Abraham arrived home, watered the donkey, set out hay, and placed the silver from the idol sale into his father's hand.
Terah was delighted. "Blessed are you, Abraham, by my gods! You have brought me the price of the gods, so my work was not in vain."
Abraham could not hold it in any longer.
"Listen, father. Blessed are the gods by you, because you are their god. You made them. Their blessing is ruin and their power is empty. They could not even help themselves. How, then, can they help you or bless me?"
He pressed harder. "I have been kind to you in this business, father. It was my intelligence that got you the money for the broken gods, not any divine power. The merchants paid because they felt sorry for us, not because your idols performed some miracle."
Terah's face darkened. He became furious. His son had spoken hard words against his gods, and a father in Ur did not tolerate such blasphemy lightly.
But Abraham had crossed a threshold. He had seen too much. A god that cannot stand. Gods that shatter when a donkey stumbles. Gods that sink in a river. And now a father who blesses his son in the name of objects that owe their existence to his own chisel. The absurdity was complete. There was no going back.