Abraham — The Open Hand

There is a sequence that runs through every man's story. The eye finds something. Desire follows the eye. The hand follows desire. And the fist closes. What is inside the closed fist can never be a gift. Because a gift requires an open hand to receive it. The sequence cannot break itself from inside. The hand that reaches only tightens. The fist that is closed cannot open itself — because the logic of the closed fist is that opening means loss. And loss is the thing the whole sequence was built to prevent. Into this pattern steps one man. His name at this point in the story is Abram. In the ancient world three things constituted a man's entire identity. His land. His kindred. His father's house. Strip a man of these three things and he does not merely lose his possessions. He loses the answer to the question — who am I. And God says — leave them. All three. Walk toward a land I will show you when you get there. לֶךְ־לְךָ — Lech-lecha. Walk your walk. The land will not be shown in advance. There is only the word. And the decision of whether to move toward what cannot yet be seen. On the road — before the promised land has been seen — Abram stops at a tree. אֵלוֹן מוֹרֶה — Moreh. The tree of learning. At the oak of learning Abram encounters God face to face and the promise is spoken over land he has not yet seen. He continues. He stops between two locations. Bethel — house of God. And Ai — ruins. Between the house of God and ruins, Abram looks out over the promised land. And sees a heavy famine. This is the test every man must move into. Not abundance. Not immediate confirmation. Not the promised land performing as expected. The emptiness. The famine is not the interruption of the promise. It is the condition in which the man who can hold the promise is being formed. The open hand is not weakness. It is the only posture in which anything from outside the system can be received. And what cannot be received cannot be carried. And what cannot be carried cannot be given. The way forward has always looked like this. A man who releases what defined him and steps toward what he cannot yet see. @locustinthetext | For men east of Eden