The Sons of Isaac (23 page)

Again the priestess entered behind the curtain and stood before the altar. Her voice rose and fell as she repeated the incantation that was to summon the goddess. Then came silence. Even the people grew silent and still as they waited.

Finally, with a dull thudding sound, the drums of fate began to announce the reappearance of the priestess. The shofar was blown and the curtain parted to show her with hands raised, standing before the shrine of the goddess. Slowly she turned and with slow, deliberate motions advanced toward them. Her eyes were glazed, and when she spoke it was as though someone else were speaking through her.

This time her pronouncement was greeted with shock and disbelief. The priestess announced that Anat was a goddess so strong and powerful that she could not be moved by the usual sacrifices. Something of inestimable value to all of them must be sacrificed.

“What do we have? What more can we give?” the people whispered among themselves with dread.

“Your greatest treasure you have withheld. Until you sacrifice the brightest and best of your children, Anat will not be moved. She is in control of the mystery that gives life to all things. The life force is within her hands to give or withhold. We are but as ants in her sight, and our pain is not her pain. She is not to be summoned but only entreated. We must give her what she asks, and she asks for the sacrifice of your children. Will you sacrifice your children?”

For a moment there was stunned silence. At times in the past the goddess had expected such devotion, but not in their generation. Just as the silence was growing awkward, a voice from the crowd shouted, “We are ready. We will sacrifice.” At that the chant began, “We will sacrifice, we will sacrifice.”

In just this way began the daily sacrifice of not just jewelry and gold but perfectly formed young children, for the goddess would have nothing but the best.

A week passed and then a month, with no break in the famine; no rain and no relief from the terrible hunger. Once again the priestess called the people together. She had an announcement of great importance. The goddess had spoken and there was both good news and bad. The good news was that the goddess was ready to act on their behalf and summon the great life force to the earth so that seeds would sprout and vines put out their shoots and the animals birth strong, healthy young.

The bad news was that this last time the goddess must have not just the gold and silver, the blood of animals, or the more precious blood of their children, but she must have royal blood. Only this was a fitting sacrifice for the great Anat.

While the people waited in an anxious silence, the priestess continued. “The royal family will draw lots, and the family that draws the dark stone will prepare their oldest son to be sacrificed.”

That evening just at sunset, the lots were drawn and the lot fell to Anatah, the king’s sister. It was to be her oldest and most favored son that the goddess was demanding. Anatah was stunned and then frantic. “Not my son!” she was heard to shout. “Take the sons of slaves or strangers, but not my son.”

“Hush,” the priestess hissed. “It is an honor you have been given.”

“The honor can be given to someone else,” she stormed. “I’ll not let her have my son.”

I
saac and his family watched from the roof of their house as the sad procession of the king’s family returned from the temple and the terrible pronouncement of the priestess. They could make out the form of Anatah and her three sons, now young men, walking beside her. She would not deign to weep or cry out in protest before the people but walked with slow, dragging steps as though in great pain. Her eyes stared straight ahead, her chin was up, and her back held straight and rigid with controlled tension.

The king, Abimelech, led the way through the crowd that parted before him. As he approached, the people grew silent. They wondered what the princess would do. They looked at the handsome young men and some of them turned away weeping.

Because of the severity of the famine, the princess had only a short time to prepare her son for his ordeal. There were no parties now at the palace; the gates remained closed and the shutters drawn. The whole city appeared to be in mourning. As the fateful day approached, women gathered at the palace gates, weeping and pouring ashes on their heads. Merchants offered great treasures to be given the goddess in the young boy’s place. From the palace itself there could be heard hysterical weeping both day and night.

“It is too much,” Isaac said at last. “What makes them think there really is a goddess or that she controls such things as famine?”

“Maybe an angel will appear and a ram be taken in his place,” Jacob said.

“There’ll be no ram and no angel,” Isaac said.

“How do you know? You were saved.”

“Our family has had long experience with these things. I can assure you there is no goddess.”

“But everyone believes in her,” Esau said. “There are all these temples built in her honor and people sacrificing to her.”

“I have told you many times, there is only one God; all other gods are either demons or imagined creatures. My own grandfather, as you know, made images out of clay in Ur and people worshiped them.”

For a moment there was silence as his sons thought about what he had said. It seemed impossible that so many people could be mistaken. “Why would they choose to worship something that was false?” Jacob asked at last.

“People want something they can see and touch and manage. Something that makes sense of their world as they imagine it to be. To believe in a God who is unseen, who is Spirit, does not suit them.”

“Then we must tell them,” Esau said. “The young prince can be saved.” He jumped up ready to go to the rescue.

“Esau, my son,” Isaac said sadly, “it’s not so easy. It’s fashionable to believe in the goddess. People like the festivals and it seems logical to them. The temples and their believers are very powerful. You well know it’s dangerous to openly voice a disbelief in the goddess. It is entirely possible that instead of the young prince being sacrificed, one of you could be taken.”

The boys knew this could happen. Often during times of crisis, men captured in battle or strangers were sacrificed. “I’ve thought sometimes,” Esau said, “that Elohim might ask you to sacrifice one of your sons, and since I am the firstborn, it would be me.”

Isaac’s eyes filled with tears as he reached out to Esau. “Come my son, let me explain.” Esau came hesitantly and sat before his father. Isaac took both of his hands in his and for a moment studied his son’s eager, young face. “I have never fully understood just why Elohim told my father to go to Moriah and sacrifice me. I do know this, that my father always taught, after that experience, that our God did not want the sacrifice of any human being.”

Though his sons had heard him say this other times, they had never really understood. Now, here in Gerar, with the eminent sacrifice of one of the young princes, it had new meaning. They knew the young princes and had spent many afternoons playing Egyptian board games with them. Being young and optimistic, they felt sure that somehow the young prince would be rescued. It did not seem reasonable that the king would actually let one of his nephews be sacrificed.

As the time drew near, it became evident that public sentiment had changed. Now there was rejoicing and singing honoring the prince who was to save them from the famine. Even the family in the palace was swept up in the euphoria of the occasion. When the prince rode out, he was now greeted with poets chanting his praises and young girls reaching out to touch the bridle of his horse or bending down to kiss his feet. “He has been chosen,” they whispered. “The goddess has chosen him to save his people from the famine.”

His mother, Anatah, was greeted with such love and admiration it was hard for her to continue in her grief at losing her son.

On the day of the sacrifice, Isaac and his family again watched from the roof of their house. They saw the drummers and trumpeters form at the gate before the palace. Then the singers followed and finally the young man himself. He was seated on a white mule that was decked in throws covered with priceless jewels. His garments were of the finest Egyptian linen and on his head was a gold circlet signifying his position as prince in the king’s household.

He looked neither to the right nor the left and seemed not to even notice the crowd that chanted and sang and shouted his name over and over. “He has been given strong herbs so he will not weaken or cry out,” Isaac said, turning away. “He must not be seen to fear what is about to happen to him.”

Jacob and Esau, looking at their father, suddenly realized that he was reliving his own feelings as he had gone with his father up to the altar on Moriah. It was obvious he felt deep sorrow in the young prince’s fate. It was all so tragic. Their father knew there would be no angel and no ram in the thicket for this young man and he could hardly bear the pain of it. When he looked at them, his face was drawn and gray and his eyes were dark and piercing. They had never seen him so disturbed.

He stood rigid and silent, listening to the shouting and singing from the street below them. Then when the big drums of fate rumbled in the distance and drowned out the noise of the street, he buried his face in his hands. An ominous silence followed and then a burst of singing, horn blowing, and drums rolling in a quick staccato beat and they knew it was over, the sacrifice was complete. The people were ecstatic with joy. They danced and sang while free wine from the temple wine cellars was passed around. The fearful deed had been done and now they knew the goddess would relent and end the famine.

“My sons,” Isaac said, finally putting his arms around each of them and drawing them away from the sight below, “never forget, our God does not want the sacrifice of children or of princes or of just ordinary young men. He does not want human beings, made in His image, sacrificed.”

The next day Isaac rode out with his two sons to the place where his men were preparing to re-dig one of his father’s wells that Abimelech’s men had stopped up. It was going to be difficult if not impossible. The sun was blistering hot and the well filled with large stones. “We have no choice but to unstop the wells,” Isaac said, as they rode on to inspect the other wells that had also been filled in with sand and debris. “We will all starve without water and food,” he said.

After Isaac and his sons had ridden on, the men went back to their digging. It was hard, backbreaking work and they were making very little progress. Then one of them, who had jumped up onto a pile of the rocks, called out, “See that cloud of dust? It’s the men from the king coming to fight over the well.”

He was right. Within minutes the well diggers were surrounded. Men with helmets and breastplates of leather waved spears in the air and threatened them. “In the name of the king,” the leader said, “this unlawful activity must stop. Throw down your picks and spades or we will add your dead bodies to the debris in the well.”

Isaac had told them not to fight. “They are too strong for us,” he had cautioned. However, his men were so frustrated and angry at the senseless waste that they picked up rocks and began to throw them with deadly accuracy. The fight lasted long enough for several of the king’s men to suffer crippling injuries and Isaac’s men to retreat with two of their men suffering from arrows imbedded in the flesh of their arms and legs.

In this way a daily struggle began between the king’s men and Isaac’s servants. Even when Isaac tried to stop the carnage, tempers flared and the battles around the wells grew so intense no work was done. Instead of being grateful for the grain and the water, the people of the village became angry and resentful. They began to grumble and complain to the king, “This Isaac and his men must be driven out.”

It made them even angrier to have to admit to themselves that in spite of their sacrifices and offerings to the goddess Anat, they still had no rain. Instead it was Isaac who had prospered. This was more than they could endure. “Their wells are an affront to the goddess and their prosperity unnatural,” they said.

Without further ceremony, Abimelech called Isaac to him and told him that he and his family, relatives, and servants must all leave Gerar. “You have grown too strong for us,” he said. His eyes were dark and his mouth twisted into a grimace.

It was obvious that he had come to almost hate this man who had once been his friend. He now saw Isaac and his people as a threat. They were a constant irritation of one kind or another. They did not worship in the temple of the goddess; they did not believe in making sacrifices to the goddess. Worst of all, Isaac had lied to him about his wife.

The story had gotten out and it made Abimelech look foolish. Now by digging in the earth for water, they were ignoring the prayers and sacrifices that had been made to placate the goddess. Baal, the god of lightning and thunder, could also be preparing to wreak havoc among them for letting these strangers ignore his authority.

Abimelech did not care where they went or what they did as long as they were no longer right at his door causing a constant disturbance. “It’s better,” he said, “for people to separate if they do not agree on important things.”