Isaac in
Heaven: An Interview
Review of a
Patriarchal Tale
By
Rudolph Lewis
I do not know how it came to be. I know that it was
an answer to a prayer. I had prayed night and day to our Lord for
a little light and understanding on the dilemma endured by Isaac,
that odd middle figure in the patriarchal trio of Abraham, Isaac,
and Jacob. Isaac seemed a man more acted upon than a leading actor
in the Genesis epic tale of Hebrew pre-history. In his lack of
aggression and definitive character, Isaac stands apart from both
his father Abraham and his son Jacob, renamed Israel and the
namesake of the Hebrew nation. And the Holy Spirit answered my
prayers. I got to know Isaac’s truth.
I realize that people today believe more in fortune
tellers like Miss Cleo than they believe in the truth of biblical
history, for instance, that the patriarchs were real people like
you and me. I include contemporary African Americans in this
grouping, though distressed by the thought. For we too were a
chosen people. The Exodus story was our story. Like the old
patriarchs we walked and talked with God.
Yes, the God of the Christian slave was transcendent,
yet he was ever so available for those with the right heart and
eyes, for those who sought him earnestly. But it is a new day. Now
too often we are like the Hebrew children in the Wilderness.
Nothing moves us like the golden calf, or in the American scene,
as the hip-hop generation calls it—the bling-bling.
We Negroes have a full literature of stories and songs about
our relationship with our liberating God. They are stored away in
museums, libraries, and archives. Sometimes they reach
publication; even then these divine tales are not given the
appropriate context and so as a result they come off as
meaningless, as just old-folks stories. I am just saying, contrary
to reason, there is
some truth in these sacred memories.
Everyone knows about Muhammad’s journey to heaven
from Jerusalem. The site of his heavenly departure is now in
dispute between the Muslims and the Israelis. In Negro American
folklore, we too have stories of Africans with the knowledge of
bodily flight. I don’t know whether there is any truth in these
stories or not. I know I too have had dreams of flight.
I understand that in psychological history it would
be said these flights were connected to my level of spirituality.
I don’t know about that. My flights seemed real enough to me. I
did take note that doubt hindered my flight and made me heavy as
unleavened dough and unable to rise above the housetops. The meaning of the
tale, I am sure, depends on how it is told. And by whose ears the
story is heard. All these stories have a dream-like state, similar
to that “presence” which characterizes ritual prayer.
I am saying all this to establish a certain cultural
context for my visit with Isaac in heaven. The Negro has been to
heaven before and has come back to tell his people about it. This
spiritual experience was not limited to Muhammad, praise be his
name. Even the simple Negro slave of the southern United States,
especially the Virginia slave, has been to heaven. I am sure he
got there before the Carolina slave, who was a close second.
We the descendants of the Virginia Christian slave
have always known that we are older than scientific history can
record. We too were at the beginnings of creation. We were there
when man and woman first began the struggle between themselves,
when they couldn’t work out things for their mutual benefit and
they had to make an appeal to the One God.
It's well known in the Village of Jerusalem a Virginia Christian slave first talked to
God. His woman was not acting right. She wouldn’t do nothing he
told her and she fought him like a natural man. So his gracious
God gave him more strength than the woman. So this Virginia man attempted to
beat this woman God had given him, into submission. But that
didn’t work as well as he hoped.
And, of course, the woman, also a Virginia Christian
slave (though some are inclined to think that she was one of those
Carolina women with magical powers), she was the second person to
go up to heaven and talk to God. And with a little advice from the
devil, called Satan, God gave her the three keys on his mantle: the keys to
man’s stomach, the bedroom, and his generations. Man and woman
thus had to learn to respect each other.
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*
Well, I too went up to heaven. I don’t recall just
how right now. It might have been by Jacob’s ladder. If so, it
was more like an escalator, for the journey was of short duration.
It was like when you desire to be a place and the next thing you
know you are there.
It was not quite like the poets and the painters have
imagined it: streets paved with gold, ethereal and lighter than air, a
land to suit every delight. On my visit, it was more like a great
lawn with a few bushes and trees, white capped mountains in the
distance. A few small houses here and about. There wasn't that
much to sight see.
Now it is true I didn’t walk all over God’s
heaven. So the milk and honey and the golden streets might have
been in a section I didn’t visit. It seems, however, our God is
a simple man, doubtless a gardener. His majesty is in his simplicity,
doubtless, rather than in the lavish decorative arts.
Certainly, he’s an Anglo-African.
Isaac was sitting under one of those shade trees, a
live oak growing. I am not sure why shade trees were needed in
heaven. There was light and a sky but no sun. A blue jay sang his
song and butterflies flitted here and there taking a drink from
flowering bushes.
It was warm but not really hot. There were two
chairs. Isaac sat in one in jeans and T-shirt with the image of
Martin Luther King, under which were the words “Free at Last!”
Isaac had a two-day beard and seemed, sitting in the lawn chair,
in a contemplative air.
An empty chair was on the other side of the small
table on which sat a tall glass of lemonade with a glass straw in
it. Isaac stood, welcomed me, and asked me to take a seat. I
desired a small glass of tea with ice and it immediately appeared
on the table. I took a sip. What a delight! Manna from Heaven!
Isaac and I
got along wondrously. So I got right to the point. I didn’t want
to waste the man’s time. I got the impression though he was
exceedingly comfortable and alert. He had a busy schedule,
nevertheless. Others than myself had too prayed for his audience.
My suspicion was that Isaac, the man rather than the
symbol, was much more than the Genesis writers let on. Isaac is
sort of squashed in, sandwiched in between the tales of Abraham
and Jacob—a mere prelude to the tale of Joseph, at best the
father of Jacob. God seemingly didn’t inspire these writers (J,
E, P) to speak of the Hebrew sojourn in Canaan from Isaac’s
point of view.
I wasted no time. I asked Isaac about his immediate
family. He said Abe his father complained every now and then, but
mostly about his joints. Sara was still in wonder that she had a
son at ninety years old. Ishmael stopped by every now and then to
talk about old times. Esau was
the most frequent visitor.
Rebecca is still in love with Jacob. And Jake is
still busy keeping his sons in line. Rachel is still ecstatic that
she is the mother of Joseph, the savior of the nation. The family
was just fine, Isaac told me, and glad to be done with the blood
and guts of politics of their former worlds. Isaac seemed quite
attentive, however, to the driving reforms of today’s world.
Isaac asked me about Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton. I
told him I didn’t know that much about their business. But that
I could testify that they were no Martin, with whom it seems Isaac
had become quite fond. He too was impressed by King’s
spirituality and sacrifice for the poor, the misfortunate, and the
downtrodden. He said Martin stopped by now and then to pay his
respects.
So I finally asked him that question unanswered
adequately for two and a half millennia. On the mountain of the
Lord, lying there bound on the holocaust wood blindfolded, what
did he think about his daddy’s readiness to cut his throat
(Genesis 22)?
I noted a slight wince as if I had touched a spot he
had spent some time in curing, if it were that indeed. “I see
you have some doubts about the biblical record. You think it is
twisted a bit, don’t you?” I admitted his insight was on
target.
“Yes, you non-churchgoing Christians of today are
bold with your questions. You descendants of the Virginia
Christian slave, who know the Bible from first to last, got much
more time on your hands these days to see the pitfalls in my
ancient story. I do appreciate your interest and concern.” Isaac
concluded.
I thought he was going to dismiss me promptly. But he
just took a sip from that tall lemonade glass and smiled. “I
supposed you think my papa was a mad man, hunh, like some think
that young Nathaniel Turner was out of his mind? It is difficult
to estimate men of faith like my father Abraham or your Nat
Turner. . . . But to tell you the truth that episode in my young
life did make me a bit skittish. I suppose in your day, I’d
definitely be on the psychoanalyst’s couch telling childhood
stories. But it wasn’t like that at all. The Lord blessed me.”
“Yeah, you been blessed all right,” I concurred,
looking about me, across that great green lawn. But I still felt I
hadn’t gotten that far beneath the surface of things.
“Brother Isaac, let me put the hard questions to
you. I see there is a little bit of your father in you. For at
Genesis 26: 6 and 7, it says, “So Isaac dwelt in Gerara. When
the men of the place inquired about his wife, he said ‘She is my
sister’; for he feared to call her his wife lest the men of the
place should kill him on Rebecca’s account, as she was
beautiful’.” He held up his hand, moving it like a wiper on a
car window.
“That’s a lie,” Isaac broke in. “It was true
that Rebecca and I were in Gerara. But I never lied about her as
my sister. Somebody got Abraham’s story mixed up with mine,
maybe deliberately. Some of the scribes probably wanted me to be
more like my father and son. I never really got that deception
game right. I am more of a straight shooter. Even the most
simple-minded knows no lie can live forever.
That
deception is something that Rebecca passed along. She was quite
imaginative. I had no great fear of our neighbors. I thought we
could all get along and that God would still fulfill his promise
to Abraham.”
"It seems to me you continued to carry a heavy
load." I began again. "You were separated from your
brother Ishmael and never really got to know him. You all did some
mending of the breach though through Esau's marriage with one of
Ishamel’s daughters. You and Ishmael got to know each other much
better after you two buried your father. But you didn’t get a
chance to choose your own wife. You were forty years old before we
finally see you with a woman.
“You seemed an awfully devoted son. You were
thirty-seven when Sara your mother died. For the Scripture says,
‘Isaac led Rebecca into the tent and took her to wife. Because
he loved her, Isaac was consoled for the loss of his mother’
(Genesis 24:66 and 67).”
“Yes, that’s all true as far as it goes.” Isaac
responded. “There was another twenty years before Rebecca bore
you two sons (Genesis 25.26),” I continued. “By the time your
sons marry they too are forty years old and you had grown old
(about a hundred) and you’re blind. And your wife Rebecca and
your son Jacob had no respect for your gray hairs. They crudely
deceived you.”
“The Bible writers did make me out to be a bit
senile, didn’t they? But the Lord, will have his way. Jacob was
his mother’s son—strong willed and independent. And I allowed
both to have their way. Each had his destiny to fill. Our God is a
slow walker. He’s God alone despite our machinations. He has a
way of turning evil into a good. I knew he’d work it out in the
end, the way he wanted it. So I followed the program. I left it to
my son Jacob to contend with the Lord.”
* * * *
*
I began to understand. Isaac was much more wise than
the biblical storytellers allowed. He had a faith, though different, as great
as that of his father Abraham and a vision as wondrous as his son
Jacob. “Actually,” Isaac started up again, “I liked Esau the
better.” Really? I exclaimed.
“Esau was easy going, easy to get along with.”
Isaac explained. “I could be comfortable around him. Like our
Canaanite neighbors were comfortable with him. He married among
them and became one of them. He still prayed to the god of
Abraham. I love all my grandsons. As you know Jacob’s boys could
be a little wild in their pride. Deep down, I wanted the marriage
approach. Our faith would have won out eventually. If that had
happened, the Holy Land probably would not be in the mess it is in
today.”
His last words struck me like a bolt of lightening. I
thanked him and said my goodbyes. In a moment, I was back on
earth. It was as if I had awakened from the best rest I had had in
years. It was a new day and I had a new faith that all would work
out indeed in the Middle East and elsewhere.
Isaac said he didn’t mind if I remember our encounter and
relate our conversation to you.
You can believe it or not. But that’s the truth of my interview
with Isaac in heaven.
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