A Ram in a Thicket

Once Abraham had proven his faith by his willingness to sacrifice Isaac, his son, the Lord spared him the necessity of actually doing so. The father and son found a ram in a thicket nearby, and they sacrificed the ram instead: the ram provided to them by, well, Providence. So God gave them a ram, and they turned around and offered the ram right back.

 

St. Augustine said, “Our wills are ours, to make them Thine.” When we pray successfully, it’s because the Holy Spirit is praying within us, “with inexpressible groanings” (Romans 8:26). We need grace even to accept grace, and whatever we offer to God is already His anyway. “What do you have that has not been given to you?” (1 Corinthians 4:7). Sometimes I want to throw my hands up and say, “Is God like one of those obnoxious project partners who insist on doing all your work as well as their own because their way is just so much better? What is the point of my even being here?”

 

Or rather, I used to feel that way. Since having kids, I think I’ve begun to get it—at least a little bit. Both of our girls are extremely strong-willed, to the point of being bull-headed (wonder where they got that from?), and they both hated accepting help when they were learning to walk. Wanted to do the whole thing themselves—pratfalls, nosebleeds, and all. Yet, at the same time, their frustration at their own endlessly repeated failure was so evident that it was never a surprise when they finally let go of their tiny, adorable egos and reached out for help.

 

Now, I don’t want to belabor the obvious God-as-parent analogy, but there’s also a slightly darker side to this parallel. Another thing that strikes me almost every day of being around small children is just how nakedly, hopelessly childish we all remain. A boy grows to manhood and takes the reins of a great empire. He sees a smaller nation that has (say) a wealth of finely crafted jewels, and he wants them. He goes with his army and he takes them. How, exactly, does this differ from my elder daughter snatching a toy train away from her little sister? Only in scale. The same holds true with jealousy, with outbursts of temper, with any objectionable trait which, grown to its logical conclusion, becomes torture and theft and genocide. I won’t speak for any other small children, but I know full well—I remember with perfect clarity—that when I was five years old, there were days when I would have smashed all life on Earth if I’d had the power. The bigger the ego gets, the less adorable it becomes.

 

This world, this life, is our infancy. The vale of tears, it’s a training ground for saints. Most of us won’t even make it to sainthood in this world, and will need Lord knows how many centuries of remedial work in Purgatory. Once we finally (God willing) get to Heaven, once we can stand with Him as saints, once we see Him as He is and thus become like Him (1 John 3:2), then He’ll be able to start trusting us with real responsibilities. We shall judge angels (1 Cor 6:3). But we must prove reliable in small matters before He will rely on us for great ones (Luke 16:10). We have to learn that we can’t stand on our own.

 

 

“Abraham took the wood for the offering and laid it on his son Isaac, while he himself carried the fire and the knife” (Genesis 22:6). When Abraham put Isaac on the altar, he was spared—or rather, they were both spared. But when God’s Son carried the wood for the offering—when the carpenter’s boy took the heavy cross on his shoulders—neither He nor His Father was spared. God the Son suffered death and God the Father suffered watching His Son suffer death. I know which place I would rather be in, if I could choose between dying and watching one of my daughters die.

 

So when I feel tempted to throw my hands up and complain, I try to remember my beautiful, beautiful girls struggling to rise to their feet. They can do it, they can do it! But just not—quite—yet. First, they need to reach out their hands.