But Where Is the Lamb?: Imagining the Story of Abraham and Isaac

Overview

“I didn’t think he’d do it. I really didn’t think he would. I thought he’d say, whoa, hold on, wait a minute. We made a deal, remember, the land, the blessing, the nation, the descendants as numerous as the sands on the shore and the stars in the sky.”
 
So begins James Goodman’s original and urgent encounter with one of the most compelling and resonant stories ever ...

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But Where is the Lamb?: Imagining the Story of Abraham and Isaac

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Overview

“I didn’t think he’d do it. I really didn’t think he would. I thought he’d say, whoa, hold on, wait a minute. We made a deal, remember, the land, the blessing, the nation, the descendants as numerous as the sands on the shore and the stars in the sky.”
 
So begins James Goodman’s original and urgent encounter with one of the most compelling and resonant stories ever told—God’s command to Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac.
 
A mere nineteen lines in the book of Genesis, it rests at the heart of the history, literature, theology, and sacred rituals of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. For more than two millennia, people throughout the world have grappled with the troubling questions about sacrifice, authority, obedience, and faith to which the story gives rise. Writing from the vantage of “a reader, a son, a Jew, a father, a skeptic, a historian, a lover of stories, and a writer,” Goodman gives us an enthralling narrative history that moves from its biblical origins to its place in the cultures and faiths of our time. He introduces us to the commentary of Second Temple sages, rabbis and priests of the late antiquity, and early Islamic exegetes (some of whom imagined that Ishmael was the nearly sacrificed son). He examines Syriac hymns (in which Sarah stars), Hebrew chronicles of the First Crusade (in which Isaac often dies), and medieval English mystery plays. He looks at the art of Europe’s golden age, the philosophy of Kant and Kierkegaard, and the panoply of twentieth-century interpretation, sacred and profane, including the work of Bob Dylan, Elie Wiesel, and A. B. Yehoshua. In illuminating how so many others have understood this story, Goodman tells a gripping and provocative story of his own.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
For centuries, theologians, philosophers, and others have struggled with the 19 lines of Genesis 22 that Jews call the binding of Isaac and Christians refer to as the sacrifice of Isaac. No one has found a definitive answer to the questions of why Abraham was so ready to follow God’s command that he kill his son or why Isaac agreed to be bound on the altar. Unlike other analysts, Goodman is a historian and a writer. Accordingly, his book focuses on the chronicle of the story, beginning with when and by whom it was written. He proceeds to analyze the explanations that have been given by Jews, Christians, Muslims, and others, including contemporary interpretations. Obviously fascinated by the story, Goodman demonstrates great prudence in not offering his explanation but in asserting that the story has many meanings. This refreshing restraint along with the author’s writing skills make his contribution an important addition to the libraries of commentaries about Abraham and Isaac that vainly strive to explain what is ultimately unfathomable. Agent: Anne Edelstein, Anne Edelstein Literary Agency. (Sept.)
From the Publisher
“This book makes you feel like a guest at a truly eclectic symposium on the meaning of the biblical story of the Binding of Isaac, featuring Jews, Muslims, and Christians; medieval and moderns; artists and novelists. It is amazing to see how 19 sentences of the biblical account have given birth to so many different interpretations, and one leaves this book with the sense that the discussion is not nearly over yet.” —Jewish Voice, A Selection of the Year’s Best Jewish Books

“Obviously fascinated by the story, Goodman demonstrates great prudence in not offering his explanation but in asserting that the story has many meanings. This refreshing restraint along with the author’s writing skills make his contribution an important addition to the libraries of commentaries about Abraham and Isaac that vainly strive to explain what is ultimately unfathomable.” —Publishers Weekly
 
“A fresh and exciting take on the different ways in which the Binding of Isaac has been understood down through the centuries, and also covers how we should understand it today. He writes as one who is both a son and a father, both a Jew and a person in search of meaning, and, above all, as a storyteller who is fascinated by this ancient tale, and who lets his imagination run free over what it meant and what it means….It is enough to say that this book is a must-read.” —Rabbi Jack Riemer, Jewish News Service

“Interesting. . . . A fast-moving account of a wide-ranging and deeply penetrating religious topic, and Goodman closes with an important reminder on how the subject of sacrifice for religious obedience is relevant to the contemporary issue of religious extremism. A well-researched and stirring account of how various communities, scholars and artists interpret the willingness to sacrifice life for God.” —Kirkus

“But where is the lamb? is a fascinating study that uses a single biblical tale as a lock-pick to turn all sorts of tumblers in the human mind and heart. I found it to be a quick read, which would be surprising except that a few years ago I read Goodman’s Scottsboro Stories and was thoroughly impressed with the elegant fluidity and crisp lucidity of his style as well as his gift for distilling mountains of historical documents into a few pages of cogent exposition.” —Vince Cyyz, ArtFuse

“Who knew that nineteen lines of Scripture could reverberate through the centuries with so many interpretations?  James Goodman has written a fascinating book offering worlds of opinion on one of the toughest stories in the Bible—and best of all, he pulls no punches in offering his own conflicting opinions. Thoughtful, readable, historical and current.” —Rick Hamlin, author of 10 Prayers You Can’t Live Without  

“Genesis 22 rivets: a terrible story of authority, faith, and reason. Moving effortlessly from Biblical time to our own, James Goodman offers an intense yet sparkling chronicle of intellectual, artistic, theological, and spiritual struggle.” —Sean Wilentz, Professor of History at Princeton University, author of The Rise of American Democracy and Bob Dylan in America

Kirkus Reviews
Goodman (History and Nonfiction Writing/Rutgers Univ.; Blackout, 2003, etc.) recounts the body of knowledge gleaned from his obsession with the biblical story of the Binding of Isaac (the Akedah). Rather than focusing solely on the story in Genesis, the author progresses well beyond biblical criticism to engage the myriad of interpretations about the Akedah that appear in Jewish, Christian and Islamic exegetical literature. In each tradition, Goodman is struck by certain interpretive peculiarities. For example, in Judaism, he comes across rabbinic accounts where Isaac is, in fact, sacrificed. In Christianity, the author takes issue with how the actual sacrifice of Jesus supersedes the near-sacrifice of Isaac and is used to invalidate central tenets of Judaism through a technique that he calls "supersessionism." Goodman spends much less time with the Islamic interpretive history, but he mentions the ambiguity surrounding which son of Abraham's was intended for sacrifice and the implicit argument for the favored status of Ishmael (and his ancestors) when many Islamic accounts mention him as the intended victim. This is also an interesting study on the ways in which the Akedah has appeared in works of art and poetry, and the author considers how Jewish communities used the sacrifice story to contextualize themselves during periods of intense persecution. Although the book may be difficult for a complete neophyte to the world of comparative religion, it is a fast-moving account of a wide-ranging and deeply penetrating religious topic, and Goodman closes with an important reminder on how the subject of sacrifice for religious obedience is relevant to the contemporary issue of religious extremism. A well-researched and stirring account of how various communities, scholars and artists interpret the willingness to sacrifice life for God.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780805242539
  • Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 9/10/2013
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 308,118
  • Product dimensions: 6.08 (w) x 8.40 (h) x 1.16 (d)

Meet the Author

James Goodman

James Goodman is a professor at Rutgers University, where he teaches history and creative writing. He is the author of two previous books, including Stories of Scottsboro, which was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. He lives in New York.

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Read an Excerpt

1
 
I didn’t think he’d do it.
 
I really didn’t think he would.
 
I thought he’d say, whoa, hold on, wait a minute. We made a deal, remember, the land, the blessing, the nation, the descendants as numerous as the sands on the shore and the stars in the sky. You said: through Isaac you’d make my name great. I have kept my word. Don’t you go back on yours.
 
He might not have put it precisely that way. He tended to say what he had to say more succinctly. But you know what I mean.
 
I didn’t think he’d do it, certainly not without asking when, where, how, or why. Why should I sacrifice my son? I readily concede that he answered God’s initial call without a moment’s hesitation. That was undoubtedly among the reasons that he was so special to him. But I can’t help thinking that he came to regret that he hadn’t taken some time to consider what he was getting himself into. From then on, almost everything he said to God took the form of a question: a question about God’s promise of greatness, a question about offspring and inheritance, a question about land, a question about the likelihood that a child could be born to a hundred-year-old man and his ninety-year-old wife, a question (in the form of a wish) about Ishmael, and most memorable of all a barrage of questions, pointed questions, no matter how humbly couched, about the innocent and the guilty of Sodom and Gomorrah.
 
So you can imagine my surprise when God asked Abraham to take Isaac to the land of Moriah and offer him up as a burnt offering, and Abraham didn’t say a word. Not one word. One question after twenty-five years of questions is all it would have taken. He and God could have talked, and God could have explained what he was up to.
 
And remember: This is the guy God chose to show the world his way. To do what was just and right. Was Abraham always sure what God’s way was? Of course not. Was he always sure that God’s way was the right way? Not likely. Did he make mistakes? He did. For instance: he never should have given his wife, Sarah, to another man. Did he always learn from them? Who does? Several years later, he did it again. Did he have days he wished he could do over? Sure. That’s literature. That’s life. Who doesn’t, including God? Remember when he promised not to destroy the innocent along with the guilty of Sodom, to forgive the city of sin for the sake of the good? Not long after, God’s angels visited Abraham’s nephew, Lot, and the citizenry of Sodom went after them, to a man. God reduced the place to cinder and ash, somehow neglecting to include the city’s women and children in his calculation.
 
Still, on his worst day, I didn’t think Abraham would do it, not without saying a word. At the very least I thought he’d stall for time, say, hey, wait, wait, give me a few minutes, and I’ll get back to you, I simply need to talk it over with the boy’s mother. Or, I thought, that in the hours between God’s command and bedtime, or bedtime and morning, Sarah would have read God’s command on her husband’s face. Anyone who has followed the travail of the two of them since they left Ur for Canaan would know that that would have been the end of the matter right then and there.
 
But he didn’t say a word. Not to God. Not to Sarah. Not to anyone. Instead, he rose up early the next morning, saddled his donkey, called for two servants and Isaac, his son. He split the wood and headed out. God led him on and on, made the journey three days, giving him plenty of time to think about it, to change his mind, to figure a way out. I thought one of his servants might catch on, and perhaps he did too. Abraham stopped—when he saw the place from afar—and said, you two stay here, with the donkeys. We’ll be back after we go up and pray.
 
That left Isaac. Whether or not he knew it, he asked exactly the right question in exactly the right way. But Abraham reached deep, and somehow found a way to answer. And for all the awe that readers have expressed at his composure, the simple truth is that all Abraham had to do was not fall apart. Isaac was just a boy, thrilled to be on a special errand all alone with his father. He was not about to parse his father’s words for hidden meanings.
 
Right up to the last moment, I thought, I hoped, I may even have prayed, that Abraham would protest: I can’t do it, I can’t. I obey you as I obeyed my own father, Terah, but Isaac: he is my son.
 
But he didn’t.
 
And so God, through a messenger, had to stop him himself: “Do not reach out your hand against the lad, and do nothing to him, for now I know that you fear God and you have not held back your son, your only one, from me.”
 
I was stunned. It was not at all what I had anticipated. I had no illusions about God, not after Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, the Great Flood, and the Tower of Babel. (I have never been persuaded that the citizens of that apparently peaceful place, working together and getting along, had done anything wrong.) Nor confidence that I could predict his behavior or fathom what he was thinking. Still, I harbored a sneaking suspicion that it was not what God had anticipated either. But what could he do? He tried to make the best of a difficult situation, adjust on the fly, cut his losses and Abraham’s too. Look forward. Move on. Try not to let one bad day spoil the rewards of a good long life. Sometimes events take unexpected turns, even when you are thought to have everything under control.
 
And what could I do? I was just a reader who thought the story had come out wrong. And a son, like Isaac, who had to try to make sense of and peace with a difficult father. And a Jew, like any Jew who gives any thought to Jewish experience, past or present, who had to decide what to make of, and do with, an enormous inheritance, an inheritance that includes nearly three thousand of years of history, literature, ritual, and law. And a father, another difficult father, who had to figure out what part or parts of that inheritance I wanted to try to pass on to my sons. And a skeptic, by nature and nurture resistant to things we believe simply because (it is said) they have always been believed, things we do simply because they’ve always been done. And a historian, uncomfortable with the idea that the way things are is the only way they could possibly be. And, as if that weren’t enough, a lover of stories, driven to show and share the power and beauty of stories, sometimes even terrible stories. And to do that showing and sharing at a most inopportune time, a time (like so many times) when not a day goes by when someone somewhere doesn’t commit some horrible atrocity in the name of the God of Abraham and Isaac, in the name of their scripture or revelation, making it all the more challenging to convey my appreciation for those stories and their history, or even to answer those who see nothing but the dark side, the undeniable dark side, of their long lives.
 
Happily, I was also a writer, and every writer knows that sometimes a character gets away from you, surprises you, takes on a life of his or her own, even when you think you have a handle on him, even when you appear to be pulling all the strings. Sometimes an entire story gets away from you. It is an occupational hazard, all the more (if you’ll pardon a mixed metaphor and then bear with me for a few pages of speculation) when you are called in, as I imagine the author of the story of the near sacrifice was called in, like a relief pitcher, late in the game, without an outline, or even clear signals from the catcher, to finish someone else’s story.
 
So you see, I was a reader, a son, a Jew, a father, a skeptic, a historian, a lover of stories, and a writer. I had no choice, or little choice. Tradition virtually compelled me to write the story of Abraham and Isaac.

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