The second floor of the Dallas Museum of Art beckons me every time I visit. I know if I look at the piece red cheeks and escaping tears will expose my swelling shame. Yet, like the ascetics of old, I proceed to the Early European gallery to receive my beating.
While the father points heavenward knowing his mission, his eyes gaze downward upon his pale, unblemished son. A century of barrenness culminates with his only begotten, but Abraham’s good God demands the spilling of Isaac’s blood. And, he obeys. He obeys. Abraham obeys. Here comes the shame.
While Abraham was willing to place his son upon the altar, I grumble at the thought of placing my money, my time, or even my image. Instead, the savory aroma of hedonistic incense burns on the altars I erect for the gods of convenience and pleasure. By comparison, Abraham’s God asks me for so little, and he constantly receives what he asks: so little.
Yet, after sufficiently despairing over my disobedience, I swallow the gathered spit, wipe away the streaks left by tears, and remember that the reckoning of righteousness comes by faith, not sacrifice.
