The Akedah—Abraham’s near-sacrifice of Isaac in Genesis 22—has long been read as the Bible’s ultimate test of faith and obedience. The Hebrew word means “to tie up” or “to bind,” describing what Abraham does to Isaac in response to God’s command to kill his son. He sets out without telling Sarah, fully intending to murder his child, only for the Lord to intervene at the last moment with a critical message. Abraham’s trial of faith is so devastating that he never again speaks to Isaac, Sarah, or God. Philosophers and theologians have interpreted the story in strikingly different ways: Did God expect Abraham’s obedience—or yearn for his “pious irreverence”? In this interview, scholar Aaron Koller explores the history of interpreting the Akedah, examining what this haunting episode means for readers of faith.
Don’t miss new insights on topics such as Abrahamic Lore and The Story of Creation in Genesis. Sign up to get them straight to your inbox.
The Meaning of Akedah: Moral Responsibility in Genesis 22
— The Hebrew root of Akedah—meaning “to bind”—serves as a catalyst for a deeper debate: should we view our ancestors as flawless icons or as fallible humans whose mistakes teach us moral courage?
What does “Akedah” mean, and how is it traditionally understood in Jewish readings of Genesis 22?
‘Akedah is a word with an interesting pedigree. On one level, it’s a simple word. It comes from the Hebrew root ‘ayin-qof-dalet, which means “to tie up, to bind.” It’s used in the Mishnah, for example, to “tie up” a camel’s legs to prevent it from running away.
But the verb took on particular significance because of its only occurrence in the Hebrew Bible: Genesis 22: “[Abraham] tied up (‘aqad) his son Isaac and placed him on the altar.”
As a result, the word became closely associated with the story. Most of the uses of the verb in later Hebrew, in fact, refer specifically to Isaac being bound. And the noun derived from that verb, ‘aqedah, became the unofficial name for the story of Genesis 22.
Was Abraham’s silence a missed opportunity for moral courage?
This gets at a profound question: how do we read the stories of the matriarchs and patriarchs?
Are all episodes in their biographies instructive in a positive sense? Are we reading hagiographic works—lives of the saints—that just go from highlight to highlight to show us that the first Jews were essentially flawless? Or are we reading stories of great people of faith who nonetheless stumble here and there?
In the Jewish tradition, there is a vibrant heritage of reading certain stories from Genesis as instructive, due to the mistakes made by our heroes. In his comments on Genesis 12, for example, the great 13th-century commentator Nahmanides writes, “Know that Abraham our father unintentionally committed a great sin….”
No simple answer is possible here.
In modern Hebrew culture, this is sometimes called “approaching the ancestors at eyes’ height (be-govah ‘enayim),” in other words, approaching them like real people.
This approach opens the door to always asking: Was there a better path open to the character? There is no pretense to judging someone like Abraham—partly because far be it from me to judge great people, and partly because at this distance it is futile.
But we can then use the text as an educational exercise for ourselves. What options do we see?
Want More Scholar Interviews in Your Inbox?
Stay connected with fresh content and scholarly insights every week.
What role does conscience play when reading stories that challenge our moral instincts?
Again, this is the deepest of the questions. How much do we bend our will to the text, and how much do we read in light of our own convictions? No simple answer is possible here.
It’s a truism of the contemporary world that we can never be objective; we bring ourselves to every encounter, including textual encounters. And so the best we can do is to be honest about that.
If we are reading in light of our own consciences, be clear that this is what we’re doing, and at least ask ourselves whether this is the best way to understand the text.
Isaac’s Humanity: The Emotional Cost of Abraham’s Sacrifice
— Beyond its role as a theological archetype, the near-sacrifice of Isaac carries a devastating emotional price that left Abraham’s family fractured and his most vital relationships silenced.
Why is it important to see Isaac not just as a symbol, but as a son and a person?
This is my ethical commitment—some form of the Kantian imperative not to allow any person to be reduced to just a prop in someone else’s story.
There might also be a difference here between a Jewish and a Christian way of reading, as for Jews, the patriarchs and matriarchs are not types, foreshadowing developments that would later come to fruition with Jesus, but human beings on their own, with all the significance that any person has, plus some extra significance because of their roles in the national story.
How might we read the Akedah in a way that honors both divine purpose and the deep emotional cost?
This conflict doesn’t bother me all that much, because I think the harder question is discerning divine purpose. Famously, God contradicts Godself in the chapter, first commanding the sacrifice of Isaac and then forbidding it.
A midrash puts this very question in the mouth of Abraham:
Yesterday you said, ‘Isaac shall be your heir’; then you said, ‘Take your son,’ and now you are saying to me, ‘Don’t harm the boy’! This makes no sense!
Genesis Rabbah 56:8
But I think you’re right that despite everything, there’s no way of avoiding the fact that the episode must have been traumatic for both Abraham and Isaac. I don’t think the narrative shies away from that.
He never has another conversation with Sarah, or Isaac, or God.
After the story of the ‘Akedah, Abraham never has another conversation with Sarah, or Isaac, or God. The narrative wants us to realize that this great act of faith comes at an almost unimaginable cost.
For Abraham, his faith cost him all the relationships that were most important to him. Tragically, the “father of many nations” appears to die alone (Genesis 25:8). But once he passes away, both his sons, Ishmael and Isaac, come together to bury him (25:9).
In what ways can re-reading the Akedah help us think more carefully about what it means to sacrifice?
We use the word “sacrifice” in so many different ways that it has lost some of its punch. But it’s one of the most powerful tools in our emotional toolbox. We sacrifice for ideas, ideals, and people we believe are worthwhile, and by doing so, we make them even more worthwhile.
In general, we think human sacrifice is anathema, but the ‘Akedah forces us to ask why.
What’s the significance of an angel stopping Abraham at the last moment?
To my mind, this is the highlight of the story. First, God now reveals that the sacrifice of Isaac will not happen—and is, in fact, forbidden. Second, we learn that Abraham remained open to hearing a divine voice, regardless of his mindset.
Sometimes we feel so committed to a cause that even when new information or a new voice emerges, we can’t change course. Abraham is amazingly able to both throw himself into the cause of sacrificing Isaac and desist when called upon to do so.
Where is the Akedah traditionally believed to have taken place?
The only clue we get in the text is that Abraham is meant to walk three days to the ‘land of Moriah.’ That name isn’t known from any other text, in the Bible or elsewhere, with one exception—the book of Chronicles calls the Temple Mount ‘Mt. Moriah’. Because of this, the story is traditionally believed to have occurred in Jerusalem, on the mountain where the Temple later stood and where the Al-Aqsa Mosque and Dome of the Rock now stand.
Scholars are less convinced and have raised other possibilities, such as the Jordan desert or the Negev.
Perhaps the location’s anonymity is part of the point. Sublime religious experience can take place anywhere.
Faith vs. Ethics: Challenging God in Jewish Tradition
— True faith requires the “pious irreverence” to challenge divine commands, suggesting that a bilateral covenant with God empowers believers to prioritize conscience over blind obedience.
How do you navigate the tension between obedience and moral reasoning in your reading of Genesis 22?
This approach to reading the story is primarily influenced by the Danish theologian and philosopher Søren Kierkegaard. He saw the story as asking precisely that question: what happens when faith and ethics clash?
Most readers before Kierkegaard’s time in the nineteenth century didn’t see the story that way. They saw it as a clash between Abraham’s loyalties: to God and to his son.
In what ways does your view differ from Soren Kierkegaard’s “leap of faith” interpretation?
In my own reading, I follow Kierkegaard to some extent. However, I part ways with him in our understanding of the end.
- For Kierkegaard, the whole point of the story is Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice Isaac, against his own ethical commitments.
- I think the whole point is that God steps in to say that, in fact, this is not allowed: a complete understanding of the divine will cannot demand something unethical.
Do you think faith can include moments of protest—or even doubt—when moral questions arise?
Absolutely. This is deeply rooted in Jewish tradition. My friend Dov Weiss wrote a great book called Pious Irreverence, which explores the many rabbinic texts that challenge God on a range of matters, from the trivial to the profound.
Abraham himself challenges God on the justice of the destruction of Sodom, and there are rabbis in the midrash who castigate God for allowing the destruction of the Flood, for example, and many other episodes.
God seems to want this sort of challenge.
Interestingly, in the Bible, God seems to want this sort of challenge. As the Temple is being destroyed, God blames the prophets who did not stand up to him and prevent it from happening (Ezekiel 22:30).
The most searing sorts of challenges are those that claim that God has—literally—fallen asleep on the job. This occurs in Psalm 44, for example, where the psalmist says:
Why do You sleep, O Lord? Wake up! …
Why do You hide Your face, ignoring our affliction and distress?
Psalm 44
This is tough to read.
The key in all this is that it’s a protest to God about God. These are not doubts about whether God exists, but rather whether God is doing the best job possible.
The biblical concept of the covenant is, in this way, truly radical, because covenants are bilateral: we owe fealty to God, but God, in turn, owes us a great deal as well.
Reinterpreting the Akedah: How Sacred Stories Evolve
— Grappling with troubling scriptures is not a rejection of faith, but a centuries-old Jewish tradition that ensures ancient texts evolve to meet the ethical demands of the modern world.
Why do you think the Akedah has remained such a central—yet troubling—text?
Like most great works of art, part of the staying power is the multiplicity of ways of reading it. It inspires, confounds, maddens, and enlightens—sometimes at the same time.
How have Jewish thinkers throughout history reshaped the meaning of the Akedah to meet the needs of their own time?
I wouldn’t formulate it as an explicit reshaping. Readers always bring themselves to the text—and often find what they need. In Antiquity and the Middle Ages, some readers found the ‘Akedah to be a model of martyrdom, invoking it when the demands on their faith threatened their own lives.
Modern readers have tended to view it as a philosophical reflection on core questions of ethics and faith.
What’s the difference between “reinterpreting” a sacred story and “rejecting” it?
There are different types of rejection. The most extreme is when a reader finds a text so distasteful or just strange that they set it aside as irrelevant to their life.
Any way of grappling with a text is already an act of piety. The person who angrily yells at a problematic text—screaming “What do you want from me?!” at the book or the screen—is engaging in a way that actually bespeaks devotion. We don’t waste our energy being angry at things that don’t matter to us.
Sometimes, what an outsider sees as reinterpretation is simply the way a reader understands the text. It may not be a conscious reinterpretation, and it may be the only way they can understand what they’re reading.
Other reinterpretations that are more deliberate, such as when an interpreter consciously says, “The text appears to mean X, but I refuse to accept that reading because X is off-limits. So let’s see if we can find another way of reading it.” This has explicit roots in medieval interpreters and continues to the present day.
Can faithful communities grapple with challenging texts while remaining grounded in tradition?
Absolutely! Tradition has always grappled with hard texts. There never was a time that the texts all made good, easy sense to all readers, so grappling is itself part of the tradition.
The Ultimate Lesson: Why God Stopped the Sacrifice
— The Akedah’s ultimate revelation is a transformative shift in religious ethics: God does not demand that we prove our devotion through the suffering of those we love.
How has engaging deeply with the Akedah changed the way you teach or discuss difficult scriptures?
I’ve become more attuned to how the history of interpretation can bring people into the discussion.
Seeing the questions asked and the suggestions offered in the Middle Ages, and how commentators challenged one another, taking part in a conversation that unfolded over many centuries, encourages contemporary readers to join that conversation as well.
What takeaways do you hope readers remember from Unbinding Isaac?
There are two things that I hope readers remember, one methodological and one substantive:
- Finding Meaning Requires Hard Work. I want people to realize that simplistic arguments based on “what the text means” are not likely to be the end of the story. I don’t think texts can mean anything, but they also don’t speak for themselves. It’s hard work to figure out what the possibilities are, but it’s fulfilling.
- Textual Integrity and Ethical Commitments Can Co-Exist. The book concludes that there are ways of reading that are faithful to both the text and our ethical commitments. In this case, the high point of the story is not the command to offer Isaac as a sacrifice, but the point at which God tells Abraham to desist.
As I understand it, the entire point of the story is that God will not require one person to atone for their piety through the suffering of another.
This is the beginning of all religious ethics.
Don’t Miss Our Latest Interviews!
Stay connected with fresh content and scholarly insights every week.
About the Scholar
Aaron J. Koller is a Professor of Near Eastern Studies at Yeshiva University and a distinguished scholar of the Hebrew Bible and its ancient contexts. Holding a PhD from Yeshiva University, he specializes in the intersection of Semitic philology and Jewish intellectual history, with a particular focus on how ancient texts are transformed by modern ethical thought. He is the author of several acclaimed works, including Unbinding Isaac: The Significance of the Akedah for Modern Jewish Thought, published by the Jewish Publication Society. His expertise is widely recognized in both academic and religious circles, where he frequently contributes to global dialogues on the evolution of biblical interpretation and the moral responsibilities of the faithful.
Further Reading
- How Do We Derive Meaning From the Bible?
- What Does Genesis Really Say About Creation?
- Were the Pharisees Bad People?
- Who Was Melchizedek in the Dead Sea Scrolls?
- Is There Lore About Abraham From Outside the Bible?
Sacrifice of Isaac Resources
- Unbinding Isaac: The Significance of the Akedah for Modern Jewish Thought (Jewish Publication Society)
- Library Book Talk: Aaron Koller on Unbinding Isaac: The Significance of the Akedah for Modern Jewish Thought (Yeshiva University)
- The Binding or Sacrifice of Isaac (Biblical Archaeology Society)
- Violence in the Bible: Abraham’s Sacrifice of Isaac (Bible Project)
- The Longer (and More Important?) Abraham Story (Ben Spackman)
- Jacob in the Presence of God (BYU Religious Studies Center)
