Sermon III. The Sacrifice of Abraham

(Lincoln’s Inn, 3rd Sunday in Lent, March 19, 1854.)

And it came to pass after these things, that God did tempt Abraham, and said unto him, Abraham: and he said, Behold, here I am. And he said, Take now thy son, thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt-offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee of.—GENESIS xxii. 1, 2.

I said some Sundays ago, that the offering of Abel did not imply a precept enjoining sacrifice, but that it did imply a revelation from God. That revelation was not an exceptional, or anomalous accident. It was just as much presumed in the ordinary tillage of the ground as in the most awful worship. The doctrine of the Bible, as it comes out to us in the book of Genesis,—as it is consistently evolved in every subsequent book—is, that man would not be a thinking, reasonable, moral being, if there were not an intercourse between him and his Creator,—if God were not awakening him continually to a sense of that which he has to do, and of the principles upon which he is to do it.

If Revelations of this kind are not strange and irregular, but orderly, the sacrifice which responded to them seemed to be of the same character. It was the most simple way,—more simple and primitive than words,—in which a man could confess that there was a higher Being, whom his eye could not see, who was near him, acting upon him, ruling him, causing the seeds which he had sown to bring forth, giving life to those creatures which were His servants and which were also subject to death. The wonder, awe and mystery of the universe, and of that creature who alone was capable of feeling awe and wonder, and of being perplexed by a mystery, came forth in that offering. It explained him, though he was not able to explain it.

But it was intimated to us in this first story, that sacrifice may be the expression of the two most contrary feelings and states of mind;—the most contrary, and yet lying so close to each other in every man that only the eye of God can distinguish them, till they distinguish themselves by the acts which they generate. Sacrifice may import the confession of a child, who feels that he has nothing, and is a mere receiver. It may import the sense in a man that he has something to offer which his Maker ought to accept. It may import the trust of a child depending on One from whom it believes all good comes, aware that what is not good is its own. It may import the hope of a man—an uncertain sullen hope—that he may persuade the power he supposes is ruling, to give him some benefit,—to avert from him some danger. It may be an act of simple giving up, of surrender; it may be an act of barter, a bargain to relinquish a less good on the chance of obtaining a greater. These different tempers are indicated in Scripture, by the effects which follow the offering of the fruits and of the animal. It ends with Abel becoming himself the sacrifice, Cain the murderer.

The sacrifice of Noah led us on to another stage in the development of the idea of sacrifice. Trust in a righteous and life-giving Being was, in his case, as much as in that of Abel, the meaning of his offering. The disorder and unrighteousness of the world had destroyed it; its order had been preserved; God had upholden it and would uphold it; Noah represented his own race and all the creatures that bowed to that race, when he took of the clean beasts and offered them to the Lord. The delight which the Lord is said to have taken in that act, is the testimony that He sympathises with His creatures; that He recognises them as meant for fellowship with him; that He is leading them on, by all His secret government, to know that that fellowship is the foundation of their intercourse with each other.

The passage I have read to you, this afternoon, implies what we have learnt from both the others; but it leads us much farther into the heart of the subject. It is very needful to remark, that we are not yet come to the period of decrees and regulations concerning worship or anything else. The book of Genesis becomes absolutely unintelligible—its distinction from the one which follows is altogether lost—if we suppose the patriarchs to be living under a code, or under any of the conditions which belong to an organised nation. They are simply men on a plain, taking care of flocks and herds, dwelling in tents. Their apparent difference from those who surround them is, that they have made less progress in social arts and social government. The real difference is, that they believe and that they hope. They believe in a righteous Lord, who has given them their flocks, and their man-servants and maid-servants. They hope for a Seed in which all the families of the earth are to be blessed. Those who dwell in the cities of the plain have had their kings and armies for one knows not how long. Abraham is just at the beginning of the political life, which is nearly at an end with them. In Egypt there are priests and sacrifices; a hierarchy; a kingdom. In Assyria there are already the rudiments of an empire, and probably works of art indicating a knowledge of animal forms and a singular power of representing them. Abraham has to learn the very elements of worship, what a priesthood exists for, how man comes to have that dominion over animals which the monuments of Nineveh express; how he is liable to abuse that dominion till it turns into slavery. I have endeavoured to point out these facts to you before, and to show how the discoveries which prove the might and wisdom and antiquity of Asiatic or African empires, prove also the necessity of a society so entirely elementary, so purely pastoral, as that which the first book of the Bible presents to us; in order that the whole civilisation of the world might not turn out to be its curse and its ruin, by proceeding on principles utterly inverted, inhuman, false. I am now desirous to apply this observation to the particular case before us, to consider by what process the father of the faithful was instructed in the doctrine of sacrifice, while so many people around him were practising sacrificial rites, and were connecting them with the outward and inward economy of their lives.

A man who has been what is called lucky or fortunate in all his enterprises, may feel as if he had no one to thank but himself for what he possesses, or if anything but himself, some power which does not especially want his thanks, and will not set any store by them. A man who has failed in whatever he has undertaken, may look upon earth and heaven as if they were conspiring against him. But a man who has waited long for some good, which has seemed to him more blessed each day that has not brought it to him, and yet has also seemed each day more improbable—who has been sure from the first that, if it ever came, it must be a gift from one who watched over him and cared for him, and who, for that very reason, has gone on trusting that he shall receive it—yes, growing in trust as the natural difficulties looked more insurmountable,—such a man, when the dream of his heart becomes a substantial reality, has a sense of grateful joy, which turns to pain, which is actually oppressive, till it can find some outlet. Yet what outlet can it find? what can he do for the giver more than rejoice and wonder at the gift; more than say, ‘It is thine?’ Nothing, perhaps; but how can he say that? how can he utter what he means to one who, he knows, is the source of all he has, and can need nothing from him? What can he offer?—a mere sign or symbol?—a sheep which he would slay for his own food, and which he would not miss out of his flock?—a miserable sample of the fruits which the earth is pouring out to him? It must surely be something better, more precious than any of these. His own heart seems to scorn such presents: must not the heart of Him to whom he brings them?

The description I have given is precisely the description which, in simpler, truer language, the book of Genesis gives us of Abraham. He has waited, longed, feared, trusted, received. The child has come to him in his old age,—a child to whom blessings are attached, which he cannot measure, which stretch into the farthest future. From him are to come as many as the stars or as the sands. It is indeed a child of laughter and joy. He has lived for this; as he looks upon it, it appears to him the pledge and witness of an infinite, inexhaustible life. The child has brought him nearer to God; though he has believed in him so long, it is as if he now believed in Him for the first time,—so much is he carried out of himself, such a vision has he of One who orders ages past and to come, and yet is interested for him, is interested for the feeblest of those whom He has made. Out of such feelings comes the craving for the power to make some sacrifice, to find a sacrifice which shall be not nominal but real.

Many strange and perplexing thoughts invaded men’s minds in past times, as they invade men’s minds now. When they became very tormenting, then, as now, people betook themselves to some wise man. They asked, What do these thoughts mean? whence do they come? what are we to do in consequence of them? They got various answers. The answers, in different places, shaped themselves into different rules and maxims; forms of service and devotion were grounded upon them; above all, sacrifices were suggested, which might satisfy the desires of the creature, perhaps might satisfy the demands of his ruler. The book of Genesis says, ‘GOD did tempt Abraham.’ It leads us back to the source from which the thoughts that were working in him were derived. It says broadly and distinctly, This seed did not drop by accident into the patriarch’s mind; it was not self-sown; it was not put into him by the suggestion of some of his fellows. It was part of the discipline to which he was subjected that these questions should be excited in him. It was his divine Teacher who led him on to the terrible conclusion: ‘The sacrifice that I must offer is that very gift which has caused me all my joy. That belongs to God. I can only express my dependence upon God, my thankfulness to Him, by laying my son upon the altar.’ If it was true that he had been called out by the living and true God to serve Him and trust Him and be a witness for Him, if it was true that he had received his child from God, it was true also, he could not doubt it, that this was a command, that it was a command directly addressed to him; that he was to obey it.

‘But is it not very frightful to think that such an impression as this could be made on the heart of a good man?—should become a fixed purpose in him?—that he should passively surrender himself to it? If the case was peculiar, if Abraham’s experience was to be no precedent for other men, what is the history of the Bible worth, what does it teach, whom is it to guide? If it was a precedent, then have not the followers of it been the fanatics, whose opinions we consider signs of madness; whose open acts, being outrages upon society, states are obliged to restrain and punish?’ I answer, Before you determine whether Abraham’s history is an example or a beacon, try to understand what it is. You say that it is ignominious for a man to be the victim of an impression. This history says the same. It does not represent Abraham as feeling an impulse to slay his son, and as surrendering himself to that impulse; still less does it represent God as designing that the man should commit that enormity. But it tells us that a man who thoroughly trusted God,—thoroughly believed Him to be a righteous Being,—was thoroughly persuaded that He cared for him, and had proved that He did by giving him a son—became convinced that this God, for some reason which he could not interpret, claimed his child of him again. It was a horrible thought that this was the only victim with which God could be content, a more horrible thought still that he was to slay the victim. Do you suppose that it was less horrible to Abraham than it would have been to a man of less faith? I believe it was horrible precisely in proportion to his faith. For it was all in all to him to think that he was serving a true God, a Judge who must do right. And here something seemed to be demanded of him which was not right—which was wrong. And yet who made the demand? Whence but from God had the deep conviction proceeded, that he was to offer this sacrifice, and no other? An Assyrian or Egyptian might have shrunk from such a deed through a paternal instinct; but there could have been nothing very tremendous to him in supposing that a god had decreed it. If the soothsayer or priest told him so, he could have little doubt that to obey would be the safer course, though he might not have courage to follow it. But with Abraham, that which was almost nothing to them, was everything. To give up his confidence in God, to regard Him as a man who did what He liked to do, was to give up his calling, his covenant, all that made existence a blessing and not a curse. Therefore, he must know what this contradiction signified. He could not quench the thought if he tried. And what comfort would there have been in such a trial? How can a man who has reposed in the justice and affection of a fellow-man, entertain a suspicion that he is requiring something of him which is inconsistent with both, and merely let that suspicion dwell as one of the citizens of his heart? Will it not cause a revolt among all the rest? He can have no peace till he sees through his doubt, till it is cleared entirely away. And if he has perfectly trusted in his friend, if he is one to whom he has always bowed in submission, who has taught him all that he knows of what is right and true, he will say: ‘I do not understand this suggestion of yours. If you mean by it what I mean, all is over with me,—my faith is gone. But that cannot be. I will leave nothing undone that will help me to find out what it is you really wish of me; at all events, I will give myself into your hands.’

Conceive such a trust as never can be put in the righteousness of any human creature, and this is Abraham’s story. He must know what God’s meaning is; he is certain that in some way it will be proved that He has not designed His creature to do a wicked and monstrous thing, and yet that there is a purpose in the revelation that has been made to him; that a submission and a sacrifice, such as he had never made yet, were called for now. He takes his son; he goes three days’ journey to Mount Moriah; he prepares the altar, and the wood, and the knife; his son is with him; but he has already offered up himself. And now he is taught that this is the offering which God was seeking for; that when he had presented that, he had given the real thing for which he had perceived no sacrifice of a lamb or an ox could be exchanged; that when the real victim had been slain, the ram caught in the thicket was all that was needed for the symbolical expression of that inward oblation.

And what was the reward? ‘In blessing’ (said the divine voice) ‘I will bless thee, in multiplying I will multiply thee.’ When this secret had been learnt,—learnt in this plain manner through an act,—when he had done God’s will, and been so taught of His doctrine,—every blessing became an actual, vital blessing; every gift that might have been only an outside possession, was changed into a spiritual treasure. He had become free of God’s universe; for he had begun to understand the principle upon which God rules it, and the law of man’s position in it. He had found sacrifice to be no one solitary act, no sudden expression of joy, no violent effort to make a return for blessings which we can only return by accepting; but that it lies at the very root of our being; that our lives stand upon it; that society is held together by it; that all power to be right, and to do right, begins with the offering up of ourselves, because it is thus that the righteous Lord makes us like Himself.

Yes, like Himself! There was a mystery in this, which Abraham could dimly and awfully look into, which ages to come must unfold. I do not anticipate any of the deeper truths respecting the nature of sacrifice, which were hidden in this act, and which God in His own method would bring to light. I only wish you to perceive how perfectly adapted this teaching was to remove those falsehoods which we know beset and tormented the hearts of men in the old world, and which we still find are besetting and tormenting men in the nineteenth century.

The tradition in old Greece respecting the sacrifice which the god demanded before the fleet could sail for Troy, took possession of the minds of her greatest thinkers. The tragic poet, as he recorded with such tenderness the conflict in the heart of the father, and the preparation for slaying the victim, evidently felt in his devout and earnest spirit, that he was celebrating a victory of patriotic over paternal feeling, as well as a sublime though tremendous act of homage to the rulers of nature and of man. On the other hand, the Roman Epicurean poet, translating the description of Aischylus in language and in a spirit worthy of his model, expressed the most intense disgust and loathing for the whole narrative; it embodied to him all the crimes of which a belief in divinities interested in human affairs had been the origin. I think that the conscience of mankind has responded to the sympathy of one poet and the indignant denunciation of the other; that it has recognised a positive truth in each, however little it may have been able to bring them into accordance. In our days, we rather value ourselves upon the equity and tolerance with which we can admit that there is something in these opposing statements; the misfortune is, that in general we care but little about either. We are impartial critics; the fear is, that we shall cease to be men, really understanding that those whom we criticise had the same flesh and blood with ourselves; that there is no infirmity of theirs to which we are not subject, no right and high conviction which we do not want as much as they did. Depend upon it, brethren, we shall be reminded by very decisive evidence of that truth, if we have been shutting our eyes to it. We have not got rid, any of us, of these old dreams about sacrifices; we cannot get rid of them; they haunt us in innumerable ways; no man, or woman, or child, is unaffected by them: no theory, religious or philosophical, dispossesses the heart of them. The Atheist has his own notion and method of immolation—his own victims; you cannot exorcise a fellow-creature of the most radical part of his being by your incantations; they will prove very ineffectual for yourselves. Soft, silken phrases about the superstitions of old times and the enlightenment and benevolence of the present serve well, when men have enough to eat and drink and little to disturb them in themselves or in their fortunes. Try them in any dark hour of individual experience, in any popular convulsions, with men who toil and suffer, and they are found empty and hollow. But if instead of pretending to disbelieve facts which the history of the world and of yourselves establishes, you will look these facts in the face—if you will ask why this notion of sacrifice has been so mighty and so mischievous? why you must act upon it? why you feel often as if you could not act upon it without doing evil?—then, as you are in earnest, as you are seeking, not for the satisfaction of your curiosity, but for the satisfaction of your consciences—these old records of the world will, I am sure, point your path through the mists by which you are encircled, into the clear sunlight. Perhaps you fancied it was a book which tolerated no difficulties, which merely pronounced authoritative sentences. You will find it exhibiting to you men who were beset by the very perplexities which beset you; unable to find any road through them till they confessed a guide, of whom they lived to testify that He would be ours as much as he was theirs. Perhaps you will suppose that, as it professes to contain divine revelations, it can take no account of those speculations of heathens, to which I have alluded; that it must treat them as profane, or else pass them by altogether. You will here find the practical reconciliation of those speculations,—the only reconciliation which is not worse than either of them separately. For it shows you why sacrifice must be precious and dear in the eyes of Him who governs the spirits of men; why He cannot ask for any sacrifice—which a loving father would not make and a loving child would not offer. And you will find in this story of the method by which Abraham came to knowledge and to peace, what must be your course too. You cannot trust God too much. You cannot be too confident that He himself is guiding you, and that every embarrassment in your thoughts, every complication in your circumstances, is known by Him, is intended by Him as means to enable you to understand wisdom secretly, that you may show forth the fruits of it openly. The rashness that leads you to act at once upon some impression, to make some apparently great sacrifice which will startle and astonish other men, is a sign of distrust and of pride. The cowardice that makes you wish to stifle the suggestions of your hearts, the witness of your consciences, has the same origin. Faith in the righteousness of God gives that prudence or providence which will make you wary of your footsteps, suspicious of yourselves. Faith in the righteousness of God gives you that courage which will enable you to move on steadily, calmly, resolutely, certain that you will have light to see what you ought to do, and that in doing it you will know more of the just and gracious mind of God towards all men as well as towards yourselves.

If we follow this teaching, we shall learn that we must be ready to present our souls and bodies, and all that is dear to us, every day as sacrifices to God. And then we may leave it to Him how and when it shall please Him to take these souls and bodies for other services than those to which He has appointed them here. It may be in the battle-field; it may be on the Judgment-seat, like him whom many of you here knew as the accomplished scholar and cordial friend, and whose dying words of wisdom all of us should earnestly lay to heart.¹ At sunset or at cock-crowing, on the sick-bed, or in the midst of work, the voice may reach any of us. It is enough for us to know whose voice it is, and to what it is summoning us. It is the voice of Him who made a covenant with Abraham; who has made a better covenant with us. It is calling us to make a real sacrifice, to present ourselves to God. Then we shall see in the thicket the Lamb that has been already slain; we shall see in that Lamb a Son whom the Father has offered up, and who has gone together with Him in a voluntary and perfect self-oblation.