Two Sons

S M Chen
S M Chen
Jul 24, 2017 · 6 min read

It is dark. Dawn has not yet pried away the blackness with delicate fingers.

Sarah yet slumbers, making gentle, not unpleasant sounds as she chases dreams that elude her during waking hours.

Abraham dares not waken her. She is almost sure to protest, perhaps mightily, if he were to tell her the Almighty had spoken to him. How to make sense of the request — nay, command — to take the child of their advanced years and snuff out the promise that through his loins would come multitudes as numerous as the stars at night above their tent or the grains of sand beneath it?

Starry Night. Van Gogh. In public domain.

Not understanding it himself, he would be unable to make her understand.

She might persuade him that he had been hearing a voice other than of Yahweh. It was known to happen, particularly with advancing years.

He had listened to Sarah once before, and it had not ended well.

Even were he able to convince her, she was sure to be unhappy, and the last thing he wished was to leave behind a sorrowful, perhaps irate wife and mother.

No, better to steal away with two of the men in his employ. He would not tell them the purpose of their trip either, the less to make them complicit.

Sarah would not know the purpose of their trip until they returned. It was better this way.


Heaven, once a place of only peace, joy and light, was in turmoil. The pre-eminent angel, Lucifer, bearer of light, had rebelled. In that rebellion, he had convinced a third of his colleagues that he was right — that their Creator was unjust and had assumed powers unfairly. That He no longer deserved the worship with which He had been heretofore accorded.

This was to be the first recorded mutiny.

Rebellion had led to outright war — celestial conflict only imaginable to earthlings, such was its scale and ferocity. The usurpers fully intended to win. The origins of iniquity might remain a mystery, but its consequences would not.

The Almighty could have destroyed the entire third, including Lucifer, without war. The Hand that hung celestial bodies was all-powerful, as was the Voice that spoke them into existence. But that was not His way.

Instead, the rebellious were cast out of the only place they had known as home.

Their new domicile was to be very different. One marked by day and night, for one thing. They had never known night. But better they get used to it. Earth would, over time, become a darker place. A much darker place.


After the creation of man and woman, and the events that transpired in the Garden of Eden, onlookers could only grieve and be astonished. Earth would be the only place in the vast universe where created beings other than angels would fall.

Man had chosen the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil over the Tree of Life. The wrong tree. That choice would doom him to a fate reserved for other transgressors. The lake of fire awaited him.

The Son consulted with the Father. It was a private meeting, one about which we know little, but can speculate. There must be a way; there had to be one. Options, like those to a grand chess master, presented themselves with lightning speed and clarity. But, perhaps unless chess, there were not many.

The Son pleaded with the Father. “I will go, Father,” said He, finally. “It is the only way.”

Thus was the plan formulated.

It would be a long time before the figurative incubated egg would hatch, but I write that as an Earthling. Time for the immortal has no meaning. A thousand years is like unto a day, and a day like unto a thousand years.


Abraham journeyed with Isaac and the two servants. How far they travelled is not certain, but what is is that they reached their destination on the third day. Three days is of significance in other matters of Holy Writ. That is how long Jonah lived in the belly of the whale/great fish before he was expectorated, and how long Christ lay in the tomb after His crucifixion. And how long it would take for Abraham to face his ultimate test.

When mount Moriah came into view, Abraham told the servants Isaac and he would go on alone. Were he to tell them of his mission, they might try to stop him. Being that there were two of them, and he was of advanced years, they might well be successful. He could not chance it.

He placed the wood on the back of Isaac and, with fire in one hand and knife in the other, they climbed, Abraham with a heart so heavy it seemed to barely clear the ground. And there was no one to lift it. He had to carry it himself. We are not told his thoughts, but I suspect he had some. They may well have been confused. Surely he grieved — with the grief perhaps only fathers understand.

It is a tribute to the way Isaac had been raised that, upon learning that he was to be the sacrifice, he did not resist, overpower his father, or run away. It would seem he would have been justified in acting in manner other than how he did. He permitted his father to bind him and place him on the altar.

Abraham & Isaac. By Harold Copping (1863–1932). In public domain

It was only as Abraham’s hand was on the killing knife that the angel, who had been watching them, spoke and the ram in the thicket became visible. Had it been there all along? No matter. Tears of joy understandably cloud vision.


He is alone in another garden. Not of Eden, where man was first tested. This of Gethsemane, where another Man faces a different test.

He has been tested before. In the wilderness by His archenemy, whom He remembers from a long time ago in another place, in different roles. There have been other tests — many of them. His human enemies, goaded by the forces of darkness, have sought to trap Him, to discredit Him, to isolate Him. All to no avail.

So now they intend to kill.

And He is alone. His closest 3 disciples, with whom He pleaded to stay awake and join Him, have succumbed to the siren call of Morpheus.

Great drops of blood ooze from His pores, so great is His anguish. “Father,” He says, “If it be possible, let this cup pass from Me.” Nevertheless, not My will, but Thine, be done.

He remembers the ram in the thicket, of course. He may have been the One who put it there.

But there is no ram for Him.

The killing will descend with terrible finality and without mercy on the lonely hill of Golgotha where, even in His final hours, He grants pardon to the penitent thief and asks the Father for forgiveness for his enemies because, in verity, they know not what they do.

For them it is only a moment. For the universe it is history in the making.


So the contradistinction between the mercy of the Almighty for man, who deserved his fate, and the lack of mercy of the Almighty for His own Son, who did not deserve His, is symbolized by a ram.

I am particularly moved by this juxtaposition because I, too, am an Aries.

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