And Isaac said: Here is the firestone and the wood; but where is the sheep for the burnt offering?

Embarrassed, suddenly shy, Abraham tried to equivocate: God will see to the sheep for His burnt offering, my son. And the two of them walked on together.

The march continued. The two of them alone in the world, encircled by God’s unfathomable design. But they were together. Now the repetition renders a new sound while adding to the dramatic intensity of the narrative.

And Isaac began to guess, to understand. And then he knew. And the father and the son remained united. Together they reached the top of the mountain; together they erected the altar; together they prepared the wood and the fire. Everything was ready, nothing was missing. And Isaac lay on the altar, silently gazing at his father.

And Abraham picked up the knife to slay his son. Then an angel of the Lord called to him from heaven: Abraham, Abraham! And he answered: Here I am.

For the third time he answered: Here I am. I am the same, the same person who answered Your first call; I answer Your call, whatever its nature; and even were it to change, I would not.

And the angel said: Do not raise your hand against the boy or do anything to him. For now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your favored one, from Me.

All is well that ends well. The sacrifice took place, yet Isaac remained alive: a ram was slaughtered and burned in his stead. Abraham reconciled himself with his conscience. And the angel, exulting, renewed before him shining promises for the future: his children, as numerous as the stars reflected in the sea, would inherit the earth. Abraham once more plunged into the magnificent dream which would always remind him of his covenant with God. No, the future was not dead. No, truth would not be stifled. No, exile would not go on indefinitely. Abraham should have returned home a happy and serene man. Except that the tale ends with a strange sentence which opens rather than heals the wounds: Vayashav avraham el nearav—And Abraham returned to his servants. Note the singular: Vayashav, he returned. He, Abraham. Alone. And Isaac? Where was Isaac? Why was he not with his father? What had happened to him? Are we to understand that father and son were no longer together? That the experience they just shared had separated them—albeit only after the event? That Isaac, unlike Abraham, was no longer the same person, that the real Isaac remained there, on the altar?

These profoundly disquieting questions provoked passionate responses in the Midrash, where the theme of the Akeda occupies as important a place as the creation of the world or the revelation at Sinai.

• • •

The Midrash, in this case, does not limit itself to stating the facts and commenting upon them. It delves into the very heart and silence of the cast of characters. It examines them from every angle; it follows them into their innermost selves; it goes so far as to imagine the unimaginable.