The Story of Isaac

Well, last weekend's homily was about a reading that never fails to hit me really hard: the one in which Abraham is told by God to sacrifice his son Isaac. It's usually the custom to speak about the Gospel, which was Mark's account of the Transfiguration. But, as you will see, I chose the story of Isaac.

Good morning! If you listened even slightly to our three readings today, you may have found all three of them familiar. Our gospel story of the Transfiguration is heard every Lent, whether from Mathew, Mark, or Luke. Our second reading from Paul’s letter to the Romans is very often chosen for funerals.

But it is our first reading today that has captured my attention and imagination. It’s one of the first Bible stories I learned in grade school, though in today’s world the subject matter, to some people, might make it off limits for teaching it in school.

The passage is shortened, so we don’t get the background. The promise that we hear at the end of this passage, that Abraham’s descendents would be as numerous as the stars of heaven and the sand on the seashore – that’s a repetition of an earlier promise. God had already promised that to Abraham when Abraham obeyed God’s call to leave his homeland. And this son right here, this son Isaac is Abraham’s only son by his wife Sarah, conceived in her old age, a miracle baby! So Isaac was clearly not only dear to him as his miracle child and his only son, but Abraham understood Isaac as the fulfillment of God’s promise to him, that he and his descendents would become a “great nation.”

They travel three days to get to this mountain. Isaac doesn’t know at first what’s going on, he’s just helping his father. They leave their servants at the foot of the mountain. And Isaac himself even carries the wood for his own sacrifice on his shoulders. And as they climb the mountain, Isaac cries out, “Father, the fire and the wood are here, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?” And the only answer Abraham can give is, “My son, God will provide.” But Isaac must have guessed that something dreadful was up; he must have been able to see it in his father’s whole bearing. And when everything was ready, the altar built, the wood laid out – his father tied him up, and laid Isaac on the wood. The scripture doesn’t say whether Isaac was gagged or could speak; I can imagine it either way, and either way it’s horrible. And Abraham reached for the knife, picked it up… and then God intervened.

It is true that this is a story of faith, a story of a man being faithful to God under the most extraordinary conditions. But it is still a chilling, chilling story. I have always thought so, even as a child. If we were to read of something like this taking place today, of course the child would be taken away and the father would be locked up somewhere, for a very long time. And if the father, in his defense, were to say that he was following a command from God, that would bring a very predictable response. Delusions – Religious crazy. And unfortunately we do have plenty of examples in modern life of people doing unspeakable things in the name of God.

The one thing that makes this story understandable from our modern perspective is that there’s no question in Abraham’s mind (and in ours, as a people of faith, hearing it as a faith story some 3000 years later) that this was the voice of God. But our experience today of hearing God’s voice is generally much different. Ours is not usually so clear and certain. So one real question for us from this story today is, how do we know when we’re hearing the voice of God?

This is one of the most serious faith questions we can have. Our tradition is rich with people who have experienced unmistakable calls from God – mystics and missionaries, hermits, saints, poets. I think most of us can honestly say that we do hear the voice of God, to one degree or another. But how do we know?

Our modern world is very seductive – intentionally so. There are voices out there all the time, trying to get us to do their bidding. Images in magazines and on TV lift up fun and excitement, pleasure, glamour, wealth, power … images that beckon to us in all kinds of ways.

And if that weren’t difficult enough, there are inner voices too, that make it hard to hear God’s voice. THIS is what I want. THAT is what I need. THIS feels right to me. But if I do THAT, this other thing could happen. And there are spirits of darkness and doubt, spirits of pride or desire – sometimes seductively masquerading within us as spirits of light and goodness, clouding our conscience.

Which voice is God’s, and how do we listen for it? How do we know God’s voice when we hear it? And then, can I find the strength to do what God’s voice tells me? Those are great Lenten questions! I wish we had a whole weekend for those questions, because those are questions for a retreat, not for a homily. But I can tell you, very simply, that helping people to answer questions like that is one of the most important functions of our faith. Our Catholic faith gives us a perspective, a tradition, and a community within which we can more readily be able to discern the voice of God. It gives us keys to forming a good conscience, to leading a life of integrity. It gives us a firm place to stand, good solid ground for the soul. And if any of you would like to talk about those questions sometime, well, that’s why Father and I got ordained. That’s why Joe Rinaldi is in Youth Ministry, and Marnie Russell in Faith Formation. We love to talk about questions like that!

I’d like to close today with one final reflection. Every time I come across this scripture story, I remember a haunting song about it, written Leonard Cohen, a musician and lyricist from the 60’s and 70’s. You can find all the words if you want if you Google “the Story of Isaac.” It’s written from Isaac’s prospective, describing his father, strong and holy, with his eyes shining, trying to explain to Isaac he’s had a vision, a vision which commands him to take a blade in his hand. But when the altar’s finally built, the song turns to today, to those in our own modern world who sacrifice children Isaac words are these: “You who build these altars now, to sacrifice our children, you must not do it anymore.” The song does not identify which children. But it’s about unborn children sacrificed by abortion on the altar of personal choice. It’s about the children of Iraq, or the innocent children of the Gaza strip who made up a third of the victims of so-called surgical strikes. It’s about the children who comprise the largest category of poor everywhere, in our own country and in the world. It’s about children who are always the most vulnerable and forgotten victims of violence or war.

This is one very disturbing scripture today. We shouldn’t let it overwhelm us – we are a people of hope. And sometimes it’s good to be a little disturbed.

When I gave the homily, I sang Isaac's words. Not because I have a great voice, mind you! (Although mine is at least as good as Leonard Cohen's!) But because I think that really catches the attention and helps people remember the point.