An Aramean fugitive, my father, Abraham,
an atheist, refused to serve the gods.
"The gods," he'd say, "are merely an excuse
for people to enslave each other."
So he sought a non-religion,
a precise refusal of all servitude to god or man,
and picked up followers in Ur, and in Haran.
In debt up to his neck to Eliezer of Damascus,
Abram gleaned the other debt-slaves, pickpockets,
sharecroppers, the unemployed, some blacks,
rebellious women, poets, clowns--and ran.
They hustled to the hills together, formed a band,
and learned to fight, and, intermittently,
to wheel-and-deal. They entertained,
and rented themselves out as soldiers,
tinkers, busboys, builders, midwives,
popular musicians. Here and there,
they managed to grab up a little land.
In time, they gave their non-religion
an unpronounceable and secret name,
which meant, some jokingly maintained, just
"Let it be."

Their women
They would laughingly address as "sisters,"
especially in front of country folk,
because they knew the villagers would be enraged
to find them treating "wives" as equals.
Then, as such things go, the name caught on,
and it became an appellation of affection:
"Ah, how beautiful your breasts, my sister-bride!"
one of their racy private songs would go.
Alone, among themselves, they used to say:
"Our women? they are queens, they laugh at gods,
and we are kings, our kingdom's everywhere,
north, south, east, west--and all
the nations of the earth are blessed in us,
but we, we let them think they have their way."

But Abraham
foresaw, as well, the need for discipline,
and so, devised a harrowing initiation
to teach the kids what they were up against.
A child would be bound like a ram,
and watch his father raise a sharpened knife
to slaughter him...but back away, at length,
release him live, and sacrifice a ram instead.
The father then embraced the child,
welcomed him anew to life and told him:

"Death is everywhere, my child. Today,
you learned to feel its presence.
You will have it with you everywhere you go,
and you will see the cities of the world
where people worship death, revere him as a 'god.'
Today, I placed before you life and death,
and just as I have chosen here to let you live,
so may you choose life. And don't forget
that death is your companion, not your 'god.'"

And on the day that Abraham escorted Isaac
through this ritual, on a mountain, at high noon,
they sat a long while afterward and talked.
The father told the boy about his own childhood,
and talked about the idols in Haran.
Involuntarily, he raised his hand for emphasis,
above his head, as if to smash them once again,
but caught himself, embarrassed--for he realized
suddenly that he still held the knife above his son.

Aflame, he flung it out with all his strength,
and watched it disappear, whirring softly,
spinning out across the spacious valley lying below.
And Isaac laughed, and said: "I see!"
And Abraham, his eyes aglow,
turned back to him and kissed him,
clasped him to his breast, and wept,
and told him: "Thank you. You begot yourself
a name. And now you understand."

And Isaac said
(his voice now changed into a man's): "But
tell me, Abba, you have left your father's house.
And will I do the same? And will my child?"

"O, you don't know the half of it, my son.
The generations are not meant to live together,
but they bind each other with their sacred memories.
The very beads of sweat upon your face
are being treasured up as holy mysteries.
Leave your father's house? You've done so!
More than that, you cannot know."
And Isaac squinted. Suddenly his vision
dimmed a bit. And, looking at the ground,
he whispered hoarsely: "Abba! I'm afraid!"

And Abraham,
a bit afraid himself, but steadying his voice,
embraced his son again, and said:
"Be quiet. There are those
who even now are worshipping
the fear of Isaac."

I don’t think I understand this poem. I catch some of the references: the bawdy song about the sister-bride is the Song of Solomon from the Old Testament. But what’s the point? Is Rosenberg saying that Judaism wasn’t intended to be a religion, but as an escape from it? Is that the meaning of the last line? (This entry is beginning to read like the Hindu creation story we read freshman year.)

I like the reworking of the old story, though. Ellen Kushner says that some traditions see Abraham’s test in a different light: he failed. When commanded to sacrifice his son, he was supposed to refuse. Instead, he came very near to murdering Isaac and proved that he valued religion over human life. So here, instead of sacrificing Isaac’s life, the knife is used to cut the apron string between father and son. (Joseph Campbell would tie this into the Aboriginal ritual of the snake-father circumcising the boys of the village and separating them from maternal security. But that’s scary, and I’m not Joseph Campbell.)

I wonder if people would be different if everyone went through this. Perhaps, if exposed to death in such an intense way as having a parent stand over us with a knife, we would look at it differently. Maybe we would come away from it with a broader perspective, or maybe we would just have nightmares like that pathetic freshman on my bus. I think most of us wouldn’t understand what was happening, and as the tradition became ingrained in the culture, it would become meaningless. Many rituals do, even the ones that are supposed to matter most. But I think some would come down the mountain changed, both fathers and sons. This kind of rebirth through a father’s choice to spare your life would either heighten rebellion or reduce the need for it. And as for Isaac, I am glad for him.