early
Early morning, thick dark, and I switch on a lamp, like a lantern burning through a dead fog. Greedily, I sip my coffee, steam curling around my chin, and I wonder how to begin. I feel pulled, yanked even, and this morning, I’m digging in my heels.
I really don’t want to do this week.
Would that I could forget the time and a hundred heavy things, laying them down to walk away, sinking deep into a chair with a blanket around my shoulders.
I flip open the scripture and begin to read of Abraham and his unthinkable calling (talk about something that was way too much), tracing the text with my finger.
Take your son, your only son—yes, Isaac, whom you love so much—and go to the land of Moriah. Go and sacrifice him as a burnt offering on one of the mountains, which I will show you.
Genesis 22:2 NLT
Your son, your only son—yes, Isaac, whom you love so much. God only asked Abraham to give up everything when he asked him to give up that boy, the one Abraham probably paused just to see, marveling over how much he’d grown. In one way or another, obedience always measures up to absolutely everything: wealth, for the young ruler who only still held on to what he had; freedom, for Paul, the freedom-fighter; for Abraham, that boy. And what had Jesus said? Those of you who do not give up everything you have cannot be my disciples (Luke 14:33). So here I am now, a hold-out over something as small as today, the routine obedience involved in my commitments. I turn back to Abraham, wondering how he managed to give up his son. I press my finger into the page.
And then Adam’s feet drum the stairs in staccato; he always descends quickly, as though hesitation would only waste the time. I hear him scripting something in announcer voice—Well boys, we’re gonna be track-side for the approach, then the squeal of the linen closet door, the muffled sounds of industry. What’s he doing, I wonder, but suddenly, the vacuum cleaner roars to life in the living room, humming and drawling in response, no doubt, to Adam’s long, lanky yanks. Kevin looks down at his watch, then turns to me, silently quizzical.
“He has a new chore,” I say, shrugging in response. “I guess he doesn’t like it.”
While my girls tend to dread and postpone the groaning things, Adam uses a let’s get it over with approach. When Adam feels reluctant about something, he does it first. And early. He lives like he eats, in least favorite to most favorite order.
“They should put his picture in the dictionary next to ‘diligent,’ I say, smiling, thinking they should put mine next to obstinate. And then, Abraham. How did he obey? I look down to that spot where my finger still lingers, and the next sentences make me laugh even though the subject is grim.
The next morning Abraham got up early.
Genesis 22:3
He saddled his donkey and took two of his servants with him, along with his son, Isaac. Then he chopped wood for a fire for a burnt offering and set out for the place God had told him about.
One of the most reluctant days in history, when a little dawdling would certainly have been justifiable, and Abraham packs up his faith that God can raise the dead (Hebrews 11:17,19) and gets going early. It’s as though he’s running away from doubt, reluctance, all the things that hinder and that sin that so easily entangles (Hebrews 12:1), as though the dreaded idea might swallow him whole if he doesn’t just get on with it. Meanwhile, that thing I don’t want to do, that thing God asks that I just can’t, I let it wait long enough to let paralysis speak my no. I read about Abraham and see Jesus turning resolved from his bloody tears to meet his betrayers (Mark 14:41-42). And outside my door, the sound of that vacuum drowns out everything else. Could God get more clear than showing me my own son, dragging that sucking thing across the carpet before it’s even light?
Sometimes the best way to obey, maybe the only way to sacrifice everything, is to stand up on my feet and just go, packing up my faith that God can raise the dead, getting out early before my own doubt and fear become chains around my ankles. Maybe reluctance sounds like an alarm to get on with it and just obey; maybe now the Spirit flicks on the light, like a lantern burning through a deadly fog.
