Abraham and Sarah (12 page)

He forgot how hot and tired he was. He also forgot for the moment his concern over the famine and the lack of water. There was a wind blowing, but the sky was cloudless and the air was clear, making the view all the more distinct. He drew in a deep breath of the clear, hot air and continued to pick out the familiar sights.

On that first visit so long ago with his father, he remembered an old man in Shechem telling them that Ebal was the highest point in the land and one could see almost down to the border of Egypt from its height. Now he knew that was true.

Slowly a great peace settled over him. The frustrations that had led him to strike out and climb the mountain melted away. In their place was a strange quietness. It was a quietness he had felt once or twice before. A quietness that carried with it an undercurrent of excitement. A feeling that something
important was about to happen. Gradually he felt intensely alert, aware of the blueness of the sky, the grayness of the jagged rocks around him, a thorn bush, and a small yellow flower at his feet.

It was then that he heard the voice. It was the same voice and the same feeling that had caused him to leave Haran. “Abram, unto your seed I will give this land.”

Abram whirled around expecting to see someone, but no one was in sight. He stood very still and listened. He heard only the wind and saw only small puffs of dirt blown around the base of the rocks. Again he heard the voice: “Unto your seed I will give this land.”

He sank to his knees and then lowered his head to the ground and covered his face. The words enveloped him. They seemed to come from a great distance, and yet they were as close as his own heart. It was as though someone not only spoke the words, but also wrote them with a sharp stylus somewhere in his mind so that he heard them over and over again whichever way he turned.

He lost all consciousness of time. He was caught up in heart-rending emotion. He, a rational man, a man shrewder than most, a bargainer, and an intellectual, felt he was in the very presence of the great Creator God. The fear and doubt lifted, and in their place was a quiet ecstasy, an almost rapturous delight. The Creator God, Elohim, had spoken. Abram recognized His voice. Elohim had singled him out for this special blessing, and Abram was speechless with wonder.

Gradually the glory faded. The moment passed and Abram became aware again of his immediate surroundings. He stood up. The sun was edging its way down to the rim of Mount Carmel in the far distance, and in the valley he could see bright spots of light that must be their campfires already lit.

He lingered, still feeling the euphoria of the encounter. He had no doubt it was God who had spoken, the God he had encountered first in Ur and then in Haran. Joy flooded his entire being. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to return to the valley. He repeated the words over and over.

He had been right. His every instinct had led him to this place, and now he knew that it was to be his.

The sun dropped lower, hovering on the horizon, while in the valley it was already dark. The vision had faded and with it came a terrible reality. This was the place, the place he’d been promised, and it was a barren, parched
wasteland. Even worse, he’d brought all these people with him on extravagant promises. What would they say? What would they think when he told them this was all he was going to have?

He sank down on a jutting rock and let his head drop into his hands. “Oh my God, what am I to do? What will I tell all these people … and Sarai? How can I tell her that this is the land you promised me, the land we have been talking about?”

There was no answer. No breeze stirred. A hawk flew overhead, balanced effortlessly on the warm air. Abram sat motionless and watched its slow, circling descent. When it finally disappeared, he stood up and with a sigh started back down to the camp.

At the base of the mountain he found Lot looking frustrated and impatient. Things had not gone well. “My lord,” Lot’s voice was urgent and strained. “There’s barely enough water for our flocks and camels. We’ll all die here if we don’t move on quickly.”

Abram hardly heard what he was saying. His mind was still preoccupied with what he’d seen and heard. “Pass the word through the camp,” he told Lot, “that they are to sanctify and cleanse themselves. Tomorrow we will climb the mount, build an altar, and worship.”

Lot frowned. “But, my uncle, there is almost no water, and our own drinking supply will soon be gone.”

“Tomorrow you will see. We are going to climb the mountain and build an altar in this place,” Abram said, looking around with an air of grim determination.

“An altar?” Lot asked.

“Tomorrow. It will be a time of dedication for all of us.”

Lot could see that trying to dissuade his uncle would be useless. Reluctantly he relayed Abram’s message to the people, then hinted that perhaps Abram had some explanation, some revelation from his God.

The next morning, before daybreak, the men gathered at the edge of the camp. Depression had given way to curiosity. As they started up the mountain, an air of excitement, then expectation, began to grow. They sang the old songs and felt the renewal of hope, of something spectacular about to happen.

The women and children huddled together in the deep shadows of the encampment and watched them go, wondering at the strangeness of it all.

At the summit the stars still hung low in the east, and the moon gave a
hard, sharp light that brought the barren rocks into focus. Quickly, at Abram’s command, the men picked up stones and silently piled them in the shape of a crude altar.

Just at sunrise the altar was ready and a young lamb was sacrificed as the men broke into an ancient hymn of thanksgiving and praise. When the singing died down, Abram offered a prayer to Elohim, the Creator God.

By that time the sun had risen over the summit of Gilboa, and its rays illumined the mountains beyond the Jordan. As the whole landscape became visible, there was a gasp of surprise. The long, tedious trek they had made from Mount Hermon now looked only a stone’s throw away. They were filled with awe as they gazed in every direction. Most of them had spent all their lives on the flat plains of the Euphrates and could not imagine the possibility of such a view.

Abram waited until they had finished exclaiming, and then he began to point out the sights, Mount Carmel to the northwest, to the east Mount Hermon, and behind the eastern hills the Jordan, and to the south the port of Joppa.

“This land, all of it that you see, is the very land my God has promised me and my descendants.” Abram glanced around expectantly, hopefully, but when he saw their sober, worried faces he grew silent.

First there were covert whispers and then overtones of displeasure. Finally Lot could contain himself no longer. “My lord,” he sputtered, “do you mean that the land you have been promised is this?” His hand swept around, taking in the valley and the barren mountains.

Abram nodded, his gaze sweeping the horizon. “Yes, yes, this whole land is to be given to me and to my descendants.”

As murmurs of displeasure broke out among the men, Lot spoke again, his voice bitter with disappointment, “Did you not ask your God why He has given you a land of death? One from which even the wild animals and pleasant birds have fled?”

Abram could see that they could think of nothing but the famine. He tried to encourage them. “I have seen the valley when it was green and bursting with figs, olives, grapevines, and great fields of wheat and barley,” he said. “This drought will pass. It will be green again. That is the way of things.”

The steady rumble of unease continued, but only Lot dared speak, “My lord, last night we were barely able to water our animals. If we aren’t to die, we must move on quickly.”

Abram looked from one to the other and saw their anger and frustration. He had no answers, and he didn’t want to discuss anything at the moment. “We’ll go back to our tents,” he said, turning away so they couldn’t see the hurt in his eyes. “It will become clear what we’re to do.”

Lot was not ready to drop the subject so quickly. “My lord,” he said, “the place is impossible.”

Abram turned and looked at Lot, meeting his eyes. “We may not understand, but it will become clear,” he said. “The Creator God, the God of mountains and of hosts, He is the one who has made the promise, and He will show us what to do.” With that Abram turned and started back down the mountain with a fast, determined stride.

The next morning when Abram ordered the old rags to be taken down from the tree of the sorceress and the ground around it completely cleared of debris, Lot questioned his wisdom. “My uncle,” he said, “if we destroy his sacred place, won’t the local god, Hadad, punish us?”

Abram paused a moment before replying. “This place is no longer his,” he said finally. “It belongs to the living God, the God not made with hands.”

Soon the great tree had been restored to its simple beauty and the area around it completely cleared. Even the air was freshened with incense. “God has spoken to me here in this place,” Abram said. “This tree will no longer mark the place of the sorceress but will from this time on be called the Tree of Grace.”

When Lot reported the events of the day to Mara, she could tell he was depressed, even angry. “Can you imagine,” he said, jabbing the fire with a pointed stick, “he was excited. He didn’t even see that it was a rotten trick.”

“The people predicted Ur’s god would wreak revenge on Abram,” Mara said. “Now Abram’s come against Hadad too.” Mara’s eyes were large with fright.

“To come against the moon god and the god of thunder is to invite trouble.” Lot’s voice registered his frustration.

“He’s to have descendants. Where will he get them, do you suppose? Not from Sarai, I’m sure.” In the darkness Mara bit her lip to keep from showing her pleasure. “If that promise turns out to be as empty as the others … well!” She saw she didn’t have to say more. Lot understood perfectly.

Though Sarai wasn’t pleased with the turn of events, she made up her mind to hold her peace and probe the subject gently. However, she was puzzled that Abram didn’t seem to be angrier. His God had gotten him into this predicament, and she felt he should have been more resentful and bitter.

For herself, she wanted none of it. She secretly hoped he would give up this wild adventure and go back to Haran. It was true that, like Abram, she found the idol worship questionable at best, and the religious practices vulgar, but she had her family and so paid little attention to these things that bothered Abram so much.

She had always known that Abram listened to her, and she felt sure that if she insisted and was determined to go back, he would take her. With that bit of assurance, she ordered her maidens to lift the tent flaps so she could see the moon rise over the mountains to the east and catch any breeze.

She directed one of them to bring her a small earthen jar purchased in Damascus. She held the little jar carefully between two fingers while she gently pulled away the wax that held the stopper in place. “He chose this for me,” she said as she poured a bit of the rare fragrance into her palm. She rubbed her hands together and then held them up so she could smell the heady odor of jasmine.

“He always buys the very best,” she said as she proceeded to rub the oil up each arm, on each earlobe, down her neck, and around each breast.

She handed the bottle back to the maid and then dismissed all of them. Tonight she wanted to be alone. She was sure Abram would come looking for her, and she intended to be ready.