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The Rev. Clare Fischer-Davies
St. Martin ’ s Church
March 12, 2006
Lent II B

It is one of the most horrifying images in all of holy scripture – Abraham standing with the knife raised high in his hand, his son Isaac lying bound on the sacrificial pyre, waiting for the blow.

That one image sums up all the distrust, distaste and dislike that religious faith can stir up in those who do not believe. “ What kind of God demands the death of a child? ” “ What kind of God asks a man to sacrifice his only son? ” People hear this story – are horrified and revolted, and they turn away, their own worst opinions of religious faith and practice confirmed.

The story of Abraham and Isaac is a bitter pill to swallow, even to those of us who are part of the community of faith. And one way we deal with its bitterness, one way we manage the deep discomfort this ancient story stirs up in us, is to dismiss it as the remnant of some long-vanished primitive tribe. Abraham ’ s willingness to offer up his son ’ s life is the echo of a barbaric age, the vestige of a primeval era when human life was cheap and God was distant and vengeful. “ This story has nothing to do with us, ” we say. “ We know better now. We know that God would never ask anything like that of us. ”

Jesus called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, “ If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. ” Now it sounds a lot less distressing, a lot less demanding than the story of Abraham and Isaac. It lacks all of the disturbing details of knives, and fires and that terrible moment before the blade strikes home. But make no mistake. Jesus is leading us up the same mountain Abraham and Isaac climbed.

Abraham is the great patriarch of ancient Israel. He and his wife Sarah leave their homeland, and embark on a journey to a new land because God called them to go. They are childless, but God promises them that Abraham ’ s descendants will be numbered like the stars in the heavens. And it seems like God ’ s promises are fulfilled when Sarah, late in life, past all hope of conceiving a child, gives birth to Isaac – whose name means laughter – who incarnates all of Abraham ’ s hope and expectation and faith.

The story ought to end there – with this couple, having already left their homeland in response to God ’ s call – now content with their son. Everything makes sense now. Their willingness to obey God has been rewarded in this hardly-dared-to-be-hoped-for child. But the story isn ’ t over.

After these things God tested Abraham. He said to him, “ Abraham! ” And he said, “ Here I am. ” He said, “ Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains that I shall show you. ”

When I first studied this story in Old Testament 101, we concentrated on its historical context – its probable origins in the cult of sacrifice, and the movement of that cult from the practice of human sacrifice to the sacrifice of animals. In other words, this story developed as a way to explain why ancient Israel turned away from human sacrifice, and embraced the rituals of animal sacrifice instead.

Now that certainly makes the story a lot easier to digest. Oh! I see – this call to Abraham is really just dramatic embellishment. On top of the mountain, God is going to make it clear that animals, not children, are the chosen sacrificial offering. Everything ’ s going to turn out fine.

That may make the story more tolerable for our modern sensibilities, but by robbing the narrative of its terror, it strips it of power. Abraham is just a poor dupe and God is a prankster, luring Abraham up the mountain, terrifying a little boy, just to make a point about ritual practice. Somehow, I think if that was all there was to it, this story would not have become a bedrock story for both Jewish and Christian traditions, and would not have such a grip on the human mind and heart.

No, if we are not going to dismiss the story out of hand, then we cannot explain it away with academic detachment. It is a scandalous, horrifying, bewildering story that – the deeper into it we go – the more it scandalizes, horrifies and bewilders. What kind of God is this? And what kind of man is Abraham? It helped me a little this week to learn that no less a theological giant than Martin Luther struggled, too. Although admiring Abraham ’ s faith and obedience, Luther commented that ultimately, he just couldn’t go there. He said, “ I certainly admit my dullness: my donkey remains standing below and cannot ascend the mountain. ” Where Abraham goes, our feet simply will not follow.

Maybe we don ’ t have to follow Abraham up the mountain, maybe we ’ re already there – maybe we are closer to this story of suffering and sacrifice than we think.

Isaac comes as a joyful, welcome, precious gift to a barren couple who had long abandoned any hope of ever having a child. He is not only a delight to them; he represents the fulfillment of God ’ s promise to Abraham that he would be the father of a great nation. And then, one day – without warning or explanation, something happens that contradicts that promise, plunging joy into grief and delight into despair.

And that part we have no trouble understanding. In fact we all know that suffering and sadness stalk us – that they can erupt without warning: a routine mammogram reveals an advanced and aggressive cancer, a trip to the grocery store is cut short by a drunk driver, a promising high school student is overwhelmed with depression and takes her own life. These are not stories ripped from headlines; they are the life stories of people we know and love, perhaps even our own stories.

All our first world comforts and conveniences cannot cushion us from the death and despondency that are part of the fabric of human life. There is a kind of religious faith that claims to be able to cushion us, but that kind of faith is a fraud. No creed, no practice, no prayer will ever guarantee us that we, and those we love, can be kept safe from suffering and sadness. We are mortal, formed from the dust, and to dust we shall, all of us, return.

And that's the reality that puts us right next to Abraham on the mountaintop. No matter what we have in the bank, no matter what personal assets we treasure, no matter how skilled, or gifted, or competent we are, we cannot keep our hearts from being broken.

The disciples are sure that in Jesus, they’ve found the One who can keep their hearts from being broken – who can deliver them from every evil. Haven’t they seen him casting out demons, making the lame walk, even raising people from the dead? Surely anyone with such power and authority will never experience human mortality; surely anyone who follows Jesus will be safe.

But Jesus has something more to tell them – he starts talking about being betrayed, about suffering and death, and all of a sudden their future doesn ’ t look so safe and secure – now everything they are afraid of is foretold. Peter steps up to rebuke Jesus – this isn’t what they want to hear about, this isn’t uplifting or inspiring – go back to the healings and the exorcisms – go back to the good stuff.

No, Jesus won’t be dissuaded. He has more to say, but it isn’t what they want to hear: He says, If you want to be part of my reality, then deny yourself, take up your cross and follow me. And where is he going? Jesus is going up the mountain - to the place Abraham is standing – to that most bitter moment in human life and experience – to the place where all hope and beauty and joy have been extinguished.

Jesus goes to stand with Abraham, and he goes even further. He is both Abraham and Isaac – he is the sacrifice and the one who offers it. He goes more deeply into the experience of human suffering than we can imagine; he drains the cup. And just when we think that the story has ended – that Abraham ’ s knife has fallen and all hope is gone forever, we find the ram in the thicket, the empty tomb – the glory of the resurrection.

We keep telling and retelling the story: the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. Abraham has to climb the mountain and put his son on the pyre and raise his knife, and only then find the ram caught in the thicket – the sacrifice that God ’ s own Self has provided.

In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, when the Pevensie children first step into Narnia and hear the story of Aslan, hear that he is on the move, returning to deliver Narnia from the icy grip of the white witch, the children want to know “Is he safe?” And the answer comes back, “No – Aslan isn’t safe, but he is good. ”

Being human isn’t safe – it’s hard, and dangerous and terrifying. We are terribly vulnerable, and all our instincts clamor for us to barricade ourselves, avoid risks, take no chances, accumulate wealth, ascend the corporate ladder, get our children into the right schools, cozy up to important people – whatever we do, to stay off Abraham ’ s mountain and forget all that nonsense about suffering and death and taking up our cross.

But being human isn’t safe – and what these scandalous, outrageous, bewildering stories tell us is that God isn’t safe either. And they tell us that we save our lives, not by trying to stay safe, but by being faithful. In the paradox of the gospel, the more we try to hang onto our lives, the more they are likely to be snatched from our grasp. But the more we relinquish our claim – the more we can follow where Jesus leads, the more we find our lives blessed and healed and restored. God is not safe, but God is good.

The letter to the Romans is the last letter of Paul ’ s life. He wrote to the Christians in Rome, preparing them for his coming visit. But it was a visit he would never make. Before Paul could travel to Rome, he was arrested for the final time, and executed for treason. His crime? Proclaiming that Jesus Christ is Lord, not Caesar.

So these last verses of the 8th chapter of Romans have a special poignancy: “ Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, 39nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. ”

Paul knew what Abraham knew, what Jesus knew, and what countless faithful people have known. God isn’t safe, but God is good. The deeper we go into human suffering, the closer we come to God ’ s heart. There is nothing in all creation that can separate us from the love of God.