Why would God command death?
Few stories are as profound and perplexing as that of Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah. This ancient tale, found in the first book of the Bible, Genesis 22, challenges our understanding of faith, obedience, and the nature of God Himself. It's a narrative that invites us to slow down, imagine, and grapple with difficult questions about divine communication and human response. At least, that’s what we can do with it. Sadly, I’ve found these ancient stories to receive more of a tip of the hat and moving on kind of response. In Sunday School, we quickly knew that Isaac wasn’t burnt on the altar, and everything seemed ok as we moved on.
But everything is not ok— either Abraham seems crazy or God is a monster— or both.
The story begins with a backward glance - "After these things." This simple phrase reminds us that context matters. Abraham's journey to this pivotal moment was paved with miraculous births, nomadic wanderings, and divine promises. At 75, he had left everything familiar behind, responding to God's call to "Go to the land that I will show you." Now, years later, with his long-awaited son Isaac by his side, Abraham faces his greatest test.
God's command is shocking: "Take your son, your only son, whom you love, Isaac; and go to the land of Moriah. There you are to offer him as a burnt offering on a mountain that I will point out to you." The Jewish tradition imagines a poignant dialogue here, with God specifying each detail and Abraham questioning, his heart breaking with each clarification. This is not just a story about a man's obedience; it's a story about God's nature and the depths of faith.
As we read on, the parallels to another sacrifice - that of Jesus Christ - become apparent. The wood laid upon Isaac echoes the cross carried by Jesus. Abraham taking the fire and knife foreshadows God the Father bearing the power of death. Even the phrase "on the third day" connects these two pivotal moments in faith history.
The Bible is often silent on the emotions of its characters, inviting us to pause and imagine. What was Abraham feeling as he journeyed with his son? What thoughts raced through his mind as he built the altar? The text gives us glimpses of tenderness - "My father," "My son" - amidst the impending tragedy.
Rembrandt's artworks capture the emotional weight of this moment. In one painting, we see a crazed-eyed Abraham, barely restrained by an angel. In a later etching (when Rembrandt is aged in years and had lost his own son), we witness a grieving father cradling his son, his unfocused stare speaking volumes about the cost of obedience. These images remind us that faith is not devoid of emotion or conflict.
Abraham`s sacrifice 1655 Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn1606–1669 Dutch Netherlands Etching Etch
At the heart of this story is a troubling question about God. Why would a loving deity demand such a sacrifice? The answer unfolds gradually, revealing God's extreme vulnerability to human unfaithfulness. This story points forward to the cross of Jesus, where God Himself provides the sacrifice that humanity's fallenness requires.
Perhaps most startling is God's declaration: "For now I know that you are a man who fears God." This phrase challenges our notion of an all-knowing deity. Instead, it presents a God engaged in covenant relationship, vulnerable and responsive to human actions. In Abraham's wide-eyed "yes," God sees hope for humanity.
This story isn't meant to be read in isolation. It's part of a larger narrative that culminates in Jesus Christ. In Jesus, we see both the ultimate son of Abraham, sparing nothing in faithfulness to God, and God's own faithfulness expressed in excruciating vulnerability on the cross.
When we slow down and engage our imagination, this ancient tale transforms from a troubling account of divine demand to a profound exploration of love, faith, and sacrifice. It invites us to see the beauty amidst the wretchedness, the redemption amidst human failings.
God speaks what He knows about us - our entrenchment in sin, but also our capacity for extraordinary faith. The test of Abraham was a singular event, but it speaks to the universal human experience of being called to give everything to God. And in that calling, we find the assurance that God's love and power can save us from our deepest trials.
As we reflect on this story, we're invited to consider our own journey of faith. Where has God called us to step out in trust? How have we experienced His speaking into our lives? Can we, like Abraham, respond with a wholehearted "Here I am" when God calls?
This narrative challenges us to see beyond the surface, to wrestle with difficult questions, and to find hope in the midst of seeming despair. It reminds us that our faith journey is not always straightforward or easy to understand, but it is always held within the context of God's larger story of redemption.
Ultimately, this is a story about a Creator God who gives His vulnerable self to His creation in perfect love. It's about a God who knows us intimately, speaks to us personally, and invites us into a covenant relationship that can transform us and the world around us.
I want to walk away from this story carrying the image of God cradling us in our moments of greatest trial, just as the angel cradled Abraham. I want to remember that even in our darkest hours, God is speaking, testing, and ultimately saving. And I want to be open to hearing and responding to that divine voice, trusting that in our "yes" to God, we participate in His ongoing work of redemption in the world.
But then— I see those haunting eyes. Thanks, Rembrandt.