Take Your Son, Your Only Son: The Binding of Isaac and the Unbinding of God

by Sebastian Faust

“And he said, ‘If you will, take your son, your only son, whom you love, Isaac, and go to the land of Moriah.’”

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God said to Abraham, “If you will, take your son.”
And Abraham answered, “I have two sons.”
So then God said, “Your only son.”
But Abraham replied, “This one is the only son of his mother, and that one is the only son of his mother.”
So God said, “Whom you love.”
To which, Abraham argued, “Can there be any division between love and compassion?”
God said, “Isaac!”

Such is the haunting passage from Rashi’s commentary on the troubling story of the Binding of Isaac, where the text of Genesis 22 is expanded into a dialogue between God and Abraham. Many have entered this text and come out the other side carrying only the wisdom that Abraham was a giant of faith (see the author of Hebrews); others have wrestled with the story and have come away wounded (see, for example, Kierkegaard’s telling and retellings in Fear and Trembling). For God, as we conceive our gods, must surely be a monster (if we were allowed to think such things) for devising the trial envisioned here.

It’s a horrific test that God lays upon Abraham: take your son, whom you love, and offer him to me. The terror and the cruelty cannot be side-stepped by appealing to the fact that God intervened at the last moment to stay the father’s hand. The resolution does not erase the prologue and the end does not justify the means; it is no mercy to save a family that you have previously put through torture and purposely placed in jeopardy. And the problem is only compounded when we read God here as an omniscient deity from whom nothing is hidden, not even the future.

For if we read the story and imagine God as we so often do, a god who holds the future in his hand and who sees all things unfolding before they are even begun, we have a problem. We have a god who has nothing to learn from a test that, in his infinite wisdom, he has chosen to devise. And instead, we’re left with a god who will demand the truly ultimate sacrifice and watch as the human heart breaks in its obedience, only to step in at the very last moment and say, “Oh, that? No, it wasn’t really what I wanted. Me? Child sacrifice? Pffft! I was just having a bit of a go at you. But I got you, right? I really had you going! You should have seen the look on your face!”
 
No, an omniscient, immutable god in this story only makes things worse.

Genesis 22 demands to be read with a different notion of God – a god who puts Abraham to the test precisely because he needs to discover something he didn’t previously know. What he doesn’t know, and what he needs to assure himself of, is whether Abraham will be loyal as a partner in the venture that God has undertaken with him. And there are many reasons for him to fear that Abraham may not be up to the task. God’s previous experiences with humanity certainly hadn’t turned out as he’d hoped they would; in fact, the whole venture had been rather dismal. From the grasping for the fruit of knowledge to the fratricide of Abel, from the swaggering boasts of Lamech to the failure of the Flood (where God’s attempt to start over didn’t end as he’d anticipated; when he realizes that the human heart will always contain evil, he promises never to send the floods again). And then the Tower of Babel where, though God instructed humanity to scatter over the earth, they refused, choosing instead to cluster together and increase their power.

The story that unfolds prior to Abraham’s call has been nothing but a series of surprising disappointments for God; again and again, he tries to work with humanity, and in return, they have seized the power at hand and worked in strident opposition to the creation God intended. And now God asks himself, “Will this venture be any different at all?” The only way to know, to really, truly know, is to test Abraham’s allegiance and see just what he’s made of.

But there’s more to it even than that. God isn’t fearful simply because of the failures of the past; he has concerns about the character of Abraham himself. Yes, Abraham believed God’s promise, and God accounted it as righteousness, but there has been faltering as well. Twice, he has endangered the promise of progeny by passing Sarah off as his sister so that others could take her for a wife. And when the promise seemed slow in coming, he responded by taking Sarah’s handmaid and fathered a child by her. When God assured him that the son was still coming, Abraham tried to talk him into just using Ishmael instead, since it was easier to trust in the child he could see than to wait for a child yet to come.

And then Isaac does come, the son that will mean so much to him, not only because he is the promise of God, but because the blessing of progeny was so very highly prized. And God is concerned, uncertain about the venture and about Abraham’s steadfastness. He is risking much; he has risked much in each encounter with the humanity he created, and has seen failure or rejection at every turn. He worries, “Now that I have given him Isaac, will he no longer pursue the vocation of blessing?” And to discover the answer, God must devise a test that will put his mind at ease. He will finally know.

Only by putting Abraham through the test, only when he raises the blade above his bound son, does God learn the truth. Only then are God’s fears allayed. Abraham is willing to do it; he’s willing to sacrifice the son in whom he has so much vested. And only then does God say, “Now I know that you are willing to follow me all the way.”

God creates the test because God needs the test. And that is insight into how vulnerable the position is into which God is placing himself. God makes himself vulnerable to us because he continues to pursue us. The god we see here is one who continues ever to pursue, ever seeking to dwell among us despite the risks it entails for him. But, the god we see here also shows himself hesitant, in need of assurance about Abraham. And that is a thought that must give us pause.

We step into a jarring and frightening tale and we meet a jarring and frightening god. Even if we acknowledge that God felt it a great risk to reach out yet again in pursuit of restoring creation, it still seems unequal to the horror he inflicts upon Abraham (and upon Isaac; after this, God is twice-referred to as “the Terror of Isaac”). And even if we don’t read into the text an omniscient god, he is nevertheless wiser than the wisest of humans. Surely he sees the damage that such a test could do to a loving father and innocent son.

But what is to be done with a text like this? What is to be done with a god like this? If the god who designed this test were omniscient and unable to change, there would be nothing one could do. We would accept that God is sometimes cruel, and either side with him in spite of it, or turn our backs on him entirely. But if the text demands to be read with a god who is learning, both of Abraham’s loyalty as well as how to bring restoration to his creation gone wrong, then we have other options. We can see our own struggle with fear and unknowing, and can recognize the unjust demands we have made on others in our lives. And if we see an evolving god, then we see a god who can be forgiven… especially when that god has come to be known as patient and gracious and forgiving toward us.

As terrifying as his actions were, the God I find here has entered in to the world he created in order to see his hopes for peace and blessing realized, and he hasn’t turned his back. Or else, when he has, he has always returned again. The God shown here has entered into relationship with us, and those are messy and complicated things. He has chosen to learn alongside us the cooperative dance, the give and take, the extending of love, and of trust, and of forgiveness. The God I see has come alongside us and we are fumbling our way together into a relationship worth pursuing. And he has learned much since then, and I have learned a little, and we share together the cooperative task of setting creation right, partners in the work of blessing the world.

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A couple of weeks ago, I interviewed professor Robert Alter for a new series we are hosting on the podcast, where we are exploring the Bible one book at a time with various writers and scholars. When we came to the story of the Binding of Isaac, Professor Alter shared the quote with which we began from a commentary by Rashi; since that time, Genesis 22 hasn’t quite let go of me. If you haven’t listened to the interview with Dr. Alter, you can do so here. 

Sebastian Faust is an ante-orthodox thinker and writer, self-styled canary in the coal mine of pop culture. He paints with light, builds castles in the air, and lives a life rather ordinary in Nashville, Tennessee. He holds the position of Dauphin at On Pop Theology. You can’t follow Sebastian on Twitter because he doesn’t understand technology, but he appreciates hand-written notes sent by post or well-mannered carrier pigeon. 

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology. If you'd like to support what we do, you can donate via the button on the right of the screen.

Image #1: Sacrifice of Isaac by Caravaggio 
Image #2: Isaac's Sacrifice 
Image #3: Binding of Issac by Evgenia Kononova 

  

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Christian Celebrity and the Already, But Not Yet

by Ben Howard 

A few weeks ago I wrote a post entitled “Christianity Needs Celebrities.” The central thesis was that cultural change is mediated through celebrity personas. Moreover, the structure and history of Christianity is celebrity-based and, as a result, Christianity not only needs celebrities, but needs to work to foster better celebrity representations.

It’s an intentionally provocative thesis, but I’m increasingly convinced that it’s an accurate one. Since I posted it, I’ve had a number of discussions with readers most of whom reflected a general discomfort and unease with the implications of the idea, even if they found the conclusion to be invariably true. With that being the case, I thought it would be useful if I elaborated on a few areas which I left out of the original post.

First, while I’m convinced that the iconography and nature of celebrity is a powerful force in society, and therefore a force in need of harnessing, I’m not convinced that this is inherently good. David Hume famously explored how you cannot derive an ought from an is, and I would argue that when discussing the power and utility of celebrity this is certainly the case. Having a celebrity driven culture or religion is not necessarily a good thing, though it is how I believe our culture and religion happen to operate.

This dichotomy is a constant struggle and is exacerbated by the central tension of the Christian faith, namely that the Kingdom of God has already, but not yet arrived. As a result, Christians often find themselves operating out of a struggle between an unrealized idealism and a cynical pragmatism. Though this tension pervades all of Christianity, and explains more about liberal/conservative divides than any particular tenant of faith, it provides a particularly tricky hurdle when contemplating the role of Christian celebrities.

I think this tension is central to the issues under-girding the nature of Christian celebrity, in fact I think its central to almost every aspect of Christianity. However, in order to explain this fully, let me ask you to hold that concept in your mind for a moment while I pivot from the theological to the sociological.

One of the most consistent sources of discomfort in my conversations was the use and embrace of the term “celebrity,” especially when used in connection with Jesus. While I simply used the term for its basic meaning of “well-known” or “noteworthy,” I’m nevertheless intrigued by the level of unease which greeted the use of the word itself.

I can only assume this is a reaction against the cultural baggage we associate with the term. We consider “celebrities” to be vapid, vacuous, extravagant, and image-obsessed. However, I’m curious about whether these connotations emerge from being a celebrity or from the community which observes and follows them. If it’s the latter, it would certainly explain the phenomenon wherein bands/authors lose credibility as they gain prominence (see Rob Bell/Mumford and Sons).

Instead, I’d suggest that the source of this discomfort finds itself not in the inherent nature of celebrity, but in the aspiration to this kind of fame and notoriety. I think we’re leery of people who want to be watched and consumed. And I think we’re correct about this, we should be uncomfortable with the aspiration to celebrity because the nature of celebrity can be incredibly dangerous and destructive.

I spoke about the destructive nature of celebrity briefly in the previous piece, but mostly left it out because I felt it deserved a longer treatment. While the power of celebrity can be useful, the fundamental flaw is that the role of celebrity, the journey from person to persona, inevitably strips away the humanity of the actual person behind the personification. To all but those closest to them, those who are acutely aware of the person, not the persona, a celebrity becomes only their iconography, only what they represent. From a distance person and persona cannot be parsed, nor can the actual human inhabiting the role of celebrity exert any real control on the way they are consumed.

I do not use that term lightly. Celebrity is about consumption; it is by its very nature destructive, and one could argue sacrificial. It is a service provided to the community which allows the community and the culture at large the ability to communicate through the symbolic use of the personified image. One could even argue that it’s the reason we compensate celebrities so lavishly. It may appear crass, but we are essentially paying them for the use of their humanity.

So yes, we should be uncomfortable with celebrity culture, in the same way that we are uncomfortable with all manner of destructive acts. Destruction is the antithesis of creation and of the “not-yet” kingdom towards which we often aspire. We should be uncomfortable with our acts of consumption and dehumanization.

But this is reality, and in reality nothing is ever quite so simple. These consumptive acts and this celebrity culture is still central to who we are as humans and who we are as Christians. It is the vehicle through which we tell stories and learn and communicate with the culture at-large. These darker aspects of celebrity don’t invalidate anything I said previously for the world still is how it is and not how it ought to be.

So here’s the crux of the matter: We see how celebrity functions as a vehicle for ideas and meaning and we see how it consumes those who fulfill the role, but we are also aware that this is the way the world functions. With that in mind, how do we respond?

I, for one, think Christianity requires celebrities; it always has, from Jesus to the saints to the speakers, writers, and pastors of today. But I think it’s a lonely place and a difficult role. I think it requires people who know that they will be loved and hated disproportionately, that they will find themselves diluted and misunderstood.

It’s probably not worth it, but it’s necessary.

Ben Howard is an accidental iconoclast and generally curious individual living in Nashville, Tennessee. He is also the editor-in-chief of On Pop Theology and an avid fan of waving at strangers for no reason. You can follow him on Twitter @BenHoward87. 

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology. If you'd like to support what we do, you can donate via the button on the right of the screen. 

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