Genesis tells the story dispassionately.
When they reached the place God had told him about, Abraham built an altar there and arranged the wood on it. He bound his son Isaac and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood. Then he reached out his hand and took the knife to slay his son,(Genesis 22:9, 10).
I don’t know whether bitter cold bit into Abraham’s bones there on Mt. Moriah, or the sun blistered the back of his neck. Either way, sweat beaded up on his forehead and trickled into his eyes. Or maybe that was tears. His hand, the one holding the knife, trembled. Did he look into Isaac’s eyes? Could he? When he felt for the hollow space at the base of Isaac’s sternum, searching for the exact spot to plunge the knife, did he feel his son’s heartbeat? When he raised the knife to slay his son, his only son, did he hesitate? Even for a second? And in that second, did he ask, what have I done?
Leviticus describes the procedure colorlessly.
If you offer a lamb, you are to present it before the Lord, lay your hand on its head and slaughter it in front of the tent of meeting. Then Aaron’s sons shall splash its blood against the sides of the altar, (Leviticus 3:7, 8).
We live in the country, for now, and when we take our walks down the rural roads near our house, we can sometimes hear babies screaming in the woods. It’s an eerie, unsettling cry, plaintive and piercing. But it isn’t human babies – it’s the little goats, the kids that are pastured here, crying for their mothers.
When you imagine the tabernacle or temple, I bet, like me, you tend to think of them as a sort of ancient art gallery or cathedral – majestic, peaceful, clean. They were more like a slaughterhouse. There was blood and stench and there were screams. Throats were slit, the viscera was separated and burned, blood was splashed on the altar. This is what was required by God for the sins of the people. When the sinner laid his hand on the head of a lamb and looked into its innocent eyes, did he ever hesitate and think about why? Did he ask, what have I done?
I look at the cross from a distance.
It happened in another part of the world a long, long time ago. I’ve seen the crucifixion depicted in film and read about the details in books, articles and blog posts. Sermons, someone else’s or one of my own, try to take me back there to shiver in the cruciform shadow, to own it, maybe even to emotionally earn it. Nothing, though, not a creatively written article or a flawlessly delivered homily or even a grandly produced Hollywood epic complete with special effects and soaring orchestration, draws me closer to the cross than just sitting down, opening the Bible and reading it for myself.
In that quiet moment, seeing nothing more than black letters on a white background, hearing only the faintest rustle as I turn the page, realizing Jesus died for me and because of me, sometimes I hide my face in my hands. And I ask. What have I done?
Yes, Jody, I understand how you feel. Have you ever heard an old song “Who Am I?” Ive forgotten who wrote it, but i heard Elvis sing it on the Elvis Sirius channel. I googled the lyrics and found them very moving. Prayers for you and Lisa with your move! Glad to know you will be sharing the good news again!
Bears repeating…for me…”What have I done?” Answer could be something or nothing, if I have done nothing , that’s just as wrong as something!