The Buried Testament

A Father's Sacrifice

The boy's feet dragged in the gravel behind him as walked up the hillside, firewood strapped to his back. He tried not to focus on the hard, sharp edges digging into his skin with each step. Instead, he put his energy into extra-long strides so he could follow perfectly in his father's footsteps. Jump-step by jump-step, the boy followed his father up the hill.

He was exhausted by the time they finally reached the top. He wished he had water or some nuts to refuel his energy. With a conclusive sigh, he dropped the wood on his back to the ground, then felt the raw skin on his back to make sure the wood hadn't cut him too severely.

He watched his father pace around, seemingly looking for the best area in which to set up camp. Finally, the man dropped his sack at his feet and began his preparations.

"Boy," he called. "Bring me the wood."

The boy did as he was told.

"Father! We came all this way, but it seems we forgot the lamb. How do we worship without the burnt offering?"

"We forgot nothing," his father replied gruffly. "Come. Help me build the fire."

He knew that his father always acted with purpose, so he quickly forgot the matter and made his way over.

He crouched down in front of the woodpile and began arranging it. He was reaching for the next log when suddenly, his father grabbed both of his wrists. Had he done something wrong? He looked up and was disquieted by the stern, empty look coming from the eyes in his father's body.

"Father, was I building it improperly?" He asked earnestly. His father tugged his arms tighter in response, crossing them at the wrists behind his back, fist over fist.

The man pulled a length of rope from out of his sack and began to bind his son's wrists with it.

"Father, please! What are you doing?" He was afraid now.

"Hush." He checked the knots of the wrist binding before shoving his son into the dirt so he could begin on the ankles.

"What is this joke? Come on, father. Let this be over!" His ankles were now bound as tightly as his wrists. "You're scaring me!" he pleaded. He tugged at the bindings, but all that did was make his skin burn. There was no way to escape them.

"I'm sorry, my boy," the man said solemnly. "Please believe that I would never do this unless I had to." He bent down to the pile of logs to finish building the fire his son had started for him. When he was satisfied, he lit it. The light from the flames flickered brightly in his son's tears.

He walked back to his supply sack and pulled out his blade. He regarded the metal for a moment and took a deep breath. He had been commanded to do this directly, he reminded himself. This would be the hardest thing he had ever done, but he had faith that it would also be the most rewarding.

He knelt over his son with the blade raised, all the while trying not to notice the look of terror in his child's eyes. He caught his reflection in the blade. He had to do this, he thought as he examined the pain in his eyes. Only God could command him to do something like this, and only God could command him to stop. It's His will. He had faith. He was devoted, and God would reward him for it. He positioned the knife.

"Please don't hurt me!" the boy cried. He thrashed beneath his father's body, struggling to break free. Tears were now overflowing from his frightened eyes.

"I obey the Lord."

"As do I, Father! Why are you doing this to me?" he had stopped moving.

"Because it is His will."

With a silent prayer, the man swung the blade down and slashed it across the boy's throat, drenching himself in the blood of his only son.

For a moment, time stood still.

"You've done well, my child," a voice commended him. He looked around, but he saw no one. But evidently not – for it was Him.

"I said I would obey, Father." The man couldn't remove his eyes from the endless flow of blood that poured from his son's body.

"So you have proven. And for your devotion, you will be rewarded. You have given your only child, without question, and obeyed my command. Your sacrifice today has earned you my blessing, for you and your family in all its generations. You will have many descendants, and they will hold power over all others."

He thought hearing God's praise would fulfill him. But it only seemed to expand the emptiness in his soul that emerged the moment he pierced the knife into his son's skin.

"But I will not have Isaac," he lamented.

"Would you have me bring him back?"

"I would have you do as you will. I have faith."

The blood had stopped gushing from Isaac's body now. His dead eyes still laid open, locked in fear. Abraham repressed the urge to sob.

"You fear me," God's voice boomed.

"I do." Abraham wanted nothing more than to hold his son in his arms. He couldn't look away from the empty vessel that once contained such a beautiful soul. No, he knew that God gave through him, and through him, God could take away.

"I am merciful."

Suddenly, the blood that was pooling around Isaac changed direction. It was no longer flowing away from the body, but had somehow begun to move back towards it. Abraham thought he must have been imagining it: a manifestation of father's desperation to have the son he had murdered—no, sacrificed—return to him. The river of blood crept back up Isaac's neck and into the rupture in the boy's throat. It left no trace in its wake; each drop of blood that had earlier gushed from Isaac's throat slowly returned to his veins. The slit Abraham carved into Isaac's neck sealed itself. Isaac's once dead, empty eyes snapped shut.

"Do not forget what I've done for you."

Abraham looked to the sky for a sign that God was still with him, but there was none. He heard coughing and retching.

Isaac.

He rushed over to his son and helped him sit up from the dirt. The boy found his bearings before looking his father in the eyes. He shoved the man away forcefully and jumped to his feet.

"Get away from me!" he yelled. Isaac felt his throat and examined his body. There was no slash on his neck, but the bruises on his wrists and ankles from where his father bound him were still evident.

"Son, it's okay," Abraham consoled.

"You murdered me!"

"No, I did no such thing. God asked me to sacrifice you. This is what I did, boy. I did not commit murder. And look! He brought you back. I followed his voice, and he has rewarded us for it! Oh, Isaac, we will be blessed forever and we will hold power on this earth over all our enemies! He asked of me, and I served."

"You killed me." Isaac's tone had shifted from angry to sorrowful.

"I did what I was commanded. As you should. As we all should! And see, in the end we sacrificed nothing, but we gained everything! Have faith, my boy." Abraham began to move towards Isaac again.

"And if He hadn't brought me back?"

"But He did. Our God is merciful. Of course, He did."

"But you couldn't know that! You brought me here to murder me, and you made me carry the wood that would fuel the fire to burn my body. You've killed your own son, and whether I am alive right now matters not."

"It was God's will!"

"If having a man murder his only child is God's will, then I have no God."

Isaac marched away and never looked back.