A Butterfly Flapping

Tag: sacrifice

  • The Transition of the Promise

    Genesis 25:19-34, 27:1-5

    You might think that I’m just a butterfly, but I’m a special one from a long line of special butterflies. If you’ve read stories about some of my ancestors, you know that we have an assignment from God to be with certain people. Each generation inherits the memories of the previous ancestors, so we know the history of our person from Adam and Eve up to our time.

    My line is with Isaac, who is near the end of his life. He’s blind and bedridden. And to be honest, I feel sorry for him.

    See, he’s almost never been a doer, the one who started something. He’s had some rough times, but not usually something he initiated. He didn’t even always respond to what happened.

    Like, when he was born, he was the second son. Of course, as a child, that meant nothing to him. Not even when Ishmael and his mother were cast out of the camp, cast out into the wilderness with a little meat and a little water. He was only a child at the time.

    What did he know? My ancestor at that time heard him ask once, “Where Ishmael?”

    Sarah simply said, “He’s not here anymore. Neither is Hagar. They’re gone.” Neither she nor Abraham ever mentioned them again.

    And that was it. But he was just a child, just weaned. Too young to remember even that he had an older brother.

    A few years later—I don’t know how many. Butterflies don’t pay attention to months and years. We don’t live long enough for that to matter. We have the stories in our memory banks, but not in a timeline with dates.

    Anyway, he was older, older enough to remember what happened on that mountain in Moriah. Abraham’s butterfly passed that story on to the rest of us.

    Abraham had several conversations with God. This particular one was a real challenge. God told Abraham, and I remember the exact words, “Take your son, your only son, whom you love—Isaac—and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you.”*

    My ancestor was with Abraham, of course, and he was as shocked as the man. Why would God tell him to do such a thing?!

    Abraham didn’t sleep that night, not because he was gathering up what was needed for the trip, but because he and his butterfly were trying to figure out what and why. As I said before, butterflies have a special relationship with God. But this was not something my ancestor understood. Was this a test? But wasn’t God all-knowing? If God was, then God knew where Abraham’s priorities were, that Abraham would obey.

    But if it wasn’t a test, then what was it? Had Abraham misunderstood? But his butterfly heard the same words, with the same meaning.

    Abraham questioned his butterfly. Could somebody impersonate God?

    Butterflies can’t laugh, but he shook his head so hard and so fast Abraham worried it would fall off. It didn’t.

    Whatever, it’s what God said to do, so Abraham and his butterfly set out the next morning with Isaac, his butterfly, and a couple young servants. The donkey carried the wood for the sacrifice. That was the longest three days in Abraham’s life. My ancestor tried to encourage him, but how do you give hope to someone who has just been told to kill his son and burn him?

    Abraham didn’t sleep well, even though they had walked a long ways. Isaac and the two young men slept well, but they didn’t know what was going to happen.

    As they traveled, the butterfly explored a new idea with the man. “Look, everyone around you does this. That doesn’t make it right.”

    “But God … that was God’s voice, I’m sure.”

    The butterfly tried a different tactic. Your friend Jared. Remember how you felt when he sacrificed his son?

    Abraham stopped. The memory returned. He had tried to argue Jared out of it. Maybe …Then he remembered.

    “But afterward, it rained. That was the point. We desperately needed rain, and the next day … a nice gentle shower that lasted for two days. The grass turned green again. Our flocks …”

    And you had prayed. So which was it, your prayer or Jared’s sacrifice?

    “But I’d been praying for a week. The rain came the same day he …”

    They walked on.

    That evening, sitting at the campfire, the butterfly tried again. So what was the promise God gave you?

    “You know, more offspring than”—he looked up at the stars—”than up there.”

    And how many sons do you have now?

    Abraham swatted at the butterfly. “You know that. Just Isaac. Ishmael is probably dead.”

    So where are those offspring going to come from?

    “You sound like Sarah. You know what I told her, God will just have to provide her with another son.”

    And the chances of that are …?

    “What were the chances the first time?”

    The third day, Abraham saw the mountain ahead of them. He told the servants to wait with the donkey. Those words were hard for him to say and hard for my ancestor to hear. “Stay here with the donkey while I and the boy go over there. We will worship and then we will come back to you.”* He almost choked on those last words. Isaac’s butterfly flew ahead, out of range to share his thoughts. He knew what was going to happen, but he couldn’t let Isaac know.

    The father took the wood from the donkey and tied it onto the son’s back. My ancestor tried to object. “You’re going to make him carry the very wood that will burn him?”

    Abraham swatted my ancestor, almost knocking him to the ground. After that, they kept some distance between them until they reached the mountain.

    As father and son walked on, Isaac asked a logical question. “The fire and wood are here.”*

    Abraham was carrying the spark of fire cradled in a small pot. His knife, the one he had spent the night sharpening, hung from his belt.

    “But where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”* Isaac continued.

    What could the man say? My ancestor saw a tear in his eye, a tear he quickly wiped away. Abraham and his butterfly had the same thought at the same time, a thought and a prayer. “God will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.” He quickened his pace, and Isaac trotted alongside him.

    I can almost hear my ancestor telling the next part. They reached the top of the mountain and together, father and son, they piled stones to make an altar. As they worked, man and butterfly repeated over and over, “God will provide the lamb. God will provide the lamb.”

    My ancestor saw Isaac’s eyes open wide as his father bound him and lifted him onto the altar. “Father! NO! What are you doing?” The boy struggled, to no avail. My ancestor screamed at Abraham to stop, but the man was sure this was what God said to do.

    The father pulled out his knife and slowly raised it above his son, his only son, the one he loved. Two butterflies flew under the knife, but Abraham swatted them away. More gently this time, because he understood.

    And then a voice. “Abraham! Abraham!”*

    The hand did not move.

    “Here I am.”*

    Nobody breathed, not Abraham, not Isaac, neither butterfly.

    “Do not lay a hand on the boy. Do not do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.”*

    Abraham dropped his head and sheathed his knife. His knees buckled, but he stood to untie his son, limp from fear. The father wrapped his arms around his son, hugging him tightly.

    “God did provide.” The thought ran between all four at the altar.

    My ancestor noticed a ram caught by its horns in the bushes behind Abraham. “Look behind you,” he thought-yelled.

    The ram became the sacrifice, and as the fire burned, Abraham held onto his son, their tears mingling.

    But the angel was not finished. “I swear by myself that because you have done this and have not withheld your son, your only son, I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will take possession of the cities of their enemies, and through your offspring, all nations on earth will be blessed, because you have obeyed me.”*

    For some time, nobody moved. When Abraham spoke again, he named this place, “The Lord Will Provide.”

    Together they watched the ashes cool, all four of them: man, boy, and butterflies. Isaac’s thoughts of fear mingled with Abraham’s gratitude and relief.

    Then Abraham picked up the empty fire pot, and they ran back to where the donkey and servants were. The trip that had taken three days was whittled to two. Sarah would be waiting anxiously for word of her son’s safety.

    Isaac had been a happy-go-lucky boy, but after that, he was never the same. That may be why he spent so much time off by himself. Even as an adult, he only did what was necessary.

    Like when it was time for him to marry. Most young men would have gone into town and checked out the eligible young women. He didn’t. When he and his butterfly discussed it, Isaac just shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t care.”

    “But you should. You need to find a wife. You have to carry on the Promise God made to Abraham about having more offspring than the stars in the sky.”

    The little butterfly didn’t think Isaac was serious when he said, “If God wants me to have children, God can find me a wife.” But Isaac didn’t go looking.

    Instead, Abraham sent his most trusted servant back to the town of Nahor to find Isaac a wife among his own people rather than from the Canaanites. Isaac and Rebekah had twins, but that’s a completely different story.

    Except it’s not because it’s the last important event in Isaac’s life, and again, it was what happened to him, not what he did.

    I told you that Isaac and Rebekah had twins. Esau was born first. He came out all hairy, like a goat kid. His size, making his birth more difficult, earned him the name Esau because of his red body. Jacob earned his name by hanging onto Esau’s heel as the two came out connected, like the Hebrew idiom, “he grasps the heel” meaning “he deceives.”1

    From then on, the newborns’ butterflies knew there would be trouble with Jacob jealous of his older-by-minutes brother. Isaac and Rebekah thought they had solved the problem by each taking one child, with Isaac favoring Esau and Rebekah supporting Jacob. That aligned the older child with his father, the power figure, and the younger with his mother, the schemer.

    As the boys grew older and the butterfly line continued, so did the rivalry. Esau was a hunter, a good one. Jacob preferred tending the sheep.

    One day, when Esau came back in from the hunt with no game, Jacob saw his chance to buy Esau’s birthright.

    Esau’s butterfly advised him against it, but Esau was hungry, and Jacob had stew simmering. “Look,” he said to Jacob, “I am about to die. What good is the birthright to me?”* Nothing his current butterfly could communicate to him made him change his mind. Jacob won that contest.

    Later he thought he won the final one, too, stealing Isaac’s blessing, but he didn’t benefit from it. Isaac’s blessing was to pass on to the older son the authority of the father, making him lord over the rest of the family, and giving him property and prosperity.

    The plan came from Rebekah, but it was Jacob who brought in two young goats, wore his brother’s clothes and the goatskins on his arms and neck. The disguise worked for blind old Isaac, but his hearing confused him. “The voice is the voice of Jacob, but the hands are the hands of Esau.”* He hesitated. “Are you really my son Esau?”*

    His nose confirmed the clothing of Esau, convincing him to give Jacob the blessing.

    Isaac’s butterfly tried to explain the real situation, but the old man ignored him.

    “Ah, the smell of my son is like the smell of a field that the Lord has blessed. May God give you heaven’s dew and earth’s richness—an abundance of grain and new wine. May nations serve you and peoples bow down to you. Be Lord over your brothers, and may the sons of your mother bow down to you. May those who curse you be cursed and those who bless you be blessed.”*

    Jacob left with the blessing shortly before Esau arrived with his game and p prepared it.

    Now no consequences had followed Jacob buying Esau’s birthright, but the blessing was a different story.

    When Esau took his game, prepared just the way Isaac liked it, to his father, the blessing could not be repeated.

    “Haven’t you reserved any blessing for me?”* Esau’s question came from both disappointment and anger.

    The old man shook his head. “I have made him lord over you and have made all his relatives his servants, and I have sustained him with grain and new wine. So what can I possible do for you, my son?”*

    “Do you have only one blessing, my father? Bless me too, my father.”* And the man wept.

    What Isaac offered was more a curse than a blessing.

    “Your dwelling will be away from the earth’s richness, away from the dew of heaven above. You will live by the sword and you will serve your brother. But when you grow restless, you will throw his yoke from off your neck.”*

    Out of respect for his father, Esau did not stomp out of the room, but once outside, his butterfly heard his threat. “The days of mourning for my father are near; then I will kill my brother Jacob.”*

    (to be continued)

    1 Footnote b for Genesis 25:37

  • Cain’s Crime and Punishment

    Genesis 4:1-17

    “It’s time to offer our sacrifices to God,” Adam announced one morning. “Go select your best.”

    Each followed by his butterfly, Cain, and Abel went off in different directions to gather what they would bring for the sacrifice.

    Later that day, clouds gathered above as the men below stacked stones for the altar. Adam kept an eye on the darkening sky as they gathered the wood. Three butterflies hovered nearby.

    “Abel, you’re first.”

    As Abel lifted his lamb onto the altar, the sun broke through the clouds. The three butterflies fluttered with excitement. Cain’s was worried. Would the clouds hold their positions for Cain? The butterfly worried about Cain’s thoughts. Why did Abel get to go first?! I’m the older brother! He should be second to offer his sacrifice!

    All three men sighed in relief. God was pleased with this offering. The butterflies flew over the men and perched on a leafy branch behind them.

    As the fire eagerly consumed Abel’s sacrifice, men and butterflies watched the clouds gathering together. Cain’s butterfly knew the weather signs. He hovered near his man.

    “Now yours, Cain.”

    Cain lifted his basket of crushed grain heads onto the cut-up wood. He had crushed his best. Then, to fill the basket, he had taken more grain and crushed it until his basket was full. His mother had given him some olive oil to pour over it to create an aroma pleasing to the Lord.

    A raindrop fell. Then another, followed by a third. Holding his breath, Cain started the fire. The rain that continued to fall did not extinguish the flames, but he struggled to keep them alive. His butterfly fought to stay in the air amid the drops falling onto his wings.

    Nobody spoke as Cain’s offering reluctantly burned. The other butterflies flew to the cover of a branch with more leaves above it.

    When the offering was completed, Adam and Abel turned away to resume their normal duties.

    Cain stood by the altar, his red face buried in his hands. He heard God’s voice, “Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.”*

    The disheartened man did not move. His butterfly hovered behind him, fearing God also knew the man’s thoughts.

    # # #

    Later in the day, Cain, unaware of the butterfly following him, invited his brother to walk with him in the field. As the anger at feeling rejected by God built, the older brother picked up a stone.

    He almost dropped it to cover his ears as he felt someone screaming at him. “No! No! Don’t! Don’t do it, Cain!” He looked around. The only living thing near him, besides his brother, was that pesky butterfly that followed him everywhere. It was flapping its wings furiously right in front of him.

    With his free hand, he swiped the butterfly away and with the other, he lashed out with the stone, leaving Abel bleeding, dying at his feet. He knelt down, feeling the younger man’s last breath.

    “No! No!” The butterfly tried to shout using the only way to communicate with Cain. “It’s not Abel you hate. You’re angry at God for raining on your sacrifice. You don’t understand why!”

    Too late, Cain realized that he was not as angry at Abel as he was at God for raining on his offering.

    Abel’s butterfly dropped to the ground by Abel’s body and did not move. Cain’s hovered behind the older brother. Safety usually involved staying out of Cain’s sight, but even more so now. His thoughts repeated one word, “No.”

    Cain turned away, not sure where to go. He couldn’t go home.

    Again he heard God’s voice, “Where is your brother Abel?”*

    Confused by what he had just done, still angry at God, Cain yelled back, “I don’t know! Am I my brother’s keeper?”*

    He hung his head. God doesn’t have to answer. I know. I know what I did. If Father and Mother were cast out of the garden for eating an apple, …

    What happened was not what he expected.

    “What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand.When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.”*

    Cain fell to his knees, knowing he was hearing from God the One Who Punishes, the One who sent his parents out of Eden. “My punishment is more than I can bear. Today you are driving me from the land, and I will be hidden from your presence; I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me.”*

    But the Lord said to him, “Not so; anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over.”*

    After God marked him for protection and sent him off that day, Cain wandered aimlessly, with no idea where to go or what to do. As usual, he ignored the butterfly behind him and any of his thoughts.

    When darkness fell, he found a cave and slept. The butterfly perched in a tree near the entrance. He feared the darkness of the cave more than he feared Cain, but would his thoughts reach the frightened man? You are not alone! You have no brother, no family. But God did not kill you. God is taking care of you.

    When Cain woke up, the full realization of his situation struck him. He no longer had a brother, but he also no longer had a family. He was alone in the world. Completely alone. He shivered with fear. He sat in the cave for a long time with that lonely feeling building within him until he wanted to run out into the world screaming! He did not. He sat in the cave until the sun was at its highest.

    Still, he was alive. Was God taking care of him like God took care of his parents after they ate the apple?

    When he came out, the butterfly almost flew into him. The thought crossed his mind that he wasn’t completely alone. He shook his head. What company could a butterfly be?

    Startled, he remembered the butterfly from his childhood. This couldn’t be the same one. They don’t live that long.

    This dbutterfly headed in the direction the sun had come from. Did it tell him … foolish thought. Butterflies don’t talk. But something told Cain to follow it.

    With no better plan, Cain followed.

    After a while, they came upon a trail still muddy from yesterday’s rain. He looked at the prints in the trail in front of him and his behind. He looked at the butterfly as his mind told him, “These aren’t animal tracks. Long feet with five toes. Like mine. People!”

    Shortly before nightfall, the butterfly led Cain into a small village. Children played between the tents. The men were returning from hunting. On flat rocks in the fire rings, the women were baking their breads from the wild grain they had gathered.

    They all stared suspiciously. As the men turned towards him, he held out his hands to show that they were empty. The men greeted him cautiously, but they allowed him to enter the village.

    One of the older women—Cain learned later she was the medicine woman—motioned him to sit outside her door. She glanced at the butterfly and smiled. A man sat down across from him and was soon joined by a younger woman. The rest of the people disappeared into their huts.

    “Who are you and where are you from?” the woman asked.

    “My name is Cain. I am from …” He had no idea what his land was called. He thought it was the only place with people. He motioned in the direction away from the setting sun. “I come in peace,” he added. “I mean no harm to anyone.”

    The woman pointed at the butterfly hovering between them. “You followed the butterfly?”

    “Yes, it led me here.”

    “That’s a good sign.” She raised her hand. “That mark on your forehead?”

    Cain considered the story he had been making up since he found the human tracks. He shook his head and looked down at the ground. “God put that mark on me because I killed my brother.”

    The younger woman drew back. The man put his hand on his stone knife on his belt. The older woman frowned, but glanced again at the butterfly now resting on Cain’s shoulder.

    “But God let you live?”

    “Yes.”

    “Are you a threat to us?”

    He sighed. “No.”

    “Someday you will tell us the story?”

    Cain lifted his head. His eyes widened. “Yes, someday.”

    The woman turned to her brother. “Take him into your tent tonight. Tomorrow we will help him create his own. We will teach him our ways.”

    As time passed, Cain became one of the people of Nod. The young woman became his wife, and they named their son Enoch. The number of butterflies increased.

    Because Cain was no longer successful at farming, he taught the people how to plant wheat, but he did not himself. He didn’t want to spread thorns and thistles. He showed them how to tend sheep.

    He encouraged the people to build a town, not with tents, but with mud bricks that withstand the wind and storms. They would live in the town with their sheep and go out to tend their fields.

    He was careful with his butterflies, from one generation to the next, tending the larvae his current butterfly laid and the cocoons that followed. The number of butterflies increased.

    As time passed, Cain realized God had not forgotten him. He remembered the stories his parents told. When Adam and Eve left the garden, God provided them with skins for cover to protect them from the weather. God continued to care for them.

    Even after what Cain did, God marked him with protection. Cain believed he also sent this butterfly to take him to the village where people took him in. The One Who Punished was also the Caretaker, the provider of butterflies.

  • Cain’s Crime and Punishment: Genesis 4:1-17

    “It’s time to offer our sacrifices to God,” Adan announced one morning. “Go select your best.”

    Cain, and Abel went off in different directions to gather what they would bring for the sacrifice, each followed by his butterfly.

    Later that day, clouds gathered above as the men below stacked stones for the altar. Adam kept an eye on the darkening sky as they gathered the wood. Three blue butterflies hovered nearby.

    “Abel, you’re first.”

    As Abel lifted his lamb onto the altar, the sun broke through the clouds. All three men sighed in relief. God was pleased with this offering. The butterflies flew over the men and perched on a leafy branch behind them.

    As the fire eagerly consumed Abel’s sacrifice, the clouds gathered together.

    “Now yours, Cain.”

    Cain lifted his basket of his chosen grain heads onto the fresh wood. A raindrop fell. Then another, followed by a third. Holding his breath, he started the fire. The rain that continued to fall did not extinguish the flames, but he struggled to keep them alive.

    Nobody spoke as Cain’s offering reluctantly burned. The butterflies flew to the cover of a branch with more leaves above it.

    When the offering was completed, Adam and Abel turned away to resume their normal duties.

    Cain stood by the altar, his red face buried in his hands. He heard God’s voice, “Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.”*

    The disheartened man did not move. His butterfly hovered behind him.

    # # #

    Later in the day, Cain, unaware of the butterfly following him, invited his brother to walk with him in the field. As the anger at feeling rejected by God built, the older brother picked up a stone and lashed out, leaving Abel bleeding, dying at his feet. He knelt down, feeling the younger man’s last breath. Too late, he realized that he was not as angry at Abel as he was at God for raining on his offering.

    Abel’s butterfly dropped to the ground by Abel’s body. Cain’s butterfly hovered behind him. It was never safe to be where Cain could see him, but even less now.

    Cain turned away, not sure where to go. He couldn’t go home.

    Again he heard God’s voice, “Where is your brother Abel?”*

    Confused by what he had just done, still angry at God, Cain yelled back, “I don’t know! Am I my brother’s keeper?”*

    He hung his head. God doesn’t have to answer. I know. I know what I did. If Father and Mother were cast out of the garden for eating an apple, …

    What happened was not what he expected.

    “What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand.When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.”*

    Cain fell to his knees, knowing he was hearing from God the One Who Punished, the one who sent his parents out of Eden. “My punishment is more than I can bear. Today you are driving me from the land, and I will be hidden from your presence; I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me.”*

    But the Lord said to him, “Not so; anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over.”*

    After God marked him for protection and sent him off that day, Cain wandered aimlessly, with no idea where to go or what to do. When darkness fell, he found a cave and slept.

    When he woke up, the full realization of his situation struck him. He no longer had a brother, but he also no longer had a family. He was alone in the world. Completely alone. He shivered with fear. He sat in the cave for a long time with that lonely feeling building within him until he wanted to run out into the world screaming! He did not. He sat in the cave until the sun was at its highest.

    When he came out, the blue butterfly almost flew into him.

    Startled, he remembered the butterfly from his childhood. This couldn’t be the same one. They don’t live that long.

    This butterfly headed in the direction the sun had come from. With no better plan, Cain followed. After a while, they came upon a trail still muddy from yesterday’s rain. He looked at the prints in the trail in front of him and his behind him. “These aren’t animal tracks. Long feet with five toes. Like mine. People!”

    Shortly before nightfall, the butterfly Cain now called Blue flew into a small village. Cain hesitated, then followed. Children played between the tents. The men were returning from hunting, and the women were baking their breads on flat rocks in the fire rings. They saw him coming. As the men turned towards him, he held out his hands to show that they were empty. The men greeted him cautiously, but they allowed him to enter the village.

    One of the older women—Cain learned later that she was the medicine woman—motioned him to sit outside her door. She glanced at the butterfly and smiled. A man sat down across from him and was soon joined by a younger woman. The rest of the people disappeared into their huts.

    “Who are you and where are you from?” the woman asked.

    “My name is Cain. I am from …” He had no idea what his land was called. He motioned in the direction of the setting sun. “I come in peace,” he added. “I mean no harm to anyone.”

    The woman pointed at the butterfly hovering between them. “You followed the butterfly?”

    “Yes, he led me here.”

    “That’s a good sign.” She raised her hand. “That mark on your forehead?”

    Cain considered the story he had been making up since he found the human tracks. He shook his head and looked down at the ground. “God put that mark on me because I killed my brother.”

    The younger woman drew back. The man put his hand on his belt above his stone knife. The older woman frowned, but glanced again at the butterfly.

    “But God let you live?”

    “Yes.”

    “Are you a threat to us?”

    He sighed. “No.”

    “Someday you will tell us the story?”

    Cain lifted his head. His eyes widened. “Yes, someday.”

    The woman turned to her brother. “Take him into your tent tonight. Tomorrow we will help him create his own. We will teach him our ways.”

    As time passed, Cain became one of the people of Nod. The young woman became his wife, and they named their son Enoch. The number of blue butterflies increased.

    Because Cain was no longer successful at farming, he taught the people how to plant wheat, but he did not himself. He didn’t want to spread thorns and thistles. He showed them how to tend sheep. He encouraged the people to build a town, not with tents, but with mud bricks that withstood the wind and storms. They would live in the town and go out to tend their fields and livestock.

    He was careful with his butterflies, from one generation to the next, tending the larvae and the cocoons.

    As time passed, Cain realized God had not forgotten him. He remembered the stories his parents told. When Adam and Eve left the garden, God provided them with skins for cover to protect them from the weather. God continued to care for them.

    Even after what Cain did, God marked him with protection. Cain believed he also sent a the butterfly to take him to the village where people took him in. The One Who Punished was also the Caretaker, the provider of butterflies.

  • Sacrificing the Child of the Promise

    Genesis 22

    “Why have you been crying, Mother?” Isaac stood at the tent door, staring at his mother. He stepped inside and took her hand. “We’re going to make a special sacrifice. We’ll be back within a few days.”

    Her smile did not reach her eyes as she waved him away.

    The preteen* turned and joined his father. A donkey carried the wood for the altar, and two servants stood waiting with Abraham. A few butterflies fluttered above them. Sarah watched the small group, led by Abraham and her son, disappear in the distance.

    The combination of pain and anger dried Sarah’s face. She understood the real purpose of the journey. Sarah and Abraham had argued long into the night.

    “You can’t do this! We won’t have any sons to carry on. There will be no descendants like stars in the sky!” she shouted.

    Abraham shook his head and replied softly. “This is what God told me to do. ‘Take your son, your only son, whom you love—Isaac—and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you.’ I have to, because …”

    “NOOOO!” she screamed. “God told us we would have a son. A son. One son! Not any more! We can’t get Ishmael back. You sent him away. We have no other sons to fulfill God’s promise.”

    She cried, threatened, pleaded, anything to dissuade him, to no avail. He turned away. And now they were gone, gone to sacrifice her son, the son she had nursed and burped. The son she had watched, holding out her hands, as he took his first steps. The son whose first tooth she had sewn into the hem of her robe.

    As the sun rose high in the sky, the grieving mother slipped back into the tent. Picking up their sleeping blanket, she shook it angrily. She lifted it to fold it up, but instead, wadded it into a bundle and threw it into the corner. She would sleep in something else.

    She turned to look out the tent flap. A butterfly circled near the front of the tent.It rose and fell, managing to face her most of the time. She glared at it. If this was God’s gift to them, as the elders said, it was not what she wanted. What she wanted was the son God gave her.

    “But Isaac is the Son of the Promise,” she shouted, almost blowing the butterfly away.

    The servants were nowhere around. Years of serving Sarah had taught them better than to remain close when their mistress showed her temper. She continued the argument with Abraham, even though he was out of sight and sound.

    “Remember? Remember what God said when you had that other vision?” She stomped her foot on the hard-packed floor. “I hate your visions!” Her tone mocked her husband. “Go from your country, your people and your father’s household to the land I will show you.”* She remembered another vision. “Look up at the sky and count the stars—if indeed you can count them. So shall your offspring be.”*

    She sank to the floor in despair. “Remember what God told you when you became Abraham instead of Abram? I went from Sarai to Sarah? God said, ‘Yes, but your wife Sarah will bear you a son, and you will call him Isaac. I will establish my covenant with him as an everlasting covenant for his descendants after him.’ ”* Head in her hands, she sobbed. “Isaac, my only son Isaac, my precious child, my tall, handsome son.”

    Tears spent, she raised her head and lifted her hands, pleading, “God, you are my only hope now. You gave me this son when I had no hope. You scolded me for laughing, but you told us to name him ‘Laughter.’ Take care of this child, your child, the child you promised me.”

    No voice answered, no vision of a safe return appeared, but somehow, Sarah found some peace. The butterfly continued its circle, seeming to stare at her. She wondered if this could be a sign from God. Surely God, who had given her this son, would not take him away now.

    She knew her husband well. He would have no peace with the command ringing in his ears. “Take your son, your only son, whom you love—Isaac—and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you.” *

    Would he have the courage even to look at his son walking beside him?

    Would Abraham question his vision? Could he consider that he might have been mistaken? Might he have imagined what he heard? Might Sarah have been right? Was this God speaking? The people of their time believed that their gods sometimes required the sacrifice of their oldest son. He hated the thought of others doing it.

    But the words would fill his ears again. “Take your son …” He had always obeyed, and he would obey now.

    Sarah clutched the tooth in the hem of her robe, but she did not sleep. She had not slept since they left. This was the third day of anguish and grieving, alternating with a strange peace. When the peace came upon her, she dozed. But after a short time, she would wake with a start, shaking in fear.

    At dawn, she crept out, looking over the hill, scanning the horizon. Of course, the darkness restricted her view, but she sat outside, staring where they had gone, willing herself to see a mountain that far away. Instead, in the moonlight, she saw a rabbit creep cautiously along the edge of the trees. And the butterfly returned, seeming to try to communicate with her.

    It would be today. They would need about three days to reach the land of Moriah, to reach whatever mountain. It would be today.

    The servants came and offered her breakfast, but she shook her head. They returned to their chores, cleaning up from the meal they had prepared, beginning the next meal. She saw them close enough to keep an eye on her, but far enough away to not disturb her. They had heard her screams of rage, her arguments with absent Abraham, and they had put the pieces together. They whispered sympathetically, but they stayed away. The butterfly followed her wherever she went.

    She dozed. Did she dream? Or was she somehow transported to the place? She seemed to hover in the air as Abraham lifted the wood from the donkey and hung it from a sling on Isaac’s back.

    The butterfly! Over Isaac’s head, was it the same butterfly? It couldn’t be in two places at once, but Isaac’s butterfly looked the same.

    Abraham turned to the two young men with them. He pointed to the mountains. “Stay here with the donkey while I and the boy go over there. We will worship and then we will come back to you.”* She heard a catch in his throat when he said “we.” Did he mean that? Not if he was going to obey God’s order. Was that a sign or a slip of the tongue? He shook his head and touched his knife in its sheath inside his belt. Knowing him, he had spent the night sharpening the blade.

    They set off together, the son carrying the wood and the father carrying the ember, carefully cradled in a small pot. Isaac’s butterfly flew along with them, staying close to the young man.

    Abraham’s had accompanied them, but it hung back more than normal. Did it know what was going to happen?

    About mid-morning, Isaac looked over at his father. “The fire and wood are here, but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”*

    “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.”*

    His answer reminded Sarah of her question. Would God provide a lamb? Isaac was the promised son. Isaac was the son to give them uncountable descendants, more than the stars in the sky. How could that happen if he offered Isaac as a burnt offering?

    Something on Abraham’s face told Sarah what the man was thinking. She had heard it many times: God knew the future. God knew the plan. He would trust God’s promise and plan. “Trust.” She saw his lips form the word over and over, softly.

    When Abraham picked up the first stones to make the altar, Sarah willed herself to flee. She could not stay. If she had any control of this vision, she would not remain there with them.

    Back at the camp, a woman ventured toward Sarah with a bowl of stew, but when she shook her head, the servant returned to the others.

    Sometime later, the dozing mother leaped to her feet, almost bumping into the butterfly hovering above her. “NO! STOP! NO!” In her semi-conscious mind, she had seen the flash of a knife. “Stop him, God,” she shouted to the wind, to the butterflies with her son and her husband. “Don’t let him do it! Don’t let him kill my son! Don’t let him! Isaac is your promise! Your covenant! Don’t let him kill your promise!”

    She ran to the top of the hill, to the grove of trees, sobbing and screaming, “NO!” as her feet carried her to where she had last seen them. At the top of the hill, she collapsed. “No,” she murmured. “He’s your child too. The child of the promise. You promised …”

    In her frustration, she swatted at the butterfly. “Go away! Stop following me!”

    Ignoring the butterfly, she lay motionless on the ground until sunset, when she stumbled to her tent. Had God heard her? Had God responded? Had God protected her son? The child of the covenant?

    Exhausted, she slept fitfully, still clutching the hem of her robe. Her half-awake dreams alternated between seeing the altar Abraham had built and feeling her son safe in her arms.

    The next day, she accepted a bit of bread from the servants before returning to the top of the hill on the other side of the trees. And she waited, watching the butterfly. She had waited twenty-four years after God’s first promise for this child to be born. She could wait two or three days for him to return safely with his father.

    At noon, she shook her head at the servant who came to offer her a bit of meat. She spent a few minutes looking at the servants as they whispered and glanced in her direction. Then she turned back to the horizon, waiting and watching, watching and waiting.

    Despite knowing they would not travel at night, she did not return to the tent when the sun sank. She kept her vigil, even though she could see nothing. The moon stayed in bed, and dark clouds covered the stars. She shivered in the night air, but she watched, listening for the clopping of donkey’s hooves, the slapping of sandals, the scuffles of tired feet. The butterfly waited on a twig nearby. She wondered if butterflies sleep.

    Morning came, and she ate the bit of hot porridge the servant offered. “Thank you. This is good,” she told her gently. The servant stared at her in surprise, then turned and went back to the camp.

    “Maybe I should not be so harsh with them,” she thought. “They are trying to take care of me.”

    Another sleepless night and she remained outside her tent. She ate and drank what the servant brought her. She decided the butterfly was sleeping, its wings folded tightly above it. She tried to remember seeing butterflies this close before. Only once, when the three men came by and she laughed when one of them, when God promised her a son.

    As the sun began its afternoon descent, she thought she saw something on the horizon. She closed her eyes, shook her head, and looked again. Nothing moved. She sighed. “I’m tired,” she thought. “I haven’t really slept in how many days? I’m seeing things.” Another moan. Her shoulders sagged. “Oh, how I want to see them return.”

    Gradually, she became aware of someone beside her. Not the butterfly resting nearby. She felt someone close. She felt a comforting Presence, like when she was a child, when she was sick, and her mother sat by her. “I’m going crazy,” she thought, “I’m going crazy.”

    She continued to wait, alone, but not alone. She spoke to the Presence. “God, why would you do such a thing to my son? Why would you tell my husband to sacrifice your child of the promise?”

    She remembered being called out from Harran, the city where they lived, to a place God would show them. Was that so they would recognize that God was different, so they could go beyond what others believed their gods wanted? Sometimes she seemed to understand God in new ways, but sometimes she held onto her old ideas. Was change coming? Did she have new understandings about God?

    If Isaac lived, would he also find new ways to live, new ways to offer worship, new ways to serve? Somewhere inside her, deep within her mind and soul, she felt a vibrant affirmation. She looked at the butterfly, flapping its wings above her.

    In the silence that followed, Sarah tried to clear her thoughts. Lack of sleep. That was her problem. If they did not return tonight, she would go back into the tent and sleep. She wanted to be awake and alert when …

    The butterfly swooped down, almost touching her, and then flew away toward where they had gone. She followed it with her eyes. What did she see in the distance? Something moving! Several somethings moving! In the dusk, she could not count the figures. The shorter one, was that the donkey? She squinted into the setting sun, but she could not tell. As the sun hovered over the horizon, as the figures dropped into the shadows, she could not see them.

    She started in their direction. At first, a slow, deliberate walk, but then her feet flew faster and faster, running breathlessly as a tall figure rushed toward her.

    As their bodies collided, she heard Abraham’s voice saying, “He’s OK. It’s all right.” She sank into his arms, then turned and grabbed her son, her tall, handsome son. At his age, he often pulled away, but this time he hugged her close, lifting her off the ground.

    “Thank you, God,” she cried, as her feet dangled above her son’s ankles and their butterflies swooped around them both.

    Together, they returned to the camp. Abraham handed the donkey’s rope to the young men and followed Sarah, still clutching her son’s hand, into the tent.

    “I don’t know,” he said, “if God was testing me—the angel seemed to say that. Or if you were right, if maybe something else. But the angel stopped me, and we sacrificed a ram caught in the bushes instead.” He paused. “We hurried back because I knew you were worried.” He reached out and touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry it was so hard for you.”

    As she heard the butterflies landing softly on the tent, Sarah drifted off to sleep, clutching the child of the promise. She felt again the words of the Presence. “They will learn that I care about each of you, about all of you, and I do not wish the sacrifice of anyone.” She wondered how long it would be before people would learn.

    * * *

    * No age is given for Isaac at this point. The most common understanding of the event is that Isaac was a child, but verse 6 says that Abraham “placed” the wood on Isaac. The amount of wood needed for such a sacrifice suggests an older Isaac. A child could not have carried what the donkey did.