That’s the heart of one of the most powerful, and frankly, disturbing stories in the Hebrew Bible: the Akeidah, the Binding of Isaac.
We all know the basic story from Genesis 22. God commands Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac, on Mount Moriah. Abraham, after an agonizing journey, prepares to follow through, only to be stopped at the last moment by an angel. A ram appears, caught in a thicket, and is offered instead.
But, of course, there’s so much more to it. And the Book of Jubilees, a fascinating work of Jewish scripture considered canonical by the Ethiopian Orthodox Church but apocryphal elsewhere, gives us a slightly different lens through which to view this pivotal moment.
Jubilees 18 retells the opening of this fateful journey with stark simplicity. "And He said, 'Take thy beloved son whom thou lovest, (even) Isaac, and go unto the high country, and offer him on one of the mountains which I will point out unto thee.'" Notice that parenthetical: "(even) Isaac." It’s like Jubilees is trying to drive home the emotional weight of the command, reminding us—and perhaps Abraham himself—exactly who is being asked for.
The text continues, "And he rose early in the morning and saddled his ass, and took his two young men with him, and Isaac his son, and clave the wood of the burnt-offering, and he went to the place on the third day, and he saw the place afar off."
Three days. journey. Three days of silence, of unspoken dread, of Abraham wrestling with this divine decree. Three days to question, to rebel, to plead… or to steel himself for the unthinkable.
And then, a seemingly small detail: "And he came to a well of water, and he said to his young men, 'Abide ye here with the ass, and I and the lad shall go (yonder), and when we have worshipped we shall come again to you.'"
"We will come again." Was this a lie? A hope? A statement of faith in a divine intervention he couldn't possibly foresee?
That deceptively simple statement has fueled centuries of commentary. Was Abraham trying to shield his servants from the horrifying reality? Or was he clinging to a belief that somehow, impossibly, both he and Isaac would return?
What does this story, in all its starkness and ambiguity, mean for us today? Is it a testament to unwavering faith? A critique of blind obedience? A glimpse into the terrifying power of religious fervor?
Perhaps it's all of those things. The Akeidah, as retold in Jubilees and elsewhere, remains a challenging, unsettling, and ultimately unforgettable exploration of faith, sacrifice, and the agonizing choices we sometimes face.