Fear and trembling

Marc Chagall, Abraham Walking with Isaac to the Land of Moriah (1931). Either Abraham is right to climb Mt. Moriah and draw the knife, or he is lost. To live in that paradox is faith

And after these things God tested Abraham. He said to him, “Abraham!” And he said, “Here I am.” He said, “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt-offering on one of the mountains that I shall show you.” So Abraham rose early in the morning, saddled his donkey, and took two of his young men with him, and his son Isaac; he cut the wood for the burnt-offering, and set out and went to the place in the distance that God had shown him. On the third day Abraham looked up and saw the place far away. Then Abraham said to his young men, “Stay here with the donkey; the boy and I will go over there; we will worship, and then we will come back to you.” Abraham took the wood of the burnt-offering and laid it on his son Isaac, and he himself carried the fire and the knife. So the two of them walked on together. Isaac said to his father Abraham, “Father!” And he said, “Here I am, my son.” He said, “The fire and the wood are here, but where is the lamb for a burnt-offering?” Abraham said, “God himself will provide the lamb for a burnt-offering, my son.” So the two of them walked on together.

When they came to the place that God had shown him, Abraham built an altar there and laid the wood in order. He bound his son Isaac, and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood. Then Abraham reached out his hand and took the knife to kill his son. But the angel of the Lord called to him from heaven, and said, “Abraham, Abraham!” And he said, “Here I am.’” He said, “Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him; for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me.” And Abraham looked up and saw a ram, caught in a thicket by its horns. Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt-offering instead of his son.

– Genesis 22.1-13

It was early in the morning when Abraham arose: he embraced Sarah, the bride of his old age, and Sarah kissed Isaac, who took away her disgrace, Isaac her pride, her hope for all the generations to come. They rode along the road in silence, and Abraham stared continuously and fixedly at the ground until the fourth day, when he looked up and saw Mount Moriah far away, but once again he turned his eyes to the ground. Silently he arranged the firewood and bound Isaac; silently he drew the knife — then he saw the ram God had selected. Then he sacrificed and went home.

From that day henceforth, Abraham was old; he could not forget that God had ordered him to do this. Isaac flourished as before, but Abraham’s eyes were darkened, and he saw joy no more.

– Søren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling

Kierkegaard retells the story of Abraham, who heard God’s angels tell him to take his darling boy Isaac up to the mountain and offer him as a sacrifice. Now, this is exactly the kind of Old Testament behavior I had trouble with. It made me think that this God was about as kind and stable as Judge Julius Hoffman of Chicago Seven fame. But the way Kierkegaard wrote it, Abraham understood that all he really had in life was God’s unimaginable goodness and love, God’s promise of protection, God’s paradoxical promise that Isaac would provide him with many descendants. He understood that without God’s love and company, this life would be so empty and barbaric that it almost wouldn’t matter if his son was alive or not. And since this side of the grave you could never know for sure if there was a God, you had to make a leap of faith, if you could, leaping across the abyss of doubt with fear and trembling.

– Anne Lamott, Overture: Lily Pads, in Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith

Theism begins with a commitment to absurdity. It revels in mysteries, embraces paradoxes, and wallows in warm credulity.

– an atheist friend

My atheist friend and I agree on a lot, it turns out. For example: Theism begins with a commitment to absurdity. This, understood correctly, I must agree with. About mysteries, though: I’m not sure faith revels in mysteries, because I’m not sure real mysteries can be reveled in. That’s like saying that the mouse revels in the presence of the cat. I think that faith certainly accepts the existence of mysteries, but does not presume to “solve them” (see the tale of Abraham above). Perhaps, at its best, faith confronts mysteries eye-to-eye. Also, faith does embrace paradox, but the paradoxes of faith are not the simple kind like 1=2, but are fruitful. Great paradoxes produce great commentary, sermons, artwork, music, etc. There is no bottom to such a paradox.

But the final statement — theism wallows in warm credulity — I simply cannot accept. It seems that such a statement may be made fairly by anyone, and it may even be that those who reject theism have a unique perspective on us “dyed-in-the-wool faith-heads” (Richard Dawkins‘s fresh and cordial term for believers). But in the end, I think this question can be addressed seriously only by those who have committed to a life of faith. What is the experience of being an atheist? I mean, a real full-blown, government-approved, committed atheist? I can’t really answer that question because I have never fully given myself over to atheism. I don’t mean to say that I can’t have opinions, or that my opinions are worthless. My friend is fully entitled to his opinion, and I value it. That’s why I’m blogging about it.

Take Buddhism, for example. I may have some interesting — even valuable — views on that subject, and I may have read some books, but if I really want to know about Buddhism I should ask a real Buddhist. Someone who knows their stuff. Maybe even a monastic, someone who has lived it. So if I really want to know what it’s like to have faith, or to be a theist, I must ask someone with faith, or a theist.

And I can for myself — and for many other good Christian persons I know — say that faith is a not a warm-n-bubbly credulity bath. At times it brings true joy, yes, and laughter. But it is not the toasty and sentimental caricature so many make it out to be. It is, at root, a darkness, a kind of unknowing, a very scary trusting. For me this is what faith is. And in that darkness one must work out one’s living in fear and trembling.

I’m a pretty happy guy, really. I have friends who make me laugh. I even make my friends laugh periodically. And I am loved by a wonderful family. In fact, in the words of Chris Knight, I’m a pretty good guy. I’m definitely southern — I’ll smile at you and strike up a conversation with you in the checkout line. I like it when waitresses call me “Honey.” I like beer with my dinner. And if you need your car to be jumped in the rain, I’ll pull over and do it for you with a smile. In truth, I have a good life and I have a good time. At the age of 42 I have no regrets.

But if you catch me in a sober moment, at one of those rare times when I can think clearly and tell the truth in all candor, I will tell you: Faith is a darkness, a kind of unknowing, a very scary trusting. And I can’t change that.

I am not Abraham. If God told me to sacrifice my son Henry, I’d be telling God exactly where to get off. But I think there is a trace of Abraham’s blood in every Jew, Muslim, and Christian. And what with all the enormous challenges this life brings, it sure is good to know it’s there.

Please, no one ask me how to discern between someone like Abraham and someone like Jim Jones. Even if I could give you a formula — which I can’t — I’m not doing it today. I’m really tired and I need to go home now.

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