Bad Abraham: The Prevaricating Patriarch

 Abraham's tent. Day. Sarah sees Abraham and Isaac enter. Abraham puts down his staff.

SARAH. Where have you boys been?

ABRAHAM. Um. Out worshipping.

SARAH. For six days? You shouldn't sneak out like that, Abe. You know I worry. So what did you sacrifice, the donkey?

ABRAHAM. It's a long story.

ISAAC. We saw a ram caught in a thicket, which was a good thing because--

ABRAHAM. Shouldn't you be watering the camels, son?

ISAAC. What's a camel, Dad?*

ABRAHAM. Just go!

Isaac exits.

Sorry, Sarah, I didn't mean to worry you, sweetheart, but I was in a rush to demonstrate my absolute, unconditional, brainless, unquestioning, doglike, robotic submission to those voices I hear in the night. You don't screw around with voices!

SARAH. Not your "God-voices" again!

She makes air quotes.

The same ones that made us leave that nice flat in Haram and live in a tent. You think it's fun being homeless? A day's journey from the nearest shop? But do you ask me? No. No, I'm just Sarah. I'm just the wife. "Sarah won't mind." Did you ever wonder if I might like to worship now and then too? Burn a sheep and talk with an invisible friend? No, it's all your Lord. "The god of Abraham and Isaac." Sarah doesn't need a god, I guess. How come your god, whatever his secret name is--

ABRAHAM. I prefer not to pronounce it.

SARAH. How come he never chats me up? How come the husband makes all the "God-given" decisions?

ABRAHAM. I'm a patriarch. It's what I do.

SARAH. I'm very upset with this latest trick of yours. Telling the Pharaoh I was your sister was bad enough, but planning to kill and cook our only child just because some spooky voice inside your head--

ABRAHAM You know?

SARAH. You'll say it was the voice of God, but we sleep in the same tent.

ABRAHAM. You've known all along?

SARAH. Maybe if you talked to a priest?

ABRAHAM. I am a priest! You've just been playing me?

SARAH. He's my son too, Abe! Shouldn't I have a say?

ABRAHAM. You knew where I was all along?

Sarah shakes her head sadly.

SARAH. No, I just found out this afternoon, Abe. From a stranger. A total stranger! I had to hear it from a stranger. Fortunately, he told me the whole thing, happy ending and all, or I would've been worried sick. But that doesn't excuse you, Abraham Ben Terah, for pulling this trick on me!

ABRAHAM. But how? Not another angel?

SARAH. This one claims he's a time traveler, something called a Hebraist from Tel Aviv University in the Canaan of the future. Part of a research project on the historicity of something they call call the Bible. It seems that we're in a book. The man seemed surprised to see me.

The scholar steps from behind the tent flap.

SCHOLAR. Shalom. It's great to see you, sir.

On his chest is a time machine with blinking lights.

ABRAHAM. So everybody knows? How I tied up Isaac and almost--

SCHOLAR. In the future, yes, sir, but not until after you finally die at the ripe age of--

ABRAHAM. I'd rather not know.

SCHOLAR. Understood. In any case--

ABRAHAM. I believe it was God's command.

SCHOLAR. And so do we, sir. for thousands of years people have revered you for your obedience. You're an exemplar.

SARAH. For almost killing our son? Your own flesh and blood? You were quick enough to argue with your secret friend to save a bunch of Sodomites from fire and brimstone, Abe, but your own son? No. Not a peep. "Just let me get the donkey, Lord. I won't be a sec." Sneaking off in he morning without telling me. And then you pull a knife on our boy, on your own son!

SCHOLAR. We revere him, ma'am, for his willingness to sacrifice everything. There's a sense in which dying, or at least accepting of death, is the only way for mortals to transcend our mortality. Your husband became a great nation (actually several), and founded three major religions mostly because of what he did this week. Sacrifice means to make holy. By being completely willing to murder his only son, by putting it all in God's hands, your husband made the boy sacred and, in sense, immortal. The kid is now the father of nations, which makes you, I suppose, their granny.

SARAH. But, the way you tell it, Abe didn't give Isaac the option to become immortal by accepting death. No martyr's reward for him. No. Abe flat-out lied and hogged all the sacrifice.

SCHOLAR. Well, that is the story as it is passed down.

SARAH. In that Bible thing?

SCHOLAR. I can't say it's inerrant. That's sort of what I'm here to find out.

SARAH. Well, did you, Mr. Ben-Terah?

ABRAHAM. Did I what, sweetheart?

SARAH. Did you lie to Isaac and hog all the sacrifice?

ABRAHAM. I couldn't know how he'd react, baby.

SCHOLAR. Actually, to be honest, sir, the so-called Binding of Isaac isn't the only episode in your life that has troubled commentators over the centuries. There's the one about how you got your wealth.

ABRAHAM. That's none of your damn business.

SCHOLAR. The story is that, when you were in Egypt, the Pharaoh fancied Sarah, and you told him she was your sister, so he gave you sheep, cattle, slaves, donkeys, and camels in exchange for her. Later, your friend the Lord hurt him for it, so he exiled you but let you keep the loot. Then, years later, you pulled the same trick on King Abimelek and made out like a bandit again, which was pretty amazing given that by that time Sarah was ninety years old.

SARAH. I'm very well preserved.

ABRAHAM. They like that in Egypt. And she really is my sister. I wouldn't lie.

SARAH. Except to your own son. Also your nephew, I might add.

SCHOLAR. The whole incest issue aside, some commentators have had trouble with the idea that you got rich as a grifter. Or the less tactful ones say it was by pimping your own wife--.

Abraham reaches for his staff.

ABRAHAM. Do you know where you are?

SCHOLAR. I beg your pardon.

ABRAHAM. You barge in here upsetting my wife, and now, in my own tent, insult me to my face. If I wasn't worried you might be an angel of the Lord, I'd smite you where you stand, mister!

Abraham raises his staff.

SCHOLAR. Uh, you will be the father of nations and . . . your descendants will be as numerous as . . . uh, the stars in the sky . . . and, uh, breed like gerbils. Would you believe, uh, like fleas on a dog?

Abraham shakes his staff.

ABRAHAM. That's a start, but I'd be more impressed if you vanished now.

Scholar pushes buttons on the time machine strapped to his chest.

SCHOLAR. Beam me up, Uri. Mission accomplished.

The time machine beeps a frantic error signal that fades to a dying whine as smoke rises from it. The blinking lights go dark. The Scholar is still there. Abraham, impressed by the smoke, taps the time machine curiously with his staff.

ABRAHAM. Do that again, angel.

FADE OUT

*Camels were not domesticated in Canaan at the time of Abraham.