mode of literature where all Old Testament events prefigure New Testament has been used on this story for more than a thousand years. This is what we call the anagogical mode. For most Christians, the story demonstrates the great abiding faith of Abraham, who, even though he loved his son and had waited until old age for what Isaac promised for him, was prepared to obey God rather than his heart. Isaac is, of course, Jesus carrying his own wood to sacrifice. The only difference between the Abraham and Christ accounts is that God will not stay the hand of death.
Banstra notes the excellent structure of the narrative: the account is segmented into three units on the basis of repeated phrases. Each of the three units is introduced with a summons addressed to Abraham. In each unit Abraham responds the same way:
God: "Abraham!"
Abraham: "I am right here."
Command: "Take your son"
Isaac: "Father!"
Abraham: "I am right here."
Question: "Where is the lamb?"
Abraham: "God will provide."
Angel: "Abraham, Abraham!"
Abraham: "I am right here."
Command: "Do not harm the boy."
But the narrative troubles many even as it comforts the
faith of others. If nothing else, some are bothered by the idea of the
"trick" or trial with which the episode begins, as if this were a game to
God but Abraham still had to suffer. When the 22nd Chapter
begins, it says "Some time afterwards, God put Abraham to the test." Does
this mean that God never intended to have Abraham harm Isaac, no matter what
the outcome of the trial? Or would God have taken the child's life if
Abraham faltered? And, if the latter, wouldn't that break the covenant that
God made specifically with Abraham? If so, that would imply that the
covenant made to humanity, the promise to never again destroy the world by
water, would be suspect. Why was the test necessary? Has there been any
evidence that Abraham is not willing to do all that God requires, or has
done all demanded of him? At least in the Job trial, we know a reason why
God does to him what he does, but not here. One possibility exists here:
that the narrator is removing fear from his readers by allowing us to know
that this is only a test, no real harm will come to Isaac. Perhaps.
But
the danger, as Speiser notes, that so much is left unsaid that the
danger is to read too much into the narrative.
Few also consider that God has demanded human sacrifice from Abraham, who has proved his devotion to God by following His commands and leaving home to come to this new locale. But could there be a meaning here that the road to the Promised Land will be long, resolute, and difficult, and that it will demand people who will give total confidence to God? In fact, some have tried to suggest that the asked for sacrifice of Isaac is by way of demonstrating what the Hebrews do not do, in contrast to their other Mesopotamian brothers. However, that seems strained since we focus upon Isaac and the promise that God made with regard to this son of Abraham. There would be, one would hope, better ways to make a statement on human sacrifice without sullying the heartless father who would kill his child, only to turn around and pronounce him as the patriarch to his people. And the idea that Abraham so readily took action to kill his own child does not seem to fit with the Abraham we meet in Chapter 18, where he barters with God as to how many righteous people in Sodom and Gomorrah may stay the hand of God's wrath: Abraham begins at fifty, but manages a promise from God that should as few as ten exist, He will not destroy the cities, and for what? His child? No, for his nephew, a man who staked out, do to his uncle's kindness, the best plain and land for himself, even if it resided in some abominable company. To how many of the "faithful" remained in the cities? Only four: Lot, his wife, and two daughters. Thus disaster, because even with Abraham's bartering skills, not enough righteous existed at those places. From the distant heights of Hebron, Abraham sees the smoke of the disaster and remains silent, for he has his answer and it becomes a sad moment. But why would Abraham go that far for a nephew or strangers, but not raise a word about his child?
But there are other problems for modern readers that many have tried to explain. I'm not sure they work, but, for example, Rabbi Telushkin believes that when God told Abraham about Sodom and Gomorrah, it wasn't a commandment and God gave a rationale for the reason, when He spoke to Abraham, it was in the form of a heavenly command. He also believes that God tests Abraham in such a manner so as to signal the distinctions between monotheism and polytheism, which surrounds Abraham, and most especially their human sacrifices, which God will demonstrate is not demanded.
I�m not sure this suffices, however, because the narrative is filled with other problems (and later narratives will mention many gods, which the Hebrews also believed in�Saul did: he named a child Baal after the storm god, as did his son Jonathan, but that's a story for later chapters in other books). But to counter this explanation of God intending something more "humane," some point out that God repeats the idea of who Isaac is twice, "your son, your only son." Moreover, why would the journey take three days? What does this do for a reader but tell us that the poor man's agony is stretched out as far as it will go. Traditionally, and we get this from the Chronicles, Mt. Moriah, where the binding occurred, is where the temple will be built by Solomon; that isn't a three day journey from where Abraham lives in Hebron.
And you have probably noted in the commentary to the text, The Bible as Literature, that there exists a question of God's words; specifically, when alah is used, which literally means "bring up," did Abraham think in terms of offer up, which, admittedly the Lord was not clear on, thus seeing how far Abraham would go. This is where the Midrash story comes from in which God explains to Abraham that He never instructed him to do as he was about to do when the angle prevented him. But one thing remains clear: the Abraham and Isaac narrative is dear to the hearts of Christian tradition as an indication of true faith. The West holds such a view, in some part, due to the Miracle plays that began in the 14th century and were not stamped out in England until late in the Reformation, well-into the 16th century in some places.