The early history of the Hebrews

by A. H. Sayce

The practice, horrible as it seems to us, was nevertheless founded on a truth. The victim, if he were to be accepted, must be the most precious that the offerer could present. The gods did not require that which cost him nothing. It needed to be the most costly that could be given; it needed to be also, in the words of the prophet, the fruit of the sinner’s own body. Nothing else would suffice: the gods demanded the firstborn son, still more the only son. In no other way could Baal be satisfied that the sinner had repented of his guilt or had made to him an offering which was of equal value to his own life.

The firstborn of all animals, of beasts as well as of men, was owed to the gods. The belief was not confined to the Canaanites. We find traces of it in Babylonian literature, and all the denunciations of the prophets before the Exile failed to eradicate it from the mind of the Jew. Up to the closing days of the Jewish monarchy, the valley of the sons of Hinnom was defiled with the smoke of the sacrifices wherein, as it is euphemistically said, the kings and people of Jerusalem made their children to pass through the fire. The belief, indeed, was consecrated by the Mosaic law itself. Human sacrifice, it is true, was forbidden, but the firstborn, nevertheless, had to be redeemed (Exod. xxxiv. 20). Like the firstfruits and the firstborn of beasts, Yahveh had declared that the firstborn of the sons of Israel also belonged to Him (Exod. xxii. 29). He could claim them, and it was of His own freewill that He waived the claim. And along with this assertion of His claim to the firstborn went the doctrine of vicarious punishment. It was not the firstborn only in whose case a substitution was allowed: once a year the sins of the whole people were laid upon the head of the scapegoat, which was then driven like an evil spirit into the wilderness. The idea of vicarious punishment, which lies at the foundation of historical Christianity, had already found expression in the Mosaic law.

The sacrifice of the firstborn was thus part of a larger conception behind which there lay a profound truth. The sins of the father were visited upon the child in more senses than one; the child, in fact, could become an expiation for them, and divert to himself the anger of the gods. Experience had shown how often the son must suffer for the deeds of the parent, and the inference was drawn that if that suffering were voluntarily offered to heaven by the parent, he would receive all the benefits that flowed from it. Moreover, the gods had a right to the firstborn, if they chose to exercise it; and in offering the firstborn, accordingly, man was only giving back to them what was strictly their own.

The heathenism of the Mosaic age went no further. Israel was the first to learn that the law of the substitution of the firstborn for the sins of the father was subordinate to a higher and more general law—that of vicarious punishment. As the firstborn of men could be substituted for the parent, so, too, could a lower animal, or the price of a lower animal, be substituted for the firstborn of men. It was not the sacrifice which the God of Israel demanded, but the spirit of sacrifice; not the blood of bulls and goats, or even men, but obedience and readiness to give up all that was dearest and best at the command of God.

The story of the sacrifice of Isaac was a practical illustration of the lesson. Abraham was called upon to slay with his own hand his only child, the son through whom he had believed that he would become the ancestor of a mighty nation. He was summoned to lead him to one of those high-places of Canaan where the deity seemed nearer to the worshipper than in the plain below, and there, like the Phœnician god El, to offer him up to his God. We are told how he set forth from Beer-sheba, on the borders of the desert, and on the third day reached the sacred mountain on whose summit the Canaanitish rite was to be celebrated. It was in ‘the land of Moriah,’ according to the reading of the Hebrew text, a name which the chronicler (2 Chron. iii. 1) transfers to the temple-mount at Jerusalem. But the Septuagint changes the name in the books of Chronicles into that of ‘the mountain of Amoria’ or the Amorites; while in Genesis the Greek translators must have read Moreh, since the Hebrew word is rendered by ‘Highlands.’ Moreh is the Babylonian Martu, the land of the Amorites, so that we need not be surprised at finding the Syriac version boldly substituting ‘Amorites’ for the Masoretic ‘Moriah.’

In any case, the belief that the scene of Abraham’s sacrifice was the spot whereon the Jewish temple afterwards stood went back to an early date. When the book of Genesis assumed its present form it had already become fixed in the Jewish mind. This is clear from the proverb quoted to explain the name of Yahveh-yireh. ‘To this day,’ we are told, it was said: ‘In the mount of the Lord it shall be seen.’ For the Jew there was but one ‘mount of the Lord,’ that mountain whereon Yahveh revealed Himself above the cherubim of the ark. It was ‘the hill of God,’ wherein He desired to dwell (Ps. lxviii. 15), the seat of the sanctuary of Yahveh the God of Israel. When the Samaritans set up on Gerizim their rival temple to that of Jerusalem, it was necessary that the scene of the sacrifice of the Hebrew patriarch should be transferred to the new site. It was a proof how firm was the conviction that the temple-mount had been consecrated to the sacrifice of the firstborn by the great ancestor of the Israelitish family. The spot whereon the victims of the Jewish ritual were offered up was the very spot to which Abraham had been led by God that he might offer there the terrible sacrifice of his only son. Its name had been given to it by Abraham, and this name found its explanation in a saying that was current at Jerusalem about the temple-mount.

The actual meaning of the name is not certain, nor indeed is the original signification of the proverb itself. Already in the time of the Septuagint translation the meaning of the latter was doubtful, and the Greek translators have made the divine name the subject of the verb, reading, ‘In the mountain the Lord was seen.’ But the fact that the Chronicler calls the temple-mount Moriah shows that such a rendering was not accepted in Jerusalem.

It may be that the name ‘mount of the Lord’ goes back, at all events in substance, to patriarchal times. Among the places in Southern Palestine conquered by the Egyptian Pharaoh, Thothmes III., of the eighteenth dynasty, and recorded on the temple walls of Karnak, is Har-el, ‘the mountain of God.’[^[62]] The names found in immediate connection with Har-el indicate that its site is to be sought in the neighbourhood of Jerusalem; and as the name of Jerusalem itself does not occur in the Pharaoh’s list of his conquests, it is probable that we are to see in it the future capital of Judah. As we now know from the Tel el-Amarna tablets, Jerusalem was an important city of Canaan long before the Mosaic age; it was, moreover, the centre of a district which had been conquered by the Egyptians, and its ruler was a vassal of the Egyptian monarch. It is therefore difficult to account for the omission of any reference to it in the catalogue of the conquests of the Pharaoh except upon the supposition that it is really mentioned among them, though under another name.

The distance that separates Jerusalem from Beer-sheba would correspond with the three days’ journey of Abraham to the destined place of sacrifice. It was on the third day that Abraham lifted up his eyes ‘and saw the place afar off.’ The main, in fact, the only, argument of any weight that has been urged against the identification is the fact that the place of sacrifice seems to have been a desert spot. No spectators are mentioned as present, and close to it was a thicket in which a ram was caught by the horns. How can such solitude, it is asked, be reconciled with the existence of a city in the same spot? How can the deserted high-place whereon the patriarch raised the altar of sacrifice for his son be identical with the fortress-city of which Melchizedek was king?

At first sight the difficulty seems overwhelming. But we must remember that nothing is said in the narrative about the place being desert and remote from men, nor even that it was not within the walls of a city. And we must further remember that the temple of Solomon itself was built on what had been the threshing-floor of Araunah the Jebusite. Before the age of Solomon, therefore, the place must have been open and free from buildings; it must, too, have been a level platform of rock on the summit of the hill where the winds could freely play and scatter the chaff when the grain was threshed. Such open spaces are not infrequent in Oriental cities, and the visitor sometimes finds himself suddenly emerging out of close and crowded lanes into a growth of rank brushwood and weeds.