To me the Akeda was an unfathomable mystery given to every generation, to be relived, if not solved—one of the great mysteries of our history, a mystery so opaque that it obscures not only the facts but also the names of the protagonists.

Why did Abraham, the would-be slaughterer, become, in our prayers, the symbol of hesed: grace, compassion and love? A symbol of love, he who was ready to throttle his son?

And Isaac, why was he called Isaac? Yitzhak? He who will laugh? Laugh at whom? At what? Or, as Sarah thought, he who will make others laugh? Why was the most tragic figure in Biblical history given such a bizarre name?

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Throughout the centuries, hundreds of volumes have been written on the Akeda, a term recalling the fact that Isaac was bound to the altar, and mistakenly translated as “sacrifice” of Isaac.

In passing, we should mention the role played by this scene in Christianity: the threat hanging over Isaac is seen as a prefiguration of the crucifixion. Except that on Mount Moriah the act was not consummated: the father did not abandon his son. Such is the distance between Moriah and Golgotha. In Jewish tradition man cannot use death as a means of glorifying God. Every man is an end unto himself, a living eternity; no man has the right to sacrifice another, not even to God. Had he killed his son, Abraham would have become the forefather of a people—but not the Jewish people. For the Jew, all truth must spring from life, never from death. To us, crucifixion represents not a step forward but a step backward: at the top of Moriah, the living remains alive, thus marking the end of an era of ritual murder. To invoke the Akeda is tantamount to calling for mercy—whereas from the beginning Golgotha has served as pretext for countless massacres of sons and fathers cut down together by sword and fire in the name of a word that considered itself synonymous with love.

Let us now close the parentheses. And follow Abraham.

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What do we know about his life and his person? Many things told to us by the Bible and expounded upon by the Midrash. We are treated to an abundance of precise and picturesque details on both his private and public activities. We are informed about his habits, his moods, his business relationships, his difficulties with his neighbors, his servants and his concubines. He was rich, hospitable, friendly and giving; he invited strangers into his home without asking who they were or what the purpose of their visit might be. He welcomed the hungry and helped the poor, angels and beggars alike, offering them both shelter and food.

The Midrash is intent on stressing that his physical prowess was considerable. He was brave to the point of temerity, never shunning a battle. He lost only one, and that was due only to the adversary’s overwhelming numerical superiority: forty-five thousand commanders, eighty thousand heroic warriors and sixty thousand soldiers had to combine forces to subdue him. He was powerful and feared, and so it was only natural that he should marry the most beautiful woman in the world. He often took her along on his journeys, and it is interesting to note that once, on arriving in Egypt, he introduced her . . . as his sister.