This story will be about a boy with great determination to achieve greatness in his sport, sacrificing much in his life for it, only to fail and quit. I will use my roommate Josh as a template for the character.
The moral of the story is anti-optimism, arguing against the idea that no matter who you are or how you are born, you can succeed in your dreams if you try hard enough.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
The Binding of Isaac
My father had a vision: we are going to Moriah to make a sacrifice to Yahweh. I have never understood these things; why would a sacrifice back in Beersheba be any less worthy than one made in some other arbitrary place? But I have been told that God prefers I don’t question his commands, so I should stop.
It has been three days since we left home for Moriah, and the journey has been rather pleasant. My father has spent most of the time talking to himself instead of chastising me, as is usually the case at home. The heat has been bearable, my father’s two servants have left me alone for the most part, and I have had plenty of time to reflect on things. My reflections, though, have led me repeatedly to the same thought: I just don’t understand God.
A hill comes into view. My father limps quickly ahead and then suddenly falls on his knees. I can see his jaw moving; he is talking to God again. “This is the place, ahead” my father shouts back to us. “Bring the wood, son.” The two servants stay behind, and I catch up to my father, the wood chafing my arms.
My father has told me all my life about who I am expected to be. I am his only son, his single heir, and the most valuable thing in his life apart from Yahweh himself. Yahweh told my father all these things, and my father then told me.
But Yahweh has never told me any of this. I pray to Him, the one and only God, every day, and He has not once responded to me in any way. Am I a sinner to the extent that he will not talk to me? What does my father do that gives him that privilege? When he fasts, I fast. When he prays, I pray. When he makes a sacrifice, I make one as well. I do not wrong others, I do not disobey orders, I do not swear, I do not worship false idols, and I do not disrespect my father or God.
But still, for some reason, every time I pray, silence. Just silence.
As we near the hill for the sacrifice, I notice something significant lacking. “Father, we have come this far to make a sacrifice, but we have no lamb.”
“God will provide the lamb, son.”
I don’t really understand what this means, but I accept it. I always just accept it, as I have been taught.
There is an eerie stillness about. There is no wind, the grass is still, there are no animals in sight. I look to my father and see him mumbling to himself, eyes nearly closed as he continues forward up the hill. He opens them suddenly, looks to me, and says, “Son, I love you.”
We finally arrive at the top. I drop the wood and ask, “Where is the lamb, father?” I turn around to hear his response, and I see only a large rock coming down upon my head.
I awake to find myself gagged and tied with rope, on top of the wood. My father is holding a knife high above his head. His eyes are closed and he is mumbling a sacrificial prayer. I look around, and notice, once again, that the grass is not moving. The lack of any wind strikes me immediately, but I can’t grasp why at first. And then I realize what it is: God is not here.
It has been three days since we left home for Moriah, and the journey has been rather pleasant. My father has spent most of the time talking to himself instead of chastising me, as is usually the case at home. The heat has been bearable, my father’s two servants have left me alone for the most part, and I have had plenty of time to reflect on things. My reflections, though, have led me repeatedly to the same thought: I just don’t understand God.
A hill comes into view. My father limps quickly ahead and then suddenly falls on his knees. I can see his jaw moving; he is talking to God again. “This is the place, ahead” my father shouts back to us. “Bring the wood, son.” The two servants stay behind, and I catch up to my father, the wood chafing my arms.
My father has told me all my life about who I am expected to be. I am his only son, his single heir, and the most valuable thing in his life apart from Yahweh himself. Yahweh told my father all these things, and my father then told me.
But Yahweh has never told me any of this. I pray to Him, the one and only God, every day, and He has not once responded to me in any way. Am I a sinner to the extent that he will not talk to me? What does my father do that gives him that privilege? When he fasts, I fast. When he prays, I pray. When he makes a sacrifice, I make one as well. I do not wrong others, I do not disobey orders, I do not swear, I do not worship false idols, and I do not disrespect my father or God.
But still, for some reason, every time I pray, silence. Just silence.
As we near the hill for the sacrifice, I notice something significant lacking. “Father, we have come this far to make a sacrifice, but we have no lamb.”
“God will provide the lamb, son.”
I don’t really understand what this means, but I accept it. I always just accept it, as I have been taught.
There is an eerie stillness about. There is no wind, the grass is still, there are no animals in sight. I look to my father and see him mumbling to himself, eyes nearly closed as he continues forward up the hill. He opens them suddenly, looks to me, and says, “Son, I love you.”
We finally arrive at the top. I drop the wood and ask, “Where is the lamb, father?” I turn around to hear his response, and I see only a large rock coming down upon my head.
I awake to find myself gagged and tied with rope, on top of the wood. My father is holding a knife high above his head. His eyes are closed and he is mumbling a sacrificial prayer. I look around, and notice, once again, that the grass is not moving. The lack of any wind strikes me immediately, but I can’t grasp why at first. And then I realize what it is: God is not here.
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