Abraham on Trial: The Social Legacy of Biblical Myth

By Carol Delaney

Abraham on Trial questions the foundations of faith that have made a virtue out of the willingness to sacrifice a child. Through his desire to obey God at all costs, even if it meant sacrificing his son, Abraham became the definitive model of faith for the major world religions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. In this bold look at the legacy of this biblical and qur'anic story, Carol Delaney explores how the sacrifice rather than the protection of children became the focus of faith, to the point where the abuse and betrayal of children has today become widespread and sometimes institutionalized. Her strikingly original analysis also offers a new perspective on what unites and divides the peoples of the sibling religions derived from Abraham and, implicitly, a way to overcome the increasing violence among them.


Delaney critically examines evidence from Jewish, Christian, and Muslim interpretations, from archaeology and Freudian theory, as well as a recent trial in which a father sacrificed his child in obedience to God's voice, and shows how the meaning of Abraham's story is bound up with a specific notion of fatherhood. The preeminence of the father (which is part of the meaning of the name Abraham) comes from the still operative theory of procreation in which men transmit life by means of their "seed," an image that encapsulates the generative, creative power that symbolically allies men with God. The communities of faith argue interminably about who is the true seed of Abraham, who can claim the patrimony, but until now, no one has asked what is this seed.


Kinship and origin myths, the cultural construction of fatherhood and motherhood, suspicions of actual child sacrifices in ancient times, and a revisiting of Freud's Oedipus complex all contribute to Delaney's remarkably rich discussion. She shows how the story of Abraham legitimates a hierarchical structure of authority, a specific form of family, definitions of gender, and the value of obedience that have become the bedrock of society. The question she leaves us with is whether we should perpetuate this story and the lessons it teaches.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Princeton University Press
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780691217949

Carol Delaney

Carol Delaney received an MTS from Harvard Divinity School and a PhD in Cultural Anthropology from the University of Chicago and is a graduate of Boston University. She was the assistant director of the Center for the Study of World Religions at Harvard, and a visiting professor in the Department of Religious Studies at Brown University. She is now a professor emerita at Stanford University and a research scholar at Brown University.  Delaney is the author of several books, including The Seed and the Soil: Gender and Cosmology in Turkish Village Society, Abraham on Trial: The Social Legacy of Biblical Myth, Naturalizing Power: Essays in Feminist Cultural Criticism, and Investigating Culture: An Experiential Introduction to Anthropology.

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ABRAHAM ON TRIAL

ABRAHAM

ON TRIAL

THE SOCIAL LEGACY

OF BIBLICAL MYTH

Carol Delaney

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS • PRINCETON AND OXFORD

Copyright © 1998 by Princeton University Press

Published by Princeton University Press, 41 William Street, Princeton, New Jersey 08540

In the United Kingdom: Princeton University Press, 3 Market Place, Woodstock, Oxfordshire 0X20 1SY

All Rights Reserved

Second printing, and first paperback printing, 2000

Paperback ISBN 0-691-07050-4

The Library of Congress has cataloged the cloth edition of this book as follows

Delaney, Carol Lowery, 1940–

Abraham on trial: the social legacy of biblical myth / Carol Delaney.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 0-691-05985-3 (hardcover : alk. paper)

1. Isaac (Biblical patriarch)—Sacrifice. 2. Child sacrifice—

Religious aspects—Comparative studies. 3. Abraham (Biblical patriarch)

4. Bible. O.T. Genesis XXII, 1-19—Criticism, interpretation, etc.—

History. 5. Koran. Surat al-Ṣāffāt—Criticism, interpretation,

etc.—History. 6. Fatherhood—Religious aspects—Comparative studies.

7. Gender. 8. Ishmael (Biblical figure). I. Title.

BS1238.S24D44 1998

222′.11068—dc21 98-12174

The Story of Abraham by Alicia Ostriker, which originally appeared in 5 A.M. 2, no. 3 (1990), is reprinted with the permission of the author; Sarah’s Choice by Eleanor Wilmer, which originally appeared in Sarah’s Choice, The Phoenix Poets Series (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), pp. 21–24, is reprinted with the permission of the author.

Frontispiece and part title pages: Detail of a Rembrandt etching of Abraham and Isaac, from a private collection.

https://press.princeton.edu/

eISBN: 978-0-691-21794-9

R0

To MY MOTHER,

MY DAUGHTER, AND

MY GRANDSONS

and to all those without whose care

and protection none of us

would be here

To see what the writer makes

of Abraham is often to see most clearly

what the writer is trying to say.

S. SANDMEL, 1956:29

Contents

List of Illustrations xi

Acknowledgments xiii

Introduction 5

PART ONE

ABRAHAM ON TRIAL 15

Chapter One, Abraham on Trial: Case for the Prosecution 17

Chapter Two. Abraham as Alibi? A Trial in California 35

PART TWO

ARCHAEOLOGICAL AND BIBLICAL EVIDENCE 69

Chapter Three. Child Sacrifice: Practice or Symbol? 71

Chapter Four. Child Sacrifice in the Bible 87

PART THREE

RELIGIOUS DEFENSES AND THEIR SILENCES 105

Religious Defenses: Prolegomenon 107

Chapter Five. Jewish Traditions 111

Chapter Six. Christian Commentary 137

Chapter Seven. Muslim Interpretations 162

PART FOUR

THE TESTIMONY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS 187

Chapter Eight. Freud’s Blind Spot 189

Chapter Nine. Sa(l)vaging Freud 211

PART FIVE

THE SOCIAL LEGACY 231

Chapter 10. Sacrificing Our Children 233

Conclusion 251

Notes 255

Select Bibliography 295

Index 317

Illustrations

1. Sculpture by George Segal, Abraham and Isaac, Princeton University

2. Beehive-domed houses in Haran, allegedly Abraham’s home, now a village in southeastern Turkey

3. Genealogical chart: The Children of Abraham

4. The Sacrifice of Isaac by Marc Chagall

5. Sacrifice of Abraham by Andrea Mantegna

6. The Annunciation, a late fifteenth-century painting

7, 8. Brunelleschi’s and Ghiberti’s submissions to the competition for panels, on the theme of the sacrifice of Isaac, for the Baptistry doors, Florence

9. A Turkish postcard of the Kurban

10. Remains of the observatory at Haran, Turkey

11. Pool near the Ibrahim cami in Urfa, Turkey

12. Painting depicting legends relating to Abraham. Urfa, Turkey

13. The Dome of the Rock (al Haram al Sharif). Jerusalem, Israel

14. Moses, from the Philippson Bible

Acknowledgments

BECAUSE of the wide range this book traverses, I have relied upon numerous people for help in finding my way in different discourses and reference systems. First, I wish to thank members of the family and all the participants in the California trial—the attorneys, the judge, the psychiatrist, the translator, and the jurors. John Sullivan, a friend and a public defender in California, shared information and expertise and read drafts of the trial chapter. When she was a student at Harvard Law School, Megan Muir, now a Seattle attorney, discussed legal material with me and researched important documents in the law school library. When I was daunted by writing something so different from my usual subjects, Marcia Yudkin helped me over a writer’s block. Paul Rock, professor of criminology at the London School of Economics, was an excellent critic of the trial chapter. His own work on trials and courts so closely paralleled my own that I felt less alone.

Without leave from Stanford and a research fellowship at Harvard Divinity School in 1992–93 the research for the chapters on archaeology and religious commentary would have taken much longer. I am exceedingly grateful for the opportunity to return to a place where I had studied (1973–76) and worked as assistant director of the Center for the Study of World Religions (1985–87) and where I knew the library well. The faculty, students, and staff were, as usual, interested, stimulating, and helpful. I especially thank Professor JoAnn Hackett for generously sharing her knowledge of the ancient Near East, for numerous references, and for informative, delightful discussions.

Several former graduate students at Harvard Divinity School need special note. Denise Buell, now assistant professor at Williams College, helped enormously with her mastery of Hebrew, Greek, and Latin and her deep knowledge of Judaism and Christianity during what is called the intertestamental period. Similar thanks are owed to Gene McAfee, a tutor at Lowell House, Harvard. Larry Wills, a professor at the Episcopal Divinity School, shared his enthusiasm and knowledge of Greek and early Christian society. The other research associates—Rosalind Shaw, Tal Ilan, Hyun-kyung Chung, and Stephanie Jamison—provided stimulating discussions and conviviality during a long, cold, and lonely winter.

Tal Ilan showed me how to negotiate the labyrinthine system of rabbinic reference. Later, Howard Eilberg-Schwartz, formerly assistant professor of Jewish studies at Stanford, read a draft and corrected some dates and misrepresentations. Bob Gregg, the dean of Memorial Church at Stanford University and an expert on early Christianity, read a draft of the Christian chapter and encouraged my nonapologetic critique. The Muslim chapter was helpfully commented on by Gordon Newby, Bill Beeman, Saba Mahmood, and a number of respondents at the meetings of the American Academy of Religion, 1995, where I presented a summary.

Diane Jonte-Pace of Santa Clara University, whose expertise is in the field of psychoanalysis and religion, graciously read the Freud chapters. I also received comments and suggestions from Judith Van Herik, professor of religious studies at Penn State, who has, herself, written eloquently about Freud, femininity, and faith. Graduate students in my seminar, Religion, helped me clarify my critique of Freud, and Bill Maurer, now assistant professor at the University of California, Irvine, helped me see that one chapter should become two.

I am also indebted to Sandra Razieli, who, during her fieldwork in Jerusalem, alerted me to some uses of the Abraham story and took the photograph of the Dome of the Rock; to Shari Seider, whose work among Orthodox Jews in Argentina provided insightful discussions about Judaism and nationalism; and to Stefan Helmreich who helped me think about the title and chapter headings. In the last stages, I benefited greatly from the comments of the reviewers, Bill Beeman, Jorunn Buckley, Gillian Feeley-Harnik, and Gordon Newby, who kindly revealed themselves to me, enabling us to discuss further their proposed revisions. Mary Murrell, my editor at Princeton, suffered through the whole process, providing inspiration, incisive criticism, and numerous clippings and references. Marsha Kunin did a superb job of copyediting the final manuscript. I have tried to accommodate their suggestions, but the mind truly does have a mind of its own and I could not always find the proper place for them. There is much that has been left out—otherwise the manuscript could easily have grown to a book for each chapter.

A fellowship at the Center for Advanced Study in the Behavioral Sciences (1996–97), partly funded by a grant from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, allowed me time to complete the book, which had languished due to a heavy teaching load. The interest and enthusiasm of the other fellows provided the fuel to get on with it and get it done. I am especially grateful to those who read and commented on drafts of chapters: Gillian Feeley-Harnik, Martin Green, Susan Okin, Paul Rock, and the Family and Children group. I wish also to thank several members of the Center staff: Patrick Goebel, the computer wizard, taught me how to operate my new computer and was there when I or it got stuck; Kathleen Much edited the penultimate draft; and Virginia MacDonald helped with some of the word processing.

Finally, I wish to thank my daughter, Elizabeth Quaratiello, who is, herself, a gifted writer and editor. Her reading of an early draft helped with the subsequent ones. She also contributed by giving birth to her first child, my first grandchild. During the hard work of writing, they were a most delightful distraction and helped me keep some needed perspective. Stephen poignantly kept in front of me the insanity of a system that has made a virtue out of the willingness to sacrifice a child.

ABRAHAM ON TRIAL

Genesis 22

1. 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.

2. 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.

3. And Abraham rose up early in the morning, and saddled his ass, and took two of his young men with him, and Isaac his son, and clave the wood for the burnt offering, and rose up, and went unto the place of which God had told him.

4. Then on the third day Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place afar off.

5. And Abraham said unto his young men, Abide ye here with the ass; and I and the lad will go yonder and worship, and come again to you.

6. And Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering, and laid it upon Isaac his son; and he took the fire in his hand, and a knife; and they went both of them together.

7. And Isaac spake unto Abraham his father, and said, My father: and he said, here am I, my son. And he said, Behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?

8. And Abraham said, My son, God will provide himself a lamb for a burnt offering: so they went both of them together.

9. And they came to the place which God had told him of; and Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood.

10. And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.

11. And the angel of the Lord called unto him out of heaven, and said, Abraham, Abraham: and he said, Here am I.

12. And he said, Lay not thine hand upon the lad, neither do thou anything unto him: for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son from me.

13. And Abraham lifted up his eyes, and looked, and behold behind him a ram caught in a thicket by his horns: and Abraham went and took the ram, and offered him up for a burnt offering in the stead of his son.

14. And Abraham called the name of that place Jehovah jireh: as it is said to this day, In the mount of the Lord it shall be seen.

15. And the angel of the Lord called unto Abraham out of heaven a second time;

16. And said, By myself have I sworn, saith the Lord, for because thou has done this thing and has not withheld thy son, thine only son:

17. That in blessing I will bless thee, and in multiplying I will multiply thy seed as the stars of heaven, and as the sand which is upon the seashore; and thy seed shall possess the gate of his enemies;

18. And in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed because thou has obeyed my voice.

19. So Abraham returned unto his young men, and they rose up and went together to Beersheba; and Abraham dwelt at Beersheba.

20. And it came to pass after these things, that it was told Abraham, saying, Behold, Milcah, she hath also born children unto thy brother Nahor;

21. Huz his firstborn, and Buz his brother, and Kemuel the father of Aram,

22. And Chesed, and Hazor, and Pildash, and Jidlaph, and Bethuel.

23. And Bethuel begat Rebekah: these eight Milcah did bear to Nahor, Abraham’s brother.

24. And his concubine, whose name was Reumah, she bare also Tebah, and Gaham, and Thahash, and Maachah.

Introduction

IN THE BEGINNING of the last decade of the twentieth century, in that most modern of places, California, a tragedy of Biblical proportions unfolded with the morning newspaper:

Father Sacrificed Child. God Told Him To.

So accustomed are we to horrendous tales of domestic violence that this headline might seem only a bizarre twist on the ordinary. People who read about the incident over their morning coffee noted it, registered a reaction, and turned the page, muttering, The man must be crazy. In this way, the man was defined, the deed was labeled, and the whole thing could be put out of mind. A year later, when Cristos Valenti came to trial, only one of the jurors remembered the newspaper story.¹

Yet once upon a time, God asked another father to sacrifice his child. For his willingness to obey God’s command, Abraham became the model of faith at the foundation of the three monotheistic (Abrahamic) religions: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.² His story has been inscribed on the hearts and minds of billions of people for millennia. Even today, Abraham’s devotion is revered and his example extolled in countless sermons and in the secular media. With that cultural model readily available, it is not so surprising that Cristos Valenti felt he must obey God’s command. Yet for his willingness to comply with God’s request, Cristos Valenti was brought to trial.

This book puts the Abraham story on trial. The contemporary case, to be discussed in chapter 2, helps bring the Abraham story emotionally closer and raises several issues that recur throughout the book. But it could not raise the most important question, the question that motivated this book and the years of research that have gone into it: Why is the willingness to sacrifice one’s child the quintessential model of faith, why not the passionate protection of the child? What would be the shape of our society had that been the supreme model of faith and commitment? By critically examining the Abraham story, I think we can catch a glimpse.

If it is true, as Shalom Spiegel suggests, that the story of Abraham renews itself in every time of crisis (Spiegel, 1969, back cover), then the time has come to take another look. The crisis of society today is about values, about the very values that, I think, are epitomized by the Abraham story—not just faith and sacrifice, but also the nature of authority; the basis and structure of the family, its gender definitions and roles; and which children, under what circumstances, shall be deemed acceptable and be provided for. My purpose is not to reinvigorate these values but to challenge them at their foundation.

The story of Abraham, some will say, is just a story about something that happened (or might have happened) long ago. They feel it has little to do with their lives or their faith, and thus they do not usually imagine that it has any bearing on contemporary life. What they forget is that the story of Abraham, like that of Jesus, was powerful enough to change the course of human history.³ It is clear that the story of Abraham is not just one story among others; it is central to the nervous system of Judaism and Christianity (Goldin in Spiegel, 1969:xvii). It is also central to Islam. Insofar as it has shaped the three religious traditions, their ethical values, and their views of social relations, it has shaped the realities we live by. Even if we are not believers, any of us raised in a culture influenced by Judaism, Christianity, or Islam has been affected by the values, attitudes, and structures exemplified by the story.

My interpretation of the Abraham story attempts to uncover the set of assumptions that make the story possible; it is a way to get behind the story. Traditional exegeses proceed out from the story, and move quickly to conventional contexts for interpretation, namely sacrifice and faith, contexts that predetermine possible lines of interpretation. For example, if the story is viewed in the context of the theories and meanings of sacrifice, then the questions put to it will be how and in what ways does it conform to, deviate from, or shed light on known sacrificial practices? Related, surely, is whether the story represents the end of the supposed practice of child sacrifice and the institution of animal sacrifice. But even if child sacrifice was practiced in the ancient Near East, a discussion of which will occupy chapters 3 and 4, such interpretations fail to recognize that Abraham is revered not for putting an end to the practice but for his willingness to go through with it. That is what establishes him as the father of faith. That is what I find so terrifying. The story is not about substitution, symbolic or otherwise, but about a new morality; it represents not the end of the practice of child sacrifice but the beginning of a new order.

Interpretations that focus on Abraham’s faith argue that to demonstrate his absolute, unswerving faith he had to be willing to sacrifice the thing he loved most in the world—the son he waited so long to have, the very child his God had promised. The paradoxical aspect reveals, to some, the mystery of God and the power of faith; one must simply make a leap of faith and believe.⁴ I am suspicious of these types of interpretations and think there is another, less mysterious question that, perhaps because it is so simple, has been overlooked.

Neither religious commentators nor lawyers in the contemporary trial asked the question that has nagged me: what allowed Abraham (and Cristos) to assume the child was his to sacrifice? At first blush, the question seems meaningless. God asked him. But could or would the all-knowing God ask only one parent for the child, knowing that a child belongs to both mother and father or, perhaps, to neither? The story, however, conveys the impression that the child belonged to Abraham in a way he did not belong to Sarah.⁵

The focus on fatherhood pervades Genesis; one need only think of all the begats and the emphasis on the patrilineage, to realize that this is the case. But if so, on what basis were children attributed to their fathers? To say that the child belongs to the father because of patriarchy, a usual response, explains nothing, because patriarchy means the power of fathers; such an answer is circular and only defers the question. What we need to ask is: what is it about fathers or fatherhood that conveys such power?

My interpretation turns on the meaning of paternity and shows how the definition and assumptions about paternity made it possible for Abraham (and perhaps Cristos) to think that the child was his to sacrifice. The meanings are integral to the story; it does not make sense without them. Moreover, the same meanings have been carried over and reinforced by ancient as well as modern, religious as well as secular, interpretations; the meanings have been assumed, not examined. Drawing on anthropological studies of kinship and gender, I argue that neither the role nor the power of the father is a given in nature and the order of things, but that both are intimately connected to a particular theory of procreation, a theory that is, in turn, connected to a cosmological/metaphysical system.

Paternity has not meant just the recognition of a biological relationship between a man and a specific child, nor the social role built on that recognition; paternity has meant the primary, creative, engendering role. In the Bible (and in the popular imagination) it is symbolized by the word seed. Identity, whether of plant or of person, is imagined as a matter of seed; in human terms it is bequeathed by the father. The soul, also, was imagined as transmitted via seed. The child belongs to the father because it is his seed. Women, in contrast, have been imagined as the nurturing medium in which the seed is planted rather than as co-creators; they foster its growth and bring it forth, but do not provide its essential identity. The very notion of paternity, therefore, already embodies authority and power and provides the rationale for a particular constellation of the family and the structure of relations within it. This notion of paternity is integral to the story of Abraham, for it is all about his seed.

The seemingly simple word seed is anything but simple or neutral. By evoking associations with agriculture and the natural world, the image naturalizes a structure of power relations as it also conceals it (see Yanagisako and Delaney, 1995). Represented as seed and soil, male and female roles have been differentially valued and hierarchically ordered. This theory of procreation, common to both the ancient Hebrews and the ancient Greeks, has been the dominant folk theory in the West for millennia, shaping popular images and sentiments of gender.⁶

From today’s perspective, this theory of procreation is obviously erroneous. Today we believe that both male and female contribute the same kind of thing to the identity of a child, namely genes, and that each contributes half the genetic endowment, half the seed, so to speak. Women, of course, contribute much more—by way of nurture to the fetus in utero, by giving birth, and often by providing additional nurture and care during its early life—but women are still popularly associated only with the nurturing, not the creative aspects. The modern, biogenetic understanding of reproduction is relatively recent, known only to certain of the world’s peoples, and it tends to be confined explicitly to biomedical discourses. Yet notions of paternity and maternity were culturally constructed long before the development of biology and genetics, and these older notions are still being perpetuated by popular images and sentiments about gender and by the social arrangements, especially the family, that continue to affect the way men and women are thought about.

The meanings of paternity and maternity were not originally based on biological theory, and they do not simply change in response to changes in biological theory. They are rooted far deeper and their extent is far wider than the discourse and domain of reproduction; ultimately they are rooted in a cosmological system, in this case the monotheistic world view that is elaborated somewhat differently in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. The foundational story of Abraham is central to these belief systems as well as to the societies influenced, and the social arrangements legitimated, by them.

For believers, the story has a central place both theologically and ritually in each of the religions. Jews recite Genesis 22 annually at the new year services of Rosh Hashanah; it is also included as part of the daily morning prayers of the devout. Christians think the story prefigures the Crucifixion, when God the Father sacrificed his only begotten son; a recitation of Genesis 22 is traditionally part of the services during Easter week. Muhammad’s mission was to recall the people to the one true religion given in the beginning to Abraham. Each year Muslims dramatically reenact the event on the most sacred day of the Muslim calendar—the Feast of the Sacrifice—that occurs at the end of the rituals of the Hajj. On that day, whether in Mecca or at home, each male head of household sacrifices a ram (or substitute) in place of the intended child. And every male child can imagine that, but for the grace of God, there might he be. Told year after year, generation after generation, the story has continued to make an impact on the minds and emotions of people who are, as promised, countless as the stars of heaven and as the sand which is upon the seashore (Gen. 22:17).

The Abraham story overflows the boundaries of religious communities. As one of the most common religious themes depicted in painting and also well represented in literature, sculpture, and music, it has become part of the cultural mainstream. In the space of two weeks in November 1992, just when I was beginning work on this book, the story was the subject of (1) an art exhibit in Berkeley, California; (2) a sermon delivered by a minister in Little Rock Arkansas, and directed at Bill Clinton, who was sitting in the first pew the Sunday after his election to the presidency; and (3) a Peanuts cartoon just before Thanksgiving.

As a way of protesting the Vietnam war, Bob Dylan wrote a song (Highway 61 Revisited) that imagined Abraham questioning God’s order. Perhaps he was aware of the practice of using the story of Abraham to legitimate war, as was Wilfred Owen in his famous poem against the fathers sending the sons off to World War I. Leonard Cohen wrote a song called The Sacrifice of Isaac. When George Segal was commissioned to make a sculpture commemorating the deaths of the students at Kent State, he chose the theme of Abraham and Isaac. And when Kent State rejected it on the grounds that it was too inflammatory, Princeton University bought it and placed it near the chapel on campus (see fig. 1). The story was the subtext of President Carter’s book about the Middle East, The Blood of Abraham; more recently of a novel, The Sacrifice of Isaac, by Neil Gordon, about the ambivalent legacy of the Holocaust; as well as of Woody Alien’s film Crimes and Misdemeanors.⁷ On Easter Sunday and Monday 1994, in the midst of my writing, a miniseries entitled Abraham was shown on television. I mention each of these uses of the story—and there are many more—primarily to make the point that the story is very much alive in contemporary American culture.

I approach the story of Abraham as an anthropologist viewing it not purely as a religious text but also as a cultural text, for no matter how divinely inspired it may have been, it is an artifact of human culture. My goal, however, is not to recover the particular time and place of Abraham. The story was transmitted orally and edited repeatedly for hundreds of years before it ever reached its canonical form; therefore any interpretation which substantively depends on relating the text to an historical context must itself be forever tentative and hypothetical (Moberly, 1988:312). At the same time, I do not mean to imply that it can be totally taken out of its context, for the opposite hermeneutical tendency often assumes that it is, therefore, timeless and represents the human condition or universal human psychology. That approach is equally misleading.

FIG. 1. Sculpture by George Segal, Abraham and Isaac. Princeton University. Photo by author.

Regardless of its provenance, the story does not merely reflect a particular culture and society; it also incorporates a vision of society, indeed, a vision of the cosmos that has animated numerous cultures over considerable time. To connect it only to a particular time and locale would be to lose sight of that fact. Too often we forget the way that events themselves are transformed in relation to mythic structures of interpretation (see Mintz, 1984; McNeill, 1986; Sahlins, 1981; Samuel and Thompson, 1990). People continue to derive their identity, orient their lives, and interpret the meaning of life from the patterns first charted by the story.

Scriptures are not only a record of the past but a prophecy, a foreshadowing and foretelling of what will come to pass. And if that is the case, text and personal experience are not two autonomous domains. On the contrary, they are reciprocally enlightening; even as the immediate event helps to make the age-old sacred text intelligible, so in turn the text reveals the fundamental significance of the recent event or experience. (Goldin in Spiegel, 1969:xvi)

Religious myth has social implications; conversely social events (are made to) speak to religious themes. In this way is woven the moral fabric that helps people make sense of their lives. We can never recapture the living quality of the culture of the biblical writers, but we can investigate their vision of the world and its legacy. We can ask about the role of the Abraham story in that vision. And we can ask if this vision is one we wish to perpetuate.

GUIDE TO READERS

First a caveat and then a brief on how the book will proceed. Although questions I put to the material are contemporary, this does not mean that I expect people who lived thousands of years ago to have had the same ideas we do, or to have acted according to values we cherish. Quite the contrary. New questions can expose assumptions of the past, and can show that those assumptions were not naturally given or inevitable, but part of a culturally constituted universe. By asking new questions of well-known stories, stories that we continue to tell ourselves and, perhaps more important, our children, we may gain new insight into their meanings. Such questioning does, however, make some people nervous. Directed to foundational stories, the questions are felt by some as if they are threats to the foundations of a house, for they begin to unsettle the edifice built upon it. But for those of us concerned with dismantling patriarchy, it is important to understand the power of this most patriarchal of stories.

Using anthropological and historical methods, I scrutinize material from several disciplines: archaeology, biblical and religious studies, and psychoanalysis. Each begins from different premises—different assumptions are made, different questions are asked, and different styles of interpretation prevail. Because of these differences it is not easy to move from one to the other; the distinctions are important and their blurring too often leads to distortions, errors, and anachronisms. For this reason, the material from each discipline is treated in a separate section—each focusing on the questions, subjects, arguments, and evidence that characterize it; each section also tends to partake of the discursive style of that discipline. Despite the differences, I demonstrate that the same assumptions about gender, kinship, and procreation pervade them all. These assumptions form the backdrop for interpretations; they are the things that go without saying; they underlie and unite a seeming variety of interpretations and contemporary social practices. By turning our attention to these assumptions, we begin to glimpse the outlines of a powerful myth we live by—its destructive legacy as well as the possibilities for constructive change.

The chapters are not meant to form an argument built up layer upon layer; instead they should be imagined as different facets of the same basic argument. Each has a different slant; each adds light to the cumulative power of the whole. Chapter 1 is the case for the prosecution. It outlines my argument: (a) it discusses the relevance of anthropology, the importance of the study of kinship and origin myths; (b) it elaborates the notion that paternity and maternity are cultural constructions rather than reflections of natural roles; and (c) it discusses the power of language and what happens when we try to change it. After the first chapter, the reader may move to any of the subsequent chapters. Chapter 2 is an account of the trial in California of Cristos Valenti, who sacrificed his child because God told him to do so. His story is not the same as that of Abraham if for no other reason than that Cristos had the model of Abraham before him. It is not so much because one is secular and the other sacred or because, in Cristo’s case, the child was killed whereas Abraham’s God intervened in time; Cristos Valenti’s story unfolds within a context already shaped by the values inherent in the Abraham story. His rationale depends on these values and his defense rests on them. The emotional power of Valenti’s story helps to focus a number of moral issues, but it never challenges the model on which it is based: Abraham is never put on trial.

The second section (chapters 3 and 4) addresses the common belief that the story is meant to mitigate a more ancient practice of child sacrifice by the substitution of a ram. I discuss the evolutionary assumptions embedded in such views and the archaeological evidence for and against the practice. Like the archaeological evidence, the evidence in the Bible is generally considered later both narratively and chronologically than the Abraham story. Although the sacrifice of children may have occurred at some time in the circum-Mediterranean world, the Abraham story cannot be seen as the mitigation of such a practice. In addition, I question whether the story should even be interpreted in the context of theories of sacrifice.

The third section (chapters 5 through 7) is devoted to exegeses of the meaning and place of the story in each of the three religious traditions and to the kinds of debates that have arisen in each. In an attempt to preserve the integrity of each tradition, each will be treated separately. At the same time, I undermine the religious defenses by showing that all of them rest on similar assumptions about paternity and gender that, in turn, are integral to the theological meaning.

Psychoanalytic theory has also grappled with the relationship between gender, kinship, and religion. In the fourth section (chapters 8 and 9) I challenge Freud’s theory of the Oedipus complex as foundational not only for individual psychology but also for society as a whole, that is, as the foundation story wherein religion, morals, society and art converge (Freud, SE 13:156). Why did Freud focus only on the son’s desires and acts without considering those of the father? In the Oedipus story, why did he ignore Laius’s homicidal impulse? In Moses and Monotheism, why did Freud fabricate a story of the symbolic sons killing the father rather than using the story in the biblical text of the father willing to kill the son? His proposal of Oedipus as the myth we live by eclipsed that of Abraham; Freud’s blindness allowed the story of Abraham and its values to persist unchecked.

Finally, in chapter 10, I briefly discuss how the story of Abraham has bequeathed a moral legacy in which we have been taught not to question the authority of fathers, even though, in the process, we betray children. Contemporary examples illustrate the ways in which the sacrifice and betrayal of children has been institutionalized. One can point to the dreadful conditions in which most children in the world are living. Children are abused at the hands of their parents, most frequently fathers or their surrogates, and by priests—the very fathers who stand in for God and whose mission it is to protect children. One can also include war and point out that children are sent off to fight old men’s battles and that the U.S. military budget vastly exceeds that of welfare. The recent welfare debate itself shows how the fathers (of state) exercised their power to determine the fate of a whole generation of children.

The story of Abraham is not causative in any direct sense. But because it exemplifies and legitimates a hierarchical structure of authority, a specific form of family, definitions of gender, and the value of obedience that are simultaneously the fountainhead of faith and the bedrock of society, it has created an environment that has made it seem sacrilegious to question these issues.

As Abraham takes the knife to slay his son, God calls out: "Because thou hast done this thing, and hast not withheld thy son, thine only son: I will bless thee, and I will multiply thy seed as the stars of heaven and as the sand upon the seashore, and thy seed shall possess the gate of his enemies. And in thy seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed, because thou hast obeyed my voice" (Gen. 22:16–19).⁸

Like that knife eternally poised in mid-air, several questions should be held in the mind of the reader. Why is the willingness to sacrifice the child the model of faith? What is the function of obedience? Why so little attention to the betrayal of the child? Whose voice counts? Like another sacrificed by his father, did Abraham’s son cry out at the critical moment: Father, father, why hast thou forsaken me? Why have we eulogized their submission?

This book puts on trial the story often referred to as Abraham’s trial—a reference both to God’s testing of him and his own suffering. The question before us is whether we should perpetuate the story and the lessons it has taught. In the next chapter I present my general argument. In the following sections, evidence from several very different perspectives is brought forth. Attend to the kinds of questions that have been asked, and to the silences. Consider whether and how well the evidence supports my argument. You the reader must consider the verdict.

PART ONE

Abraham on Trial

CHAPTER ONE

Abraham on Trial: Case for the Prosecution

FOR CULTURES influenced by Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, Abraham is symbolically the first patriarch. As Abram, his name meant something like exalted father or the father is exalted, and as Abraham, it meant father of nations. His story begins what are aptly called the patriarchal narratives. What better place, then, to begin an investigation of patriarchy?

Although feminists have long been concerned with patriarchy, no feminist theorist, as of this writing, has focused directly on Abraham.¹ Some feminist interpreters of the Bible have included the story of Abraham along with those of other biblical figures as if it were merely one story among others. A few have skirted it in their discussions of Sarah, Abraham’s wife, or Hagar, her handmaid, his concubine (e.g., Teubal, 1984, 1990; Trible, 1984), but all have failed to recognize the centrality and the social weight of the story in Genesis 22.

The desire of some feminist interpreters to resurrect the voices of ancient women is important as no expression of their feelings exists in the text. Indeed, that is where I began. Although the Abraham story has bothered me since childhood, I began a serious investigation of it only after becoming a mother. It was easy then to imagine how Sarah might have felt when she discovered that her child was missing and learned what had happened. Imagining her reaction, however, could only register her pathos and her exclusion; it could not directly challenge the story, for, given the way the text is constructed, she can only react. I wanted to know why the story was constructed that way. I wanted to know why the foundational story is centered on a father, his son, and a male-imaged god. Is their gender merely accidental, or is it precisely the point?

When I told people I intended to analyze the story in terms of gender, most did not understand what that could mean. But it is not about women, some said, as if only women have gender. The story of Abraham, others countered, is about religion, about spirituality. What can it possibly have to do with gender? Gender may seem irrelevant to those concerned with drawing out the spiritual message of the story, which, they further presume, could be addressed to anyone. But does the story have the same meaning for women, or is it inextricably entangled with meanings of masculinity, particularly fatherhood?

Gender is precisely the point. The religious content cannot be separated from notions of gender and notions of generativity, especially paternity. The importance of paternity has been missed by most scholars because they have misunderstood what it means; they have assumed that it means merely the recognition of the biological relationship between a man and a given child.² That is not so surprising—most people in the West assume that kin terms mean the biological relations that are established through sexual reproduction.

Rather than reflecting natural facts, the meanings of father and mother, paternity and maternity emerge relative to a theory of procreation. In this theory, the male role is construed as the creative one: he is the one who begets and by means of his seed imparts the life-giving essence that defines a child. The female role is to nurture the seed-child implanted in her and to give birth. I have elsewhere (Delaney, 1986, 1991) called this a monogenetic theory, as the principle of creation comes from only one source. Symbolically, it is the human analogue of divine, monotheistic creation. The life-giving abilities attributed to men allied them with God, and women became associated with what was created by God, namely the Earth.

The power

Reviews for Abraham on Trial

[stevesbooks · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a thoughtful and comprehensive "secular" exploration of the Akedah. She considers it from the three "major" religions as well as from a variety of sociopolitical perspectives. Her conclusions as to the "ultimate" meaning are a bit questionable and simplistic (I won't give them away). It is not an "inspirational" reading as many books on this subject try to be, but it is quite engaging just the same.