View source for Isaac and His Sons.'

'''Back to [[From the Creation—to the Exodus]]'''
----
<p>Genesis 24-25<br><br>
With the birth of Isaac, Abraham saw the beginning of the fulfillment of the Divine promise. He was to have a great posterity. For a long while, he had no child—but at last one was born to him. Yet Isaac was little more than a <em>link</em>. He had none of the greatness of Abraham. One writer thinks this was partly due to his father's greatness—he was dwarfed and weakened by growing up under the shadow of Abraham. Another writer thinks Isaac's passive weakness of character may have sprung in part from his close relations with his mother. He grew up in the shade of Sarah's tent, and was molded into <em>feminine softness </em>by habitual submission to her strong will. Both these suggestions are worthy of thought.<br><br>
It is possible for a son to be dominated too strongly and too exclusively by his <strong>father's </strong>influence, especially if the father is a man of great force of character and occupies a prominent place in the world. The sons of fathers who have grown rich, frequently fail to make of their lives what they might have made—if they had been born poor and compelled to struggle and toil for themselves. Life is <em>too easy </em>for them. Sons whose fathers are great in name and in intellectual power, are ofttimes hampered in the development of their own career. They are apt to live in the shadow of their father's name, to depend upon an inherited distinction, rather than upon making their own. There usually is a <em>disadvantage </em>for a boy in having too great a father. Such a father needs much wisdom if he would make his son's chance in the world a fair one, for <em>true greatness </em>of any kind cannot be<em>bequeathed</em>; each man must win his own greatness, through his own effort, his own toil and self-denial, his own struggle.<br><br>
Then it is no doubt true also that many a son's career is marred, perhaps wrecked, by the very love of his <strong>mother</strong>. Boys are sometimes sneered at by other boys, as being &quot;tied to their mother's apron strings.&quot; Sometimes the sneer is most unjust. Happy, indeed, the boy who is in all true ways, under the influence of his mother, if she is a worthy mother. The boy who is not proud of such a mother and does not make her his confidante in all matters—is missing one of the finest opportunities that will ever come to him. Someone was telling a boy of God's help, how all good came from Him. &quot;Yes,&quot; said the boy, very thoughtfully, &quot;yes—but<em>mothers </em>help a lot!&quot;<br><br>
Yet it is possible that Isaac was too exclusively under Sarah's influence. It is possible that he was too tenderly cared for by her, too much sheltered from care and danger, saved too much from thinking for himself, meeting his own difficulties, fighting his own battles, doing things for himself. It is possible that it would have been better for Isaac, would have made a better man of him—if he had been pushed out into the world, if he had had more contact with other boys and young men, if he had had to take more hard knocks, and measure his strength more with the strength of others.<br><br>
One of the best results of <em>college life </em>for a young man—is his contact with other young men. It takes the self-conceit out of him—the self-conceit his mother in the very love of her heart—has probably done something to pamper. It teaches him respect for other young men's abilities. It brings out the finest qualities in character. No matter how great the educational value of the college curriculum, it is no doubt true, in most cases at least, that the part of college life which means most to a young man—is what he gets from college life itself. The best education a boy may get in private, studying alone—never can do for him all that he needs; it may make a <em>scholar </em>of him—but it cannot make him a <em>man</em>.<br><br>
We are not told of much that Isaac ever did. He made no <em>mark of distinction </em>for himself. He dug some wells to get water for his flocks—but most of these were probably old wells of his father's which had been filled up, and which Isaac re-dug. After his mother had died, his father began to think of getting a wife for him. While his mother lived the question of marriage seems not to have been taken up. Probably it was just as well, for a young wife might not have had an easy lot in Sarah's home.<br><br>
When Abraham took up the question himself, according to the custom of the country, he was wisely solicitous concerning the <em>kind of wife </em>his son would get. He did not want him to marry one of the Canaanite women. They were idolaters, and Abraham was to found a new nation that would worship only the one true God. Abraham's conversation with his servant on this subject is very instructive. The servant doubted whether a young woman would be willing to leave her own country to come to a strange land—but Abraham was sure God would take the matter in hand and would send <em>His angel </em>to influence her.<br><br>
The story of the journey in search of a <em>wife for Isaac </em>is told most simply and beautifully. It is a story of <em>providence</em>. God had gone before—and had <em>prepared </em>the way. The servant had prayed for guidance, asking that when the daughters of the neighborhood came that evening with their flocks, the girl whom God had chosen for Isaac should be the one who should give drink to him at his request. So it came about, that it was Rebekah who met him, and Rebekah proved to be God's choice for Isaac.<br><br>
When Rebekah was told at length the servant's errand, and asked if she would go and become the wife of Isaac, she said that she would go with him. So Rebekah became Isaac's wife, and he loved her and was comforted after his mother's death.<br><br>
For twenty years no child was born to Isaac and Rebekah. They had to learn in some measure, the same lesson of <em>faith </em>and<em>waiting </em>that Abraham and Sarah had to learn. At length their prayers were answered. The <em>twin sons </em>that were born to them gave evidence from the first of great differences in every way. They were different in appearance, and they developed difference in disposition, in character.<br><br>
It was probably when they were quite young men, that the strange transaction between them occurred in which Esau, the firstborn, sold his birthright to his brother. This incident well shows the differing <em>qualities </em>and <em>characteristics </em>of the brothers.<br><br>
The narrative begins with the natural statement that &quot;the boys grew&quot;. They were country boys, and they lived a free life in a simple sort of civilization. There was but little restraint put upon them. They did not have to go to school every day as our boys do. They probably had no athletic games to absorb their vast energies. Their home-life was simple. They lived very much as<em>Bedouin </em>boys live today. So they grew into great, stalwart fellows. Boys should always seek to grow. They should grow not only in physical stature and vigor—but also in mental power and in spiritual strength.<br><br>
&quot;And the boys grew: and Esau was a cunning hunter, a man of the field; and Jacob was a plain man, dwelling in tents.&quot; The brothers developed their difference in <em>taste </em>and <em>disposition </em>very early. Esau became a hunter, a man of the field, while Jacob showed a preference for a quiet life.<br><br>
If you plant an <em>acorn </em>and a <em>chestnut </em>in the same field, though the soil is the same, and the same sun shines on both, and the same winds blow over both—they will not both grow up either oaks or chestnut-trees. The <em>individuality </em>of each will assert itself. So it is with boys. <em>Environment </em>may have much to do with the <em>shaping </em>of character—but it does not <em>make </em>character. Your boy with the <em>artist soul</em>, will become an artist—though he is brought up on the farm among sheep and cattle. And though you keep your boy with the <em>musical </em>soul in the midst of most unmusical influences—the music will come out.<br><br>
A great English painter tells of a boy put under his training to be made a painter. One day the boy was found crying bitterly over his blotched work, and when asked what was the matter, replied, &quot;Father thinks I can draw—but I want to be a butcher.&quot; God does not want us all to be alike—there is need in the world for every kind of ability—and the truest education is that which gives God's plan for the boy the best opportunity to work itself out.<br><br>
It is said that &quot;<em>Isaac loved Esau</em>&quot;. The reason given is &quot;because he had a taste for <em>wild game</em>.&quot; The old man was fond of <em>wild game</em>, and Esau took pains to bring it to him from the field. Are we influenced in our preferences and friendships, by anything that panders merely to the physical appetites? Perhaps we are. The nearest and surest way to some people's friendship—is said to be through their stomachs! Sometimes a person of very vile and unworthy character, is received as a friend because he is &quot;so kind,&quot; always bringing dainty things for eating. Of course Isaac ought to have loved Esau, because Esau was his son—but the reason given for it, and for Isaac's favoritism to Esau, is not a lofty one.<br><br>
Then, &quot;Rebekah loved Jacob&quot;. Each parent had a favorite child. This was bad. It is always unwise for parents to show <em>preference</em>and <em>partiality </em>for any one child. Jacob himself made the same mistake at a later time—in his undisguised preference for Joseph—but he only made trouble for Joseph. It should be the aim of parents to treat all their children alike, showing no preference. If there is special interest manifested in any particular child—it should be in the one who is in some way unfortunate, blind, crippled, deformed. In such cases there is need for <em>special love </em>and help—to balance the <em>handicap </em>of misfortune. But <em>partiality</em>and <em>favoritism </em>because of peculiar endowment or winningness, is both unwise and unjust.<br><br>
A single act sometimes reveals the whole of a life's inner quality. We may read some of the lines of <em>Esau's character </em>in his behavior that day when he came in from the field hungry and begged Jacob to give him some of his <em>stew</em>. Jacob was cooking lentils at the time, and the moment Esau smelled the odor of the savory dish—his hunger became ravenous. <em>His appetite mastered him. </em>He was hungry, and he acted like a <em>big baby—</em>rather than like a <em>man</em>. We ought to learn to keep our <em>appetites under control </em>and to endure the cravings of <em>hunger </em>with some sort of manly courage.<br><br>
Esau was not a <em>child </em>at this time—but a man probably of more than thirty. Esau was altogether under the control of his bodily desires. He was altogether earthly. He had no heavenly aspirations, no longings for God. He was under the sway of <em>bodily appetites</em>. We see the same kind of man again and again, one who thinks of nothing but his meals—what he shall eat and what he shall drink!<br><br>
But what shall we say of the way <em>Jacob </em>treated his brother's pitiful craving? It was natural enough for Esau in his hunger to ask Jacob for a portion of his supper. What should Jacob have done? What would you say a Christian brother should do in a like case? If Jacob had acted as he <em>should </em>have done—there would have been no story of the selling of the birthright. We cannot commend<em>Jacob's part </em>in this business. It was despicably base and selfish. We should never take advantage of another's weakness or distress of any kind—to drive a sharp bargain with him. If a man is compelled to sell a piece of property to raise money to meet an urgent need—an honorable neighbor will not use the other's misfortune, to get the property at less than its true value. One who has money to lend—should not take advantage of another's <em>necessity </em>to exact usurious interest. No one should take advantage of another's ignorance, to impose upon him or to deceive him. No boy wants to be called base—yet nothing is baser than taking advantage of another boy's weakness, innocence, ignorance, or need!<br><br>
The Lord had said before the birth of the boys, that the elder would serve the younger. That was God's plan—but He did not want it brought about by any <em>wrongdoing</em>. He never wants our <em>sins—</em>in working out His purposes. If Jacob had been told this by his mother—he ought to have waited for God to give him the promised honor in His own way. We should never try to <em>hurry God's providences</em>. You can <em>hasten </em>the opening of a rose, tearing the bursting bud apart—but you will <em>spoil </em>the rose. You may force some plan which God is working out for you—by putting your own hands to it—but you only mar and stain it. God's good purpose for you will bring you blessing, only if it is worked out in <em>God's way</em>.<br><br>
Esau's present hunger seemed such a bitter thing to him, that to appease it he was willing to sacrifice a great future good. For one bowl of stew—he sold his birthright! We speak of his folly as if the case were exceptional, as if no other one ever did the same. But people are doing this all the time. For a moment's sinful pleasure, men indulge their lustful appetites and passions, throwing away innocence, happiness, and heaven for it!<br><br>
A man is hungry and steals bread—selling his <em>birthright of innocence</em>, making himself a thief, darkening all his own future with the shadow of crime, to appease for one little hour the pangs of hunger!<br><br>
The bargain was sealed. The price was paid and accepted. The birthright was now Jacob's—and the stew was Esau's. His hunger was satisfied for an hour or two—but his birthright was gone. The hunger would soon return—but the birthright never could be his again. He had traded rank, position, power, possession, headship, special Divine and very blessed promises—for one bowl of stew!<br><br>
There are several things to notice in the terrible folly of such bartering. One is, that the present is not all. For the instant, it seems all. The giving of the passions or appetites immediate gratification, seems bliss. Everything is forgotten but the moment's pleasure or gain. But the present is not all. There are days, years, ages, afterward when the life will go on in shame, darkness, bitterness. It would be well to think of this—before blackening all the future—for one hour's sinful enjoyment! &quot;Better give up my birthright than die,&quot; said Esau. &quot;Nay, nay; better die than part with your birthright.&quot;<br><br>
Another thing which intensified the folly of Esau's act, was its <em>irrevocableness</em>. He had taken an oath, and the compact never could be undone. In Hebrews this feature of Esau's wickedness is specially marked: &quot;Afterward, as you know, when he wanted to inherit this blessing, he was rejected. He could bring about no change of mind, though he sought the blessing with tears.&quot; Ah, that is the bitterness of such sin—we cannot undo it; we cannot get again the birthright which we have sold. Tears will not bring back lost honesty, lost innocence, lost virtue, lost character, a lost Christ!<br><br>
By his reckless act, Esau showed that he despised his birthright. He did not value it. He rated it as worth no more than a morsel of food. Yet it really was worth everything to him. Men and women are all the while despising their own birthright. They are holding in one hand purity, noble character, usefulness, joy, peace, heaven—and in the other hand, some little sinful gratification, some transient pleasure, some prize worth nothing in the end! Imagine selling a priceless inheritance—for a few fading flowers. What fools we are! Shall we not seek to prize and honor—the things to be really prized and honored?
----
'''Back to [[From the Creation—to the Exodus]]'''