Unbound

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June 29, 2014

Genesis 22:1-14

¹After these things God tested Abraham. He said to him, “Abraham!” And he said, “Here I am.” ²God said, “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains that I shall show you.” ³So Abraham rose early in the morning, saddled his donkey, and took two of his young men with him, and his son Isaac; he cut the wood for the burnt offering, and set out and went to the place in the distance that God had shown him. ⁴On the third day Abraham looked up and saw the place far away. ⁵Then Abraham said to his young men, “Stay here with the donkey; the boy and I will go over there; we will worship, and then we will come back to you.” ⁶Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering and laid it on his son Isaac, and he himself carried the fire and the knife. So the two of them walked on together. ⁷Isaac said to his father Abraham, “Father!” And he said, “Here I am, my son.” He said, “The fire and the wood are here, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?” ⁸Abraham said, “God himself will provide the lamb for a burnt offering, my son.” So the two of them walked on together.

⁹When they came to the place that God had shown him, Abraham built an altar there and laid the wood in order. He bound his son Isaac, and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood. ¹⁰Then Abraham reached out his hand and took the knife to kill his son. ¹¹But the angel of the LORD called to him from heaven, and said, “Abraham, Abraham!” And he said, “Here I am.” ¹²He said, “Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him; for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me.” ¹³And Abraham looked up and saw a ram, caught in a thicket by its horns. Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering instead of his son. ¹⁴So Abraham called that place “The LORD will provide”; as it is said to this day, “On the mount of the LORD it shall be provided.”

Sermon: “Unbound”

My name means “laughter”, you know.  Isaac.  It’s an onomatopoeia like sizzle or cuckoo, meaning it sounds like the noise it makes.  I suppose when an angel of God told my ninety-year-old mother Sarah she was going to have a baby, she responded with “isaac isaac isaac” in laughter.

But the laughter (that’s me) nearly died one day.  That day is forever burned into my memory.  It started out like any other day: my dad Abraham said we were going on a little hiking trip for the weekend, up to Moriah.  He saddled the donkey, brought supplies and a couple of his best young workers.  I didn’t really think he’d brought enough food for me for the way home again, but didn’t say anything because my ol’ Dad seemed a little on edge. 

He continued to seem on edge to me.  Sure, I was six, but I could still tell.  I kept meeting his eye to catch him giving me a strange sort of look, and he kept looking angrily up at heaven with no explanation.   And there was the wandering – we wandered and wandered until finally, on the third day, he stopped.  He told the workers to stay with the donkey, and took my hand.  “Let’s go.” he said. 

I’m not sure why I felt afraid, but I did.  He was my dad, I trusted him completely, but I was still unsettled for some reason.  But I came with him.  I saw the oil and the wood to make a sacrifice to God.  Even at 6, I understood the way this ritual worked.  “W…where’s the lamb, Dad?” I asked with worried eyes as big as dinner plates.

His eyes teared up for a minute.  I’d never seen my Dad cry.  Now I was really scared.  “God will provide,” he choked out. 

When he told me to lie down on the altar, I knew what was happening.  I don’t know if I was too stunned to cry out or so shocked by the situation that I said nothing, but I obeyed.  Shaking like a leaf, I laid down.  He bound me, tying up my hands and feet, and though tears now poured down my cheeks, I didn’t say a word.

Just as what I feared would happen was about to happen, there was a voice.  It didn’t even startle me.  I barely noticed it.  I was beyond noticing anything at this point.  “Abraham!” It roared.  “Do not harm your son!  I know you fear God because you haven’t even withheld your son.” 

My dad fell down to the ground with relief.  And then he rose, his face broken with grief.  He untied me, with each motion weeping, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Isaac,” over and over again.  I was unbound, free.  My life was saved.

And my heart was broken. 

At first, though, I used this experience to my advantage.  When my dad would ask me to clean my room, I’d just say one word, “Sacrifice!” and he would clean it for me.  That was one powerful guilt trip.  I got all my favorite toys that way, never had to clean my room and my dad was always going out of his way to show me love. 

But as I became a teenager the wounds of that fateful day began to fester.  I became withdrawn, irrationally angry at the littlest things, and I never looked my dad in the eye. 

That day took its toll on him, too.  He never laughed anymore.  His faith in God was steadfast as ever, but it took on an almost maniacal, obsessive edge.  He seemed to think that if he took one misstep, God would sacrifice him like he almost sacrificed me.  Or perhaps he wanted to prove his fear of God so God would never ask of him again what was asked that horrible day.

It’s been many, many years since that day.  I said goodbye to my dear, kind mother Sarah, and welcomed my wife Rebekah.  I had children, Esau and Jacob, who in their own way tricked me the way my father once had done. 

But in the end, that angry fire of my teenage youth has burned down.  It is still there, a smoldering, glowing ember of regret and sadness, but now it looks much more like pity than rage.  You see, I now feel sorry for my dad.

I mean, what sort of God would ask a father to kill his laughter, his long-awaited son?  I don’t want to believe in a God like that.  And so I don’t.

This isn’t to say I don’t believe in God.  I do.  I taught my children the stories of Yahweh and through them and their children, and their children’s children, you’ve heard of these stories, too. 

Did God order my dad to kill me that day in Moriah, or was my dad just really sick?  Oh, I’ve spent my entire life asking that question.  And the answer is always the same: I don’t know. 

What I do know is this: my dad regretted listening to that command, and acting on it.  He regretted not showing his fear of God in some other way that wouldn’t have made me forever fearful of him.  And, you know what, while I realize this probably isn’t perhaps “theologically sound”, I get the feeling God regretted that day, too.

Because this same God later learned what it was like to lose a son.  This God watched as people bound him to a cross, and this God didn’t provide a lamb that time.  This God’s laughter died, too.  But, not for long.  Three days of death and sorrow, and then an eternity of life and laughter.  Three days bound in a tomb, and then a resurrection that would unbind all of creation for all time.

Maybe it takes the fear to find the laughter.  Maybe it takes being bound to appreciate freedom.

Honestly, just as my anger at my dad turned to pity, I feel sorry that our God had to endure such horrific violence. 

And I don’t know why that happened any more than I know why my dad nearly killed me doing what he thought was God’s will.

But this I do know: love is stronger than death.  Our scriptures say that, too.  We human beings are a terrible mess of beauty and violence, pain and laughter.  That is life.  But somehow, in ways we will never be able to understand, even if we were meant to, that love of God endures the very worst harm we can do to each other, and even the worst harm it can seem like God brings us. 

Perhaps the point, if there even is a point to this rambling story of mine, is not in the binding, but the unbinding.  Being bound in fear and the threat of death was part of my story, yes.  But it wasn’t the end.  In the end, I was unbound – freed – so that I could try to give my children the kind of blessed life I missed out on. 

I do not pretend to understand fully the way our wild God works in this world, even now, after all these years.  But this I do know: God wants us all to be unbound in the end.  So, let go.  Be freed.  Live this very precious life with as little regret and anger as you can muster.  And, oh yes, laugh.  As often as you possibly can, laugh.  Amen.