Even though the top half of the capsule is all glass.
Yet, I fancy myself invisible when I get behind the wheel, despite the windows in front, behind and beside that expose me to all the travelers around me.
I suppose I served up a big fishbowl of entertainment to those sharing the road with me last week as I took another tour through Iowa.
Thanks to some audio deficiencies, I was left to the mercy of the radio.
No mp3 tunes to run through the stereo.
No CD player.
Just the radio.
And 700-odd miles.
So I did what any self-respecting traveler would do and turned on public radio.
I grinned for an hour while Jonathan Winters narrated Peter and the Wolf.
I found myself unable to answer a single trivia question in honor of Schumann’s birthday.
And I read aloud from Psalm 71 to the sounds of a stringed quartet, matching David’s worship and pleas to the adagio and fortissimo and libero of the concerto. (Yep, I just looked those terms up to put cool words on what I was doing. And I do wish I’d found a way to use my new favorite musical term, klangfarbenmelodie.)
To those who might drive ahead or alongside, I’m sure it looked like a lot of crazy talking to myself and arm waving. Normally more reserved, I guess I get a little that way when I think I’m invisible.
For the next hundred miles or so, I worked on an installment to the “mobile journal,” those times I can’t write things down save for an illegible scribble on a napkin I pulled out from under the floor mat. But chattering to myself and prodding God for a couple of hours straight works just as well as a few pages of handwriting for me.
The tough thing is remembering what all the lather was about when I arrive at my destination.
What I recall is this:
But as for me, I will always have hope;
I will praise you more and more.
My mouth will tell of your righteousness,
of your salvation all day long,
though I know not its measure.
I will come and proclaim your mighty acts, O Sovereign LORD;
I will proclaim your righteousness, yours alone.
Since my youth, O God, you have taught me,
and to this day I declare your marvelous deeds.
Even when I am old and gray,
do not forsake me, O God,
till I declare your power to the next generation,
your might to all who are to come.
Your righteousness reaches to the skies, O God,
you who have done great things.
Who, O God, is like you? (Psalm 71: 14-19, emphasis mine)
David had one of those days — the kind where everyone was in pursuit of his life.
He’s acknowledged God as his fortress and refuge and hope. And he continued to proclaim His greatness.
And then this. This: “Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, O God, till I declare your power to the next generation, your might to all who are to come.” (vs. 18)
David’s plea, despite the terror that surrounded him, was Let me finish.
Don’t forsake me just yet, God, I still need to declare your greatness to another generation.
I circled with God around the idea that He would forsake David at all, and why David might suggest that he would. But then, David always did ride the rickety roller coaster of raw emotion. I won’t be letting go my theology because he had another bad day.
Even so, I can’t help but let it take me that, considering abandonment by God to be at least a remote possibility, he would say, Okay, You can go. But not yet. First, let me finish. I still have You to declare.
David saw an emerging generation that needed to hear God’s greatness proclaimed. He would go out kicking and screaming before He’d let God dump him before he’d finished.
I’m thinking, if I thought God might bail on me (and I don’t), I’d tell Him to just get it over with. If you’re going to go, then go! Why prolong the agony? Just be done already.
David, no. David still wanted to howl God’s greatness from the top of the mountains and to the depths of the sea.
Let me finish!
I’m reminded, David was not alone. Moses once asked God to blot him out of His book for the sake of the Israelites in their moment of rebellion. And Paul offered to be separated from Christ himself if it meant his people would grasp the truth of God’s mercy.
None of them, in those moments, thought of losing their lives to find it. They thought only of losing their lives if that’s what it would take.
As the gauge dipped toward empty and I pulled back into civilization for fuel and a bite to eat, I kept my arms down and dropped my voice to just a mumbled hush. (That way my lips don’t move so much.) I arrived at the gas pump and the conclusion that, mercifully, God took none of these fellows at their word.
He saw their hearts ripped open, bleeding wild for the sake of their people and His name, and He accomplished His purpose without asking them to make good on their promise.
Because when it comes to the hearts of His own, He has never been in the business of forsaking and blotting and cursing.
He will always let us finish, and finish well.
Photo: Moonlight Highway by abcdz2000 via Stock.xchng
To look at them, words seem little more than odd shapes, lines and curves strung together on paper. Sometimes, if I look at them too long, they don’t even look like words any more.
But those squiggles and scratches, lined up in good sequence, have the power to create and move.
Take this one.
Throw together an m, a few i’s, some crooked letters and a couple of humpbacks, and out pours a river that rages through ten states.
Words wield razor edges that cut through soft flesh as well as dry bones. They drop anchor and hold us fast when fears threaten to overturn our boats.
Words sow seeds of doubt in the soil of restless souls. They wrap comfort around wounded and aching hearts as a down quilt.
Words light fires and inspire action even from ones prone to sit still.
And sometimes, for me, words haunt.
It started with a comment on my remix from Jennifer @ Getting Down with Jesus yesterday, reflecting on Abraham’s worshipful anticipation of the sacrifice of his son. She referred to the last part of Genesis 22:4-5:
On the third day Abraham looked up and saw the place in the distance. He said to his servants, “Stay here with the donkey while I and the boy go over there. We will worship and then we will come back to you.” (emphasis added)
And she said this:
Imagine the “worship” that would come before an expected sacrifice of beloved child. I don’t know if I could.
In response, I added:
. . . he traveled three days to get to the place where he would worship. For three days, not even sure of the destination. All the while pondering the sacrifice this worship would call for.
I don’t worship like that. Do you?
This has been nibbling away at some of the duller parts of my heart ever since.
If I were Abraham, I’d have had a mighty hard time telling the servants we were going off to “worship” and we’d be back shortly. I’d have told them something more like I’m going to do the most horrible, excruciating thing I’ve ever had to do. And “we” won’t be back. Just I’ll be back. Alone.
Going off to worship, my eye.
This thing that Abraham did, this was costly worship.
It was not easy and it was not convenient.
It certainly was not his preferred style.
And yet for worship’s sake; no, for the sake of the object of his worship, he traveled three days on foot, shouldering an unbearable load. He stood ready to give all he had.
Just so he could worship.
And I have to say it again. I don’t worship like that. Do you?
As I point my feet to step away from Jephthah, the thought of such a sacrifice still haunts me just a bit. Well, a lot. I’ve been thinking about Jephthah’s humble, courageous and obedient daughter. I’ve been thinking about what Mrs. Jephthah said when he got home that night. I’ve even been thinking about all the times I commit to something that is all wrongheaded but because I said I was going to do it I drive on relentlessly no matter who gets hurt.
But it keeps coming back to the sacrifice. And as Nancy observed, in this story we can see the reflection of another staggering sacrifice. I was reminded of two soul rending offerings — one that was, and one that almost was — and how they intertwined. I’ve looked at them before, and have cleaned up and blended a couple of posts on Abraham’s almost-sacrifice and the Father’s ultimate sacrifice from last August. (Understanding how we got to here might take reading the last few posts, starting with Honorable Mentions, Jephthah & His Merry Men, and A Deal is a Deal.)
“Some time later, God tested Abraham.”
With these words, the writer of Genesis begins Chapter 22. “Some time later” comes after God fulfilled a lifetime of promise to Abraham and Sarah, giving to an aged and childless couple the son who would launch the legacy of descendants as numerous as the specks of sand on the beach.
This Isaac was the key to a great nation.
He was the very first bright light in a sky full of stars too numerous to count.
And at the time, he was the only bright light.
Yet, God came to Abraham with intent to test. (Abraham knew nothing of a test. He knew only of his God asking for his obedience.)
God asked Abraham to extinguish his one bright light.
Simply let your “Yes” be “Yes,” and your “No,” “No.”
Even a loud call to integrity.
But I find it also to be a word of caution.
When Jesus spoke on a hillside to thousands of rumbling stomachs but even hungrier ears, He urged caution with these oaths and vows and even bargains. Reaching beyond a simple “Yes” or “No,” simply put, “comes from the evil one.” (Matthew 5:37)
And if Jesus had delivered the inaugural address of His public ministry in the days of flannelgraphs or PowerPoint, I wonder if He would have trotted out some colorful pictures of Jephthah standing in the street outside his home celebrating his sweet victory against the Ammonites. With a click of the remote or a quick change-up of the cut-out 2D Jephthah on the flannel board, we would watch his cheering, jubilant expression turn to sheer horror as his daughter burst out the front door to join him in celebration.
I believe Jephthah could well have been on Jesus’ mind when He taught us about vows and bargains and just saying it straight.
To the masses hanging on His every word — freshly spoken for the very first time on that hillside — and also to me, He says the very same thing:
Don’t be like this guy.
Just say “Yes” or just say “No.”
And mean it.
And I wonder. Oh, I wonder.
At the end of the day, is making a deal with God any different than making a deal with the devil?
You read it right. I just went there. So lets get on with it. I have harder questions than that to ask.
(If you haven’t read Judges 11 lately, might take a deep breath right now and open it up. And if you’re just joining, it might help to read here and here to get a little background on all the fuss. Hang in here with me on a long post; I don’t know how to do it any shorter.)
One of the boys stuck this sign on his dad’s back a few days ago. He found it right away and took it off, and they all had a good laugh.
I remember those things, and chuckled myself that kids still find that a funny thing to do after all these years.
Even if a guy never got kicked, there was something particularly embarrassing about wearing a sign on your back that said “kick me.” The idea that you’d willingly take the abuse. The sign had to come off as soon as it went on.
The indignity of inviting harassment is too great.
The humiliation of volunteering for mistreatment.
The shame of agreeing to punishment.
Think of yourselves the way Christ Jesus thought of himself. He had equal status with God but didn’t think so much of himself that he had to cling to the advantages of that status no matter what. Not at all. When the time came, he set aside the privileges of deity and took on the status of a slave, became human! Having become human, he stayed human. It was an incredibly humbling process. He didn’t claim special privileges. Instead, he lived a selfless, obedient life and then died a selfless, obedient death — and the worst kind of death at that — a crucifixion. (Philippians 2:5-8, The Message)
The Lord’s Supper is not funny.
The last meal that Jesus shared with His disciples, celebrating the Passover supper together was even less funny.
Yet, from time to time when I hear said that Jesus’ body was broken, I confess that I snicker. I don’t want to laugh. I try not to do it very loud. And I try to get over it really fast. It’s embarrassing to be found laughing about such a somber thing.
I’ve learned that not a lot of people appreciate snickering during Communion.
And they really hate snort laughing.
They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved. (Acts 2:42-47)
If the flux capacitor really worked, and Dr. Brown’s DeLorean time traveling machine could in fact transport a person in time (Memo to any who don’t know who Dr. Brown or what a flux capacitor is: Rent Back to the Future. Do it today.), and if I had the chance to take the DeLorean for a spin, I would pick Acts. That would be my time.
Can you imagine having stood with the others and with Jesus on the hillside as he ascended into heaven? To be present the day when the Holy Spirit blew through the house and filled them all with His mighty power. And then to be sitting in the crowd when Peter, a brand new man of strength and courage, stood and gave his “These men are not drunk, but pay attention, God has made this Jesus, whom you crucified, both Lord and Christ” sermon. These would have been spectacular days to be around for.
After this big day, when 3,000 people actually came into the Kingdom, Luke goes on to describe what life was like for the believers. Put yourself there in the middle of them. Can you separate from our modern lives and feel what this might have been like?
The people devoted themselves to four things. Just four. Only four things fully captured their attention: the apostles’ teaching, fellowship, breaking of bread, and prayer.
Those four things never got old. They continued to be in awe, continued to see God work among them and through them in miraculous, awe-inspiring ways.
Their fellowship, part of that four-fold focus, was life-giving, such that they remained together and had everything in common. They sold what they had in order to help others. That follows yesterday’s story of the widow’s offering. These folks sold their stuff in order to help the brothers that they loved and were committed to in Christ. They didn’t withhold, they didn’t say it was too much, they didn’t insist that it was theirs and only theirs and everybody else should just take care of themselves thanks.
They were together all the time. Every day. In the temple courts and in their homes. They hung out. They praised God together, they studied the Word together, they prayed together, they shared together.
And here comes the math. The Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.
It doesn’t say explicitly that they were out evangelizing. They devoted themselves to four things. One was not evangelism. Yet we know that it was happening.
Here’s how we know: People were being saved. Daily. Somebody had to be telling them.
Here’s how else we know: The believers enjoyed the favor of all the people. They weren’t just holed up in their homes being only with the other believers. They were out making a difference in their world.
And here’s how else we know: They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching. Part of that teaching would have been the last teaching Jesus gave them, to go into all the world and make disciples.
The people of Acts focused on what mattered, they involved themselves in one anothers’ lives in meaningful and sacrificial ways, and they took the gospel to those who needed to hear and lived it in front of them.
And then God did the math. He added to their number daily.
Do I really suppose that this is only possible if I had a flux capacitor?
As He looked up, Jesus saw the rich putting their gifts into the temple treasury. He also saw a poor widow put in two very small copper coins. “I tell you the truth,” He said, “this poor widow has put in more than all the others. All these people gave their gifts out of their wealth; but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.” (Luke 21:1-4)
Remember those greater than and less than signs you learned in grade school math? Those little bird-beak symbols that point in either direction to compare two numbers? Like this: > < . Now they get used a lot for making goofy faces in emails and text messages. As a grade school kid I always had a hard time remembering which was greater and which was less. Left and right, debit and credit, greater than and less than. They all gave me trouble.
I’m a little embarrassed to admit, with apologies to my teacher Mrs. Johnson, that I still have trouble with those symbols as an adult. I think that the open part of the bracket is supposed to face the bigger number, and the small point is next to the smaller number. But I really can’t be sure.
And it doesn’t help at all when I read a story like this one in Luke where the greater than and less than symbols seem to get totally flipped around.
But then, that was kind of the point, don’t you think? Jesus flipped the symbols to get us to think about what true sacrifice, true generosity looks like.
Here’s what happened. Jesus has had a few confrontations with the Pharisees in the preceeding chapters, not the least of which was His angry encounter with the abusive merchants at the temple who exploited those who came with pure intent to make their sacrifices. Later, the chief priests and teachers of the law (notice Luke doesn’t call them observers of the law, just teachers) came, got right up in His face, and very directly questioned His authority: “Who gave You this authority?” Jesus responded with a question they couldn’t answer, and then flatly refused to engage them any further on their question. The direct approach not working, they sent spies in to try to trip Him up with a duplicitous question about paying taxes. Next, the Sadduccees came and tried to ensnare Him with a convoluted question about marriage in the resurrection. His tack-sharp answer put them to rest for a while, and no one dared to ask Him anything else.
After all this, Jesus found it a good time to warn the disciples, in the earshot of all the people who had just witnessed these encounters, to “beware the teachers of the law.” He points out that they like to make a big show, and look good and important, and meanwhile devour widows’ houses. They made a big, fancy, spiritual impression, but behind the scenes, just below the surface, they were absolute predators. A “brood of vipers” He would ultimately call them according to Matthew.
It is directly within this context that a beautiful case study unfolds. Another one of Jesus’ fantastic teaching moments presents itself.
He looked up, and saw that there were folks bringing their gifts and offerings to the temple treasury. The rich came and deposited their gifts. He doesn’t say out loud how much they gave. But it’s safe to assume that it was more than “two small copper coins.” Because “two small copper coins” is what was given by the next in line. Along came a poor widow. No doubt this was one of the poor widows preyed upon by the impressive looking teachers of the law. She put in “two small copper coins.” That was it.
The teachers would have been mortified by her gift. They would have scoffed. If you listen while you read the text, you can hear their tongues clicking against the roof of their mouths. This was a fraction of one cent. Practically nothing. They may not have realized they even made such small coins.
Why did she bother to bring anything at all? What can we possibly do in the temple with two small copper coins? It won’t buy any new drapes. It won’t pay for a single new pew cushion. It won’t pay for any new Sunday School books or communion cups or sheet music. What was the point? Why did she bother at all?
Jesus didn’t scoff. He didn’t belittle her. He didn’t dismiss her tiny gift.
Jesus didn’t tell her to move along out of the way so those with real offerings could get through.
Jesus was delighted. He rejoiced. His heart swelled within Him over what this little, bent over woman did with her two small copper coins.
“This poor widow has put in more than all the others.”
What was He saying? Did He have my problem? Did He forget which way the greater than and less than signs went? Did He need some help from Mrs. Johnson? Surely she could clear this up for Him.
No, He knew which way the pointy side went. He knew.
He knew that all the others gave out of their wealth. They gave from what they did not need. They gave what was extra, what was left over, what was not essential.
But the poor widow, this precious little woman of God, gave out of her poverty. She gave all she had to live on. She gave what she really couldn’t spare. She gave from what she did not have.
And as she dropped those two small copper coins into the treasury, those two little copper next-to-nothings, her heart swelled within her as well. She knew God would value her gift, she knew God would know what it meant.
She gave it. And then she walked away. There was nothing left in her purse, nothing left in her cupboard (if she had a cupboard). She walked away empty handed and trusted God to provide for her. She knew He would.
She gave from her poverty. She gave from what she did not have.
Jesus looked up and saw what she did. And He found that her gift, smaller than the rich donors even imagined could be done, was greater than all that they had given.
Greater than, less than.
When God starts counting, sometimes you have to flip ‘em around.
“Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from Me your son, your only son.” (Genesis 22:12b)
I observed yesterday that when God asked Abraham to give Isaac back — to give up his son, his only son, his son whom he loved — that He knew what He was asking. He knew how it would feel for Abraham. God had a deep and abiding understanding of what that was going to be like.
God had a Son. An only Son. A Son Whom He loved. And though it was many, many years yet to come, He would place His only Son, Whom He loved, on the altar too. He would provide a Lamb, His only Son, at the right time for the most painful and most significant sacrifice the world has yet known.
I don’t believe for a second that during this moment with Abraham God wasn’t thinking about that. That as He asked the unthinkable of Abraham that He didn’t have a complete and full awareness of what it was like for Abraham, though He had not yet given His Son, His only Son, His Son Whom He loved. I believe that always in God’s mind there was an awareness of the impending grief of the sacrifice He’d yet to fully make. And He knew exquisitely what Abraham would be feeling when faced with that impending grief of his sacrifice of his son.
God knew. It wasn’t an accident. God doesn’t do that. When He told Abraham to make the sacrifice, He told him in the way He did on purpose. “Take your son, your only son, Isaac, whom you love” and sacrifice him as a burnt offering. He didn’t have to say all that. He could have just said “Sacrifice your son. Sacrifice Isaac.” It would have been clear enough. But God knew. He understood. In ways we just can’t get. He called Isaac Abraham’s son, his only son, his son whom he loved. He knew what He was saying.
Similarly then, I don’t believe for a second that there wasn’t something very profound in the words He’d use later to commend Abraham for his faith and obedience. A phrase He’d use twice before the encounter had ended. He commended Abraham for fearing Him by saying, “Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from Me your son, your only son.” You have not withheld your son from Me. That was how God knew and confirmed that Abraham feared Him.
“You have not withheld from me your son, your only son” confirms something for me, too. And for you. Change the words up just slightly, because I’m not going to say this as from God to Abraham. I’m going to say it as from me to God.
“Now I know that You love me, because You have not withheld from me Your Son, Your only Son.”
God did not withhold His Son from me. Nor from you. He gave Him up, freely, painfully. He could have withheld Him. He could have said no. He did not. He did not withhold His Son, His only Son, Whom He loves.
Because Abraham did not withhold his son, God knew that Abraham feared Him. Because God did not withhold His Son, I can know that He loves me.
This speaks ahead to what Paul would write in the fifth chapter of Romans: “But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” The enormous sacrifice demonstrates His love.
Abraham did not withhold his son, his only son, his son whom he loved.
In so doing, Abraham showed his fear of God. His profound trust in God. His desperate dependence on God.
God didn’t withhold His Son, His only Son, His Son Whom He loved.
In so doing, God showed His love for us.
He has not withheld His Son from us.
So Abraham called that place The LORD Will Provide. And to this day it is said, “On the mountain of the LORD it will be provided.” (Genesis 22:14)
You ever read some of these Biblical accounts and think, “Oh my goodness, how bizarre”? I ask, a lot, “God, why did you do stuff like that?” Sometimes I have a little trouble getting it to come home where I live. There’s a very familiar story that strikes me as just that bizarre. But yet, the truth of it does come home if we let it.
Remember that mess that Abram and Sarai made back in Genesis 16? If we rejoin them later, after God has renamed them Abraham and Sarah, we find that despite everything, despite their impatience and their own self-sufficient attempts to force His promise into being, we find that God did ultimately bring this couple a son. They called him Isaac (an excellent name) because of the promise and because through Isaac, God brought them the laughter that Sarah could now admit to.
God kept His promise, gave them their son, and the nation building had really begun. After another episode with Hagar and Sarah we won’t get into today, it appeared that all was well.
All was well, that is, until (I can hear the Spongebob voiceover in the goofy pseudo-French accent saying this) “Some time later…”
In the first verse of Genesis 22, we hear that “Some time later God tested Abraham.” And we already know the outcome. Even referring to it as “testing Abraham” tells us the outcome. But Abraham didn’t have the benefit of 20-20 hindsight like we do. He had to do the whole painful ordeal walking by faith. And faith alone.
Isaac was the fulfillment of one of the hugest promises ever made. He was the first star in that sky full of stars too numerous to count. He was the key to this nation that God was to make of Abraham.
So what was God possibly thinking when He asked Abraham to give him back?
You probably know the story. One day God told Abraham, “Take your son, your only son, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains I will tell you about.” He says right out that He knows this is Abraham’s only son, his son that he loves. He knows how huge this is, what He’s asking Abraham to do. Your only son, whom you love. God had a Son, an only Son, One that He loved deeply. God knew what this was going to feel like. But He asks him all the same.
God, who seemed to take forever to Abraham in fulfilling the promise, in giving him Isaac, now asks him to give him back. As parents we give God our kids, we intentionally acknowledge that they belong to God, that they are a gift, and we trust Him to care for them. But God asks Abraham to do more. To give Isaac back in a horrible, painful way.
This same Abraham, who earlier went along with Sarai’s impatient plan to circumvent God’s work in order to build this nation themselves, now fully submits. He quietly does the hardest thing God would ever ask him to do. He takes Isaac with him to sacrifice on the mountain.
As they walk, Isaac finally asks the question. The one Abraham didn’t want to answer. “Where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”
Where is the lamb?
You can’t see it in the text, but Abraham gasped a little for air. He clenched against the tears that started to form. The kind that are forming in my eyes as I think about what it would be like giving up my own Isaac, or my Josiah. Only those tears stung Abraham’s eyes much worse, because he was doing it, not imagining it. Abraham steadied himself. He gripped the knife tightly in his hand, kept willing his feet to move on forward, and gave the only answer he could bear to give: “God Himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.”
God Himself will provide the lamb.
Remember, Abraham didn’t know how this would end. He believed God would have him follow through. God will provide the lamb. He knows God gave him Isaac. He believes Isaac is now the lamb God would provide.
And they walked on.
I said before that this one does come home. Do you have trouble sometimes believing God fulfills what He’s promised? That He is slow about it, teases you with it? I do sometimes, to be honest. I wonder if He’ll do what I believe He’s said He’ll do. There are those times when He asks us to give the promise back. He asks us if we trust Him enough to be faithful.
Just like He asked Abraham. He asks me. Do you trust your Daddy?
He promised. In His time, long after Abraham thought He would or should, He delivered. And then He asked for it back.
So you know how it ends. Abraham gets as far as tying Isaac and placing him on the altar. I can’t begin to imagine how that was for either of them. How wrenching. For the son to trust his father enough to allow him to place him on an altar (the text says nothing of Isaac struggling against his father). For the son to trust his Father enough to give what he prizes the most just because He asked (the text says nothing of Abraham struggling against his Father).
Knife raised to end Isaac’s life, to let the dream die, to end any hope of the promise to be fulfilled, Abraham hears the words of rescue. “Abraham, Abraham! Do not lay a hand on the boy.” God provided a ram, one stuck nearby in a thicket. There would be no need to follow through. But God observes, “you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.”
Long after, it was said of this place that “On the mountain of the Lord it will be provided.”
God asked Abraham to trust Him enough to not only fulfill the promise, but to give it back. To fully trust his Father.
On the mountain of the Lord it will be provided.
I have to go to the mountain of the Lord to prove it sometimes. To see that He’s really going to provide.