Abraham is just some cisgender white male kid kicking cans in Silver Springs. He watches YouTube and plays Fortnite religiously but he is still not right. There’s something off about the way he looks at you. He sees too much. His skull can’t hold it all and ugly truths pour from his mouth.
Abraham wants to make his mother proud but never quite manages.
Abraham’s father hits him sometimes, so when his dad is out Abraham burns the
family business to the ground. Abraham’s father explains what power truly means
with the back of his hand and the dull retreat of his mother’s eyes.
Abraham regrets nothing. Abraham’s heart is a coal wreathed in
blue flame. Abraham decides it all must die. Abraham’s father stops paying for
Wi-Fi and shoots a truancy officer.
Abraham dreams of ways to destroy his father. The moon could smash
him, but then it would only come at night. The sun could scorch him, but only
by day. The mountain, until it eroded; the cloud, until it dispersed. None of
it is enough, he thinks, lying in his own reek, flies trailing lazy arcs across
the thatched ceiling. I will kill him myself. That is what a man would do.
But his heart spasms brighter and his mind snaps shut. No. I can
hate him only as long as I live. Death must not defeat my hatred. I will find
something that endures forever, and etch my father’s punishment in its skin.
In this way, Abraham discovers the One G-d.
Abraham goes through puberty and meets a girl who can love an idea. They move to New Mexico.
“The One G-d is the best idea anyone has ever had,” Abraham tells
his clan over Discord. “Even at their best, people will disappoint. People will
always leave you doubting yourself. But ideas are sweet and dependable, and the
Idea that people can’t understand is the sweetest of all. The Idea is the only
indiscriminate and unyielding benevolence.” He takes a pull from his Mountain
Dew. “Markets, the news, Odin, whatever your parents worship, it’s rotten with
people. The idea never hints that nothing its children do is ever good enough. It
is never so starving as to bash in a skull.” Abraham calls everything rank with
human sweat an idol.
“How do you know,” asks Jason-who-went-to-college, “that the Idea
(over which you seem to have perspired quite a bit) is not just Abraham’s
Abraham is angry, but he sees the point. People might think G-d is
for smashing his enemies alone. Perhaps they would be right. Abraham thinks and
thinks during his long walks along the Rio Grande. He decides that, because G-d
created Abraham, G-d is not Abraham’s idol. “You are the proof,” he begins
telling the nerds who visit his four-doored house. “The Idea cannot be mine any
more than The Idea can be yours; that’s how we know It is not an idol. An idol
has allegiances. The Idea is yours only like the light is the mirror’s. We
On Facebook, Jason marks Abraham as his father, a declaration of fealty.
Abraham grows old nursing his Idea and spreading it. Every night in he dreams of men and women across the States, but they are no longer people. They are abstractions meandering among the squares and triangles, cavorting with loyalty and intransigence, free of selves, free of others. Their faces turn upward toward one light, away from the darkness of cruel arbitrary whim.
One morning, on a whim, G-d says to Abraham, “Hi there.”
Abraham, who has been waxing his Trans Am, about dies. He is
angry. He is sad. He is ashamed. The idea, it seems, is suicidal. Abraham turns
off the buffer and says, “Did you say something?”
The Idea says, “Don’t be rude, son.”
Abraham thinks for a moment, strokes his tangled beard, sighs. He did
say that G-d created Abraham. What you create, you can destroy.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks, and steps into history.
“People are not so bad,” Abraham says, lying in bed onnight, but what he is thinking is, a son, a son, a son, a son!
Sarah finishes that evening’s prayer, closes Twitter, and places
her tablet upon the nightstand. “No,” she says, removing her glasses, thinking,
a son, a son! “They aren’t.”
Abraham can barely believe, after so long. But he trusts. G-d has
never let him astray. “Are we too old?” he asks bemusedly.
“Let’s find out,” Sarah suggests.
“Do they really deserve it?” Abraham asks the One. Death hangs suspended in the red heavens above the mesas. Sodom seethes below.
“Deserve?” G-d thinks aloud. “Am I some magistrate, bound by
ordinances? Am I not the Creator of heaven and earth?”
Abe thinks on this a bit, sweats, and musters the platonic form of
all chutzpah. “You are the Creator. That’s why you ought to act justly.
Justice is the mortar of your creation. Are you our true Creator, or not? Spare
G-d is pleased as He wipes Sodom clean.
Abraham turns his face and weeps.
Isaac is worth more than an endless eternity of abstractions.
In the curve of his cheek and the spread of his shoulders, Isaac
embodies his father every hope. Abraham knows that he himself is not an idea
and will someday die. But in his son, the knowledge of G-d on earth will live
“Kill him,” G-d says.
We can imagine a different multiverse, in which Abraham is not
Abraham. We can imagine a reality in which Abraham is paralyzed, at this
moment, by his dreams, but in our universe Abraham is neither a child not a
philosopher. His knees are scabbed from prayer and his palms cracked from
devotion. G-d is his love, his light, his master, and his sole possession.
Abraham gave up people for a dream, and a dream for a Voice in the
wilderness. He can give up one more thing.
It’s a long three days, sitting on his ass.
We do not know what he thinks as he rides, but every grain of
sand, every streetlight and rented scooter probably seems a mocking agony as he
contemplates justice. He demanded justice for sinners, why not for his son? But
then, Sodom never trusted.
He probably thinks about his mind, how it wants to rebel, to cry
that worship of G-d on earth only survives if Isaac does. He doesn’t let it.
Mostly, I think, he considers his father, and how his own destiny
was written, and how nothing changes.
Abraham binds his beautiful son with firm cords upon a lonely
altar and prepares for the second murder of the day.
Abraham discovers, there, on the mountain, that G-d is not an
idea, nor a person, but something more.
Abraham finds, with a waxing, trumpeting joy, that so is he.