Abraham and Brother Nahor
Corrupted beyond Repair or Cowardly Abandoning?
A piece on faith, pluralism, secularism, and determination. ~30 min read
Genesis 12:1
Abraham, the 1st patriarch, is called by the Lord to leave Ur for the promised land. He takes along his wife, nephew, and father. His brother Nahor does not join.
This story imagines the brothers’ difficulty: Abraham is determined to leave; Nahor won’t give up on their home.
- - -
Nahor had a giant smile. He couldn’t help it. Any other day, it would’ve received suspicious looks. Who smiles walking alone through the streets? Not today though. Tavern hosts’ smiles weren’t only for customer service. Shop owners hummed tunes as they swept their entrances. Elders on porches waved instead of glaring shiftily at someone happier than average. Neighbors collaborated to hang colorful triangle flags, crisscrossing the street.
Today was the summer festival! The stress of urban life in Ur could be postponed, if not forgotten, for the day.
An early morning heat made Nahor sweat, but, today, this was good. A hot day portended a warm night, and night was when the real party began. The patron god of Ur was Nanna, the Sumerian god of the moon. The first sight of their guardian would begin “formal” festivities, but the pregame was just as busy. Additionally, the party didn’t end until the moon set, which this year, wasn’t until late next morning.
Nahor’s real reason to be happy was greater, independent of the festival, and more sacred: he secured one-on-one time with his brother Abraham. Work, family, friends, and life had prevented the two adult brothers from having alone time together for a while. The usual obligations. The usual suspects. True, today, they’d be among the crowds, but they’d be a party of two.
Now, Nahor speedily strolled towards his brother’s home. Lack of sleep last night (from excitement) didn’t diminish his energy nor hopes. He yelled his arrival twenty paces from Abraham’s door. A neighbor poked her head out of the window and wished Nahor a happy solstice.
Before he could open his brother’s front door, his nephew Lot barged out. His (and Abraham’s) nephew Lot lived with Abraham ever since Lot’s father (their brother) died. Adolescent Lot raced outside past his uncle Nahor without acknowledging his elder. Nahor considered reproaching the lack of filial piety, but today did not need such a stern start.
Regardless, Abraham now stood at the door rubbing his eyes. Nahor said, “There he is! You ready?” Abraham grunted his consent, so Nahor said, “Hope you got your sleep. This one’s gonna’ be a long one.”
“Yeah, we’ll see,” said Abraham.
Abraham’s wife Sarah approached wringing a towel. “You two have fun, ok?” She wore a plain, brown outfit. Her hair was a simple ponytail. Her feet were not yet washed.
“You have fun too. What have you and my wife have planned?” The wives were Nahor’s first obstacle for brotherly time, but not a difficult one. The ladies easily agreed to girl time.
“You know,” said Sarah, “baking some moon cakes, prayer with the hearth priestesses, maybe help the contestants’ get-up for their pageant. I’m about to meet your wife, but happy to see you first.”
“Nice, very fun,” nodded Nahor, exaggerating excitement. It’d be tragic for the wives to renege because they couldn’t match the husbands’ fun. “Well, we got a big day so we should get going.” Nahor swung his arm around his brother and began their departure. He removed his arm and once it felt he was pulling his brother faster than Abraham wanted.
The neighbor who had wished Nahor a happy solstice greeted Abraham with an equally good mood. Abraham forced a smile, but said quietly to Nahor, “Now, she’s nice, psh. She’s always complaining about something.” Nahor chuckled.
They turned a corner and saw their nephew Lot and his friends’ stacking rocks and clay pots on a table. Lot held a gray crescent moon figurine in both hands and tried to point instructions with its tips.
“What’s all this?” asked Nahor.
A boy responded, “It’s our entry to the float.” Another boy added, “It’s Nanna as a bull, and those are gonna’ be the horns.” He pointed to the crescent moon Lot held. Nahor then realized its potential. The four table legs would be the bull’s legs. A well-shaped rock could pass as a bull’s face. The arrangement of jars could convince drunk judges of a body. However, using a crescent moon for the horns was, actually, precociously genius.
“Very cool!” said Nahor. “You’re gonna’ paint all the rocks and jars the same color though, right?” The boys’ eyes widened from the new, now obvious, inadequacy. Then, they dropped crestfallen. “Unless,” Nahor rescued, “it’s the legendary spotted bull of Latooshi! No way? Is it?” The boys quickly found consensus that this was indeed legendary.
Abraham summoned Lot for a private talk. “Is this what you spent the money on?! The money that was supposed to last you for the month?”
Lot argued, “Yeah, but when we win, the prize will last all of us for three months!”
“You’re not going to win with that. How are you even going to move it?! It’s on a table. You can’t even hold the moon correctly.” Probably from excitement, Lot was straining his biceps holding the figurine instead of tucking under an arm or resting it on a shoulder. Abraham then spoke for all the boys to hear. “How are you going to move it, huh?” Abraham laughed a bit maliciously.
The boys began blaming one another. Nahor jumped in, “Go to Mr. Kurabi and borrow a wagon. If he doesn’t let you have it for free—he should today—then say you’ll give him some prize money if—I mean, when you win. He’s a gambling man.” The boys sped off, and Lot struggled to keep up since he still held the weight of the moon awkwardly.
“Great Nahor,” said Abraham. “Encouraging gambling.”
“Come on, that’s not gambl—where you going?” Abraham reversed back towards his home.
“I forgot something.”
Nahor caught up. As they rounded the corner, Sarah was on the street. Her stroll stopped, head tilted, and eyes half closed annoyed.
Abraham said, “I told you I don’t want you wearing that necklace.” It wasn’t that Sarah simply added a necklace though. She now wore a beautiful black and white dress. From the hips down, there were patterns of black and white rectangles that bent into crescent shapes from any shift of weight or the gentlest breeze. The dress revealed her arms and collar bones (which would be inappropriate if today weren’t the festival). Furthermore, her hair was made up high, extremely comely, with bejeweled pins. It revealed sparkling obsidian earrings. Her necklace was a three-quarter moon of silverish precious metal with rays somewhat like sunshine spreading through the missing quarter. Nahor smelled myrrh.
If Abraham had silently disapproved, Sarah probably would’ve blushed or complied, maybe even repented. However, since the challenge was thrown down, she rolled her eyes and said she was late to meet Nahor’s wife. Nahor said, “I think you look nice,” as she left. She raised the back of her hand to signal she heard.
Abraham raced into his home, and moseyed out three minutes later. While Nahor was waiting outside, he had listened to musicians’ warming up. A patient singer had waited for her queue as a calm guitarist restarted their tune to help an agreeable drummer find the correct beat. Nahor witnessed everyone’s collaboration, excitement, and happiness and wondered why his brother was in a sour mood. “Is everything ok?”
Abraham said it was, and Nahor chalked up the attitude to morning grogginess. They resumed their route to the river where the party was. There was a side street short cut that gods-fearing citizens avoided normal days.
This alley housed brothels. It was not avoided today though. It was crowded with equal numbers men, women, and children to view the ceremony. Nahor automatically turned into the alley.
“No,” said Abraham, “Let’s go around.”
“Why?” asked Nahor.
“I’m not paying for that.”
A bewildered Nahor pressed his brother. They had done this every year, even with the wives and children. This year there’d be no suspicion nor underhanded comments from the wives for wandering eyes or inappropriate jokes. It was good to witness the yearly cleanse and contribute to the cause. Nahor said he’d pay for his brother, and Abraham acquiesced.
A macho man who usually guarded the women humbly asked for a “donation”: the toll. This inversion of rolls and attitudes was part of the ceremony itself. Nahor paid, and the brothers strolled with the slow crowd. Citizens shuffled down the tight alley, shoulder to shoulder, herded like cattle, turning heads to watch the spectacle, bumping each other, distracted by the scene, and excited to be somewhere usually taboo.
Prostitutes stood in sunlit balconies. They wore elegant garbs usually reserved for virgin priestesses. They blew kisses and waved to citizens who were desperate to make eye contact as if they were subjects below queens. The prostitutes’ straightened hair was in the fashion of unwed daughters who advertise their virginity in public.
Below, virgin priestesses, recognizable by all who attended the temple, wore simple tunics, disheveled their hair to cover most of their faces, and groveled in shadows of the prostitutes’ balconies. They grieved and yelled, pleading the prostitutes for forgiveness. People paid coins to spit on their dirty feet.
One old man, jointly selected by prostitutes and priestesses beforehand, was naked. He cried like an infant. This was a great honor. People handed him coins; Nahor donated too. Once he had a sufficient amount, he approached a balcony and shrieked “Mommy!” to a prostitute above, begging to be held and soothed like a baby with colic. The chosen woman lowered a basket on a rope to collect the donation. The naked man entwined himself into the rope like a fetus within his umbilical cord, intensifying his cries for a mother.
The woman asked the crowd what to do. They yelled different answers. One made Nahor laugh. Abraham stared at the ground. One of the haggish virgin priestesses scurried over and pretended to cut the baby man from the rope. The crowd boo’ed, and the dirty virgin priestess cackled as she snatched the coins from man to secure them into prostitute’s lowered basket. The glowing prostitute slowly raised the rope and said, “It was not my choice, yet I feel responsible.” The old man then furthered his fetal position and mourned exaggeratedly. The crowd hissed at the cackling virgin priestess. People spat at her feet more, but never without another coin graciously tossed into the shadows.
“Well done this year,” said Nahor. “Hey, Abe wait up.” Abraham had forced his way through the slow flow of the crowd. “Why in such a hurry?”
“Despicable,” said Abraham when his brother caught up.
“Well, I agree I’ve seen better performances, but this year wasn’t that bad.”
“No, it’s wrong. The whole thing. Completely despicable. Disgusting.”
“Did you forget the wives aren’t here?” laughed Nahor.
“The whole thing’s a joke. No, worse. It’s a scam. All about money. There’s nothing sacred there. Like anyone believes those harlots could be re-virginized or redeemed.”
“Virginity, no, but redemption. Who are we to say?”
“Me.”
“Ok, well, you know as well as I do that it’s symbolic. It’s a reminder of the favor of the gods. Some people are blessed by gods’ fortune with better lives than others. It’s, like, a lesson in humility or something. I don’t know! I’m not a priest.”
“The whores say ‘I feel responsible,’” (Abrham drawled this derisively) “but that’s untrue. They are responsible.”
“You’re pretty quickly dismissing fate and the gods’ favor.”
“So be it. I don’t believe in that.”
Astonished, Nahor asked, “How could you say that?”
“Because this city makes up a god for anything! Thieves and murders have a god to justify their crimes. War gods sanction rape and murder if a priest signs onto it. We need rain? Sacrifice a virgin. Why? We want to live so we end life? We want more money? We give money to the commerce god instead of saving it ourselves. We just saw prostitutes bribing the fertility priestesses (and probably throwing free tricks to the priests) to have that god purify their lives of sin. It’s abominable. There’s right and wrong. . . I don’t believe in switching out a god of the week depending on some specific need. It’s wrong. It’s a lack of direction. People are responsible for themselves, but they just switch belief systems on a whim. Superficial and opportunistic. It’s not working. Nothing’s working in this city.”
Nahor didn’t want their rare time alone together spoiled, so he said, “I didn’t know you had such strong feelings.”
“It’s fine. . . It’s just ridiculous. Just because nights get longer after the solstice, and our moon god Nanna (also said derisively) is in the sky more, the fertility priestesses claim a woman can have sex on her period and get pregnant. It’s wrong, let alone gross. Virgins talking about fertility! Am I the only one who can see the irony?”
Abraham’s unrelenting blasphemy required Nahor to speak. “You’re just upset that you and Sarah can’t—” Brotherly love cut Nahor’s rebuttal short. Abraham and Sarah couldn’t conceive a child. Nahor changed subjects. “Let’s just get a drink and watch the mud contests.”
- - -
The brothers couldn’t find a seat, but the waitress still served them standing. The brothers clinked cups, drank two gulps, rose eyebrows at each other, and burped loudly. They then laughed together. This was their inside joke. Their brotherly gag. They downed this first drink, ordered seconds, paid the festival-inflated tab, and moved riverside to soak their feet.
The mud contest consisted of a few events. First was the reenactment of the famed siege of Ur. Children, in groups of five, had constructed mud forts as high as their heads to represent Ur. The city’s best warriors, true battle-hardened warriors of Ur, acted as invaders. They armed themselves with one wooden shield, one wooden sword, a wooden helmet, and two wooden pauldrons (shoulder armor). Groups of children were limited to five so that each child received a wooden souvenir from the soon to be “felled” invaders.
Acolytes of the river god “asked” for donations before the show started. Nahor donated; Abraham didn’t.
The warriors landed from upriver in small fishing boats onto the bank, shrieking like berserk barbarians. The crowd booed. The boys taunted them. The crowd cheered. One boy in each fort prayed to the gods. The crowd chanted to the sky and vibrated hands in the air.
Boys launched mud balls at the warrior-actors. The warriors sliced the projectiles with wooden swords, blocked with shields, and caught some to throw back. They’d taunt the boys and crowd. All hissed. The warriors approached the forts. One fort’s boy began slapping a helmet. The man grabbed the boy’s arm, yanked him out of his fort, held him under the armpits, and tossed him (safely) into the river. The crowd gasped. The warrior posed and flexed his muscles.
The play paused as the acolytes rounded the crowd for a second donation. The acting men and boys waited for the authority’s signal to continue.
A priest counted the money and gave a nod. The boys then yelled their lines (incorrectly), and the siege resumed. The boys ducked out of sight, and the warriors began smashing down a wall of the fort. The crowd grieved “No!”
“Ur is mine now!” yelled the warriors. They entered the forts and rose arms in success. The crowd remained silent. Suddenly, the invaders dropped in agony as if their legs were chopped off. The crowd couldn’t see inside the forts. The warriors shrieked and the noise of little boys’ chain gang mugging overrode the men’s death rattles. Then, the boys all rose up high with a piece of wooden armor. The crowd cheered the victory. The warriors rose unharmed and placed boys on their shoulders. All the performers bowed. The crowd applauded. The acolytes came around for a third donation.
Abraham said, “Isn’t that emblematic?Work to get in, only to be screwed once inside.”
“Isn’t that just life?” responded Nahor.
The next event was tug of war. The warriors demanded a rematch from the boys who had bested them, and they let the kids win. The men exaggerated slips and falls. They cursed one another comically. The boys were elated again.
Other men paid the priests to compete. These were true competitions, but still fun. Nahor joined for one. His team lost, and he was caked in mud.
Women lined up for their tug of war turn. The acolytes rounded the crowd twice, for this was the most popular spectacle. A man (obviously a man because of his beard down to his chest) wore women’s clothes, makeup, and eyeliner. Fruit stuffed his shirt. He pranced with exaggerated femininity, shook his chest and waist to a laughing crowd, and tried to join the competition.
One or two of the participating women took offense, but most giggled. The crowd erupted in laughter. The head priest angrily gave orders for his expulsion, and acolytes chased him through the mud. He shrieked like a chased woman, but ran circles around the pursuers. They slipped, and he threw mud at them with an exaggerated woman’s throw, lifting his skirt tauntingly. The crowd continued cackling.
The priest signaled for a warrior to put an end to this charade, and once the offending man saw, he dove into the river and floated downstream on his back. The crowd cheered. The acolytes came around once again.
Nahor was going to pay, but Abraham stopped him. “It was planned. Look at the priest. He’s smiling.”
“Maybe he just enjoyed it even though he wasn’t supposed to.”
Wrestling was next, but this was no performance. Warriors, tradesmen, farmers, and nobleman held qualifying matches days before to establish a bracket. Usually, men would make bets among themselves, but today the god of war had a temporary “shrine” setup. It was simply a table with a small figurine. All bets went through these priests. The vig was 25%. No one officially cheated, but Nahor and Abraham cringed at what looked like cheap shots. Abrham speculated that during the championship, the warrior threw the match because “how could a farmer best a warrior?” Nahor said that they wrangle bulls, so it wasn’t too surprising.
The last mud competition wasn’t actually in the mud. It was a swimming race. Participants raced from the opposite bank to cross the river. Abraham and Nahor didn’t stay though. They’d been in the sun, and thirst dominated their desires.
- - -
Abraham suggested meeting up with their father. Nahor objected. Their father was the third obstacle to their sacred brother time. The wives were set, Lot was with friends, and Nahor had prepaid a reservation for their father Terah for a shaded table with a view of the parade. Nahor objected because of desired alone time, yes, but also because the conversations always turned political. Nahor was guilty in this. He’d always swear to himself he’d remain silently impartial, but he couldn’t help himself after his father’s third or fourth strawman against the Green Scarff Party (a political party we would call left of center).
However, Abraham insisted lunching with dad, and Nahor wanted his brother happy. They found their father alone, relaxing in the shade, smiling slightly and mouthing hellos to anyone who smiled back.
Their father yelped happily at seeing his sons. He laughed at Nahor caked in mud. It was not a ridiculing laugh, but endearing. His father asked about the contests, and they gave report.
Other patrons sat, and a servant brought them a large bowl a water. Three washed their faces, hands, and feet. Then, with their hands, they cupped water into mouths, swigged, and spat back into the bowl. Finally, they took turns bringing the bowl to their mouths for large gulps. Once finished, the servant brought the same bowl of water to Nahor.
Abraham stopped Nahor from washing and drinking. “Don’t. It’s gross.” Nahor sent Abraham a confused look.
Their father said, “Wear the mud as a badge of honor. Today you can!” He guffawed more. “So, who won the migrant swim?” Dad made a politically incorrect jibe. Unauthorized migrants on the other side of the river often swam past border guards looking for a better life in the city of Ur.
“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” said Nahor. Abraham said, “We didn’t stay for it.”
“C’mon, it’s a joke! You can’t handle a joke, Nahor?” said their father Terah. Nahor respectfully remained silent. Terah redoubled. “And actually, it should be a boat race with our Green Scarfed River Minister in charge. Letting every boat from any nation come in and abuse our freedom.”
Political conversations it is, thought Nahor. “C’mon you can’t think the migrant workers are the problem. They work for, like, one day’s meal. As if they’re the reason no one can afford homes. They aren’t even allowed to own property! It’s the Purple Cuffs with ten homes, and fifteen castles and control of trade barge routes, and chariots with private stables, and their free range of public lands. Owning everything and controlling it all. You know that 40% of kingly spending goes to warfare.” (The Purple Cuffs would be what we consider right of center.)
Abraham sighed and whistled as if bored. Nahor sent Abraham a look of “It was you who wanted to join dad.”
Father Terah corrected the percentage of military expenditure to 30%, cited the job creating endeavors of the wealthy, and rhetorically asked “Why is it bad to be successful?” He added they contribute 80% of the taxes.
Nahor corrected it to 70%. He said the wealthy get all the benefits, have special police protection, and enjoy “exclusive witch doctors and herb potion” medicine. He said their distribution of city resources is corrupt and that they exploit the working class for low-cost labor.
Terah started laughing. “You’re sounding like a socialist! Isn’t he Abraham?! Next, he’ll want to defund the city guard.”
They paused for the waitress’s dropping off beer and fish.
Father Terah suggested his sons go view an art gallery usually exclusive to nobility.
“Dad, your Purple Cuffed Prime minister is ‘selling’ her son’s paintings. How is that not obvious bribery?!” said Nahor. “We have never seen this level of corruption.”
“You don’t think people should be free to buy art?!” answered Terah. “And, aren’t you the one who wanted more women in politics? From day one, I’ve been clear on supporting merit not identity politics.”
“Just because she’s also a woman, you assume her appointment is without merit. You always try that illogical—”
“—You said she was corrupt!”
Abraham said, “I’m tired of reacting.”
Brother and father eyed Abraham momentarily, but his words didn’t support either side. Furthermore, it was strangely personal instead of about politics, society, or culture in general. They continued their own loud logics.
Abraham’s risen voice demanded to be heard. “I’m tired of reacting.”
“With the Greens always ramming in regulation,” said father Terah, “that’s what we’re left with. Reacting to their elitist culture war mandates. You hear they appointed a head librarian who wears women’s shoes!. . . Abraham agrees with me.”
“No.” Abraham shook his head. “I’m not agreeing with either of you. I’m saying I’m tired of the status quo. We argue, debate, or whatever, then just go about our days normal. Nahor, you sell high quality, luxury quilts to the Purples you love to criticize. Dad, you relied on the Greens’ social programs until, what?. . . Ten years ago?”
“If they paid higher wages, everyone could afford my quilts,” defended Nahor. “Until they do, I gotta’ do what I gotta’ do for me and my family.”
“I wouldn’t call my political switch hypocritical,” said father Terah. “People can change their minds.”
“I’m not saying either of you are hypocrites.” Abraham rubbed his eyebrows. “What I’m saying is you guys aren’t even arguing with each other. You’re on the same side without even realizing. You’re captured by the system. You think it’s Green vs Purple, but it isn’t.”
“You’re starting to lose me,” said Nahor.
Abraham inhaled loudly. “What I’m saying, is you don’t ‘have to’, Nahor. It doesn’t have to be their way. It can be our way. It should be! We have control of our own lives. I’m actually complaining, or blaming, us, ourselves. It doesn’t matter if the Purples over tax us so that they can fight enemies they make up themselves. It doesn’t matter if the Greens’ overregulating makes things inaccessibly complicated with zoning, restrictions, approval process, etc. Whatever stereotype you want to use to criticize—greedy Purples or lazy Greens—I’m saying that, at the end of the day, it’s our fault. Our fault for buying into it. We don’t need to.”
“You’re starting to sound like a Nihilist, right Nahor?!” laughed father Terah.
Nahor stayed silent. He started piecing together his brother’s impatience from this morning.
“I want to choose my life,” said Abraham slowly. “I’m tired of reacting to what all these other people say is right or necessary or an ‘unavoidable part of the system.’ It’s not making us safe or secure. People aren’t happy or healthy. People no longer feel they can ‘get ahead.’ People struggle just to pay rent. Jobs pay shit. Music sucks. Boys can’t earn enough to support a family so they resort to crime. Women can’t find husbands, so they whore themselves out. Small businesses get gulped by the big retailers. People are lonely. It’s not working. I’m tired of doing nothing.”
“Run for office then,” said Nahor reflexively.
“I don’t want to be another talking head online.”
“Online?”
“Yes,” said Abraham. “‘On-the line.’ At the public square. All the talkers standing on the line in the forum promising health, wealth, and happiness if you run with the god of fitness, or read with the god of books, or travel with the god of the wind, or submit to the god of whatever. Faith in God requires true commitment.”
Nahor said, “I said ‘run for office’ not evangelize.”
Abraham said, “It’s the same thing.”
“Ok?” doubted Nahor, but he let Abraham have that (possibly false) equivalency. “Start small then. Some local political office. Who cares about music, grifters online, or the librarian’s shoes? Make improvements in our and our neighbors’ immediate lives. That’s in our control, I guess.”
Abraham winced, looking for words. “It wouldn’t matter. It’s not working. People aren’t grounded here. No one commits. We’re not free. It’s hard to explain.”
His brother countered, “We are free, though. We can choose to do anything unless it breaks the law or offends the gods.”
“Which gods though?! Which laws?” begged Abraham. Abraham repeated his critique of polytheism he made after the prostitute-priestess spectacle.
Father Terah spoke seriously. “I’ll forgive your blasphemy because I know you’re trying to make a point, but what is your point?
“My point is that this is making us desperate! A lack of faith.” said Abraham. “Economic issues, political violence, social instability. It comes because there’s no consistent value system. There’s no true, unifying faith. There’s no consistency in the people. The government reflects this. Everything switches on a whim. . . Some think life’s purpose is beauty. Others think pleasure. Money, sex, long life, or children, war glory, you name it. And no one can say it’s wrong because everyone’s got a god for it. And people say, ‘If it worked out for me, it must’ve been good and holy.’ This is why no one trusts their neighbor. Sure, we all smile and wave today, but you all know it’s fake. This is why interest rates are skyrocketed high. Who knows if someone will make up a god of bankruptcy and claim defaulting is now holy. . . I’m tired of all this.”
Father nodded understandingly but not necessarily in agreement. “This is life. Things arise and we manage, or react, however we can. You can’t blame people for seeking a god’s help when they’re in need.”
“Brother,” said Nahor, “you’re upset at your financials or the city’s. . . whatever, so you blame the gods. But you need not be upset about it! It is not your fault. The whims and favors of the gods affect every man different. You’re frustrated at things out of your control. There are many ways to have a fulfilled life despite the issues you stated.”
Abraham’s head fell back. “No, I’m saying that it is our lack of true faith that causes the pain, suffering, insecurity, and ills.”
“Abraham, what is the true faith, then?”
“I don’t know, father. I know it isn’t here though.”
Terah peered at his son. Abraham couldn’t hold eye contact. Terah said, “Don’t lie to me, son. You’ve blasphemed the gods, so you better have at least one on your side now. Hubris has ended many a life too early. Please consider your words thoughtfully.”
Irritation spoke for Abraham. “The funny thing about hubris is that people who accuse others of it are, ironically, hubristic. They claim to know more than others about God. How is that not hubris?”
Father Terah retaliated, “And what have you done besides ridicule all that I have ever done for you and the family!?”
Silence ensued. The mood had changed. No longer was it a hypothetical discussion or venting but rather a family member’s determination and frustration finally voiced. It was a determination that insinuated wrongdoing in his loved ones’ attempts to live ethically happy.
Father Terah calmed. “Please, tell us. What is the true faith?”
“One God. Absolute truths. One way. One value system.”
This framing reminded Nahor of school which he failed at often growing up. Nahor began shaking his head. “I imagine so much misery if that’s the case. You think people should just be graded on one metric?! Where’s the dignity in that? People need love and appreciation. And you’re ready to rank people how you see fit? Think of it this way: if the ‘one way’ was, let’s say, making money, then society would implicitly consider the poor as bad people and the rich as somehow innately better. That’s depressing. It’s not that way though. There are many ways to have dignity, status, value. I can’t buy into an idea of ‘one way’ because there are many ways to find fulfilment in—”
Abraham interrupted. “We live in a place that justifies the enslavement of innocent children. Or the poverty of the migrant workers you advocated for.”
“Those are extreme cases,” said Nahor. “You’re cherry-picking.”
“I totally disagree,” returned Abraham. “We’re seeing it every day (including today!), and I refuse to go along with this city’s opportunistic flip flopping anymore. It’s not working, and I’m tired of reacting. We lack true faith!”
Nahor got heated up. “You think you’re so pure?! Nice people know they aren’t always nice. Smart people know they don’t know things. Your ‘claim’ to know purity actually proves you’re impure! People find respites from their stressful lives from many avenues. Who are you to say they’re wrong?”
“Boys, keep it down,” jumped in Father Terah. “My son, your claim or idea suggests that success or lack of success doesn’t—or shouldn’t—prove the gods’ favor. But, you’re also saying that the hard times do, indeed, prove that you need a new god? It’s self-defeating when you think about it.”
“No, no!” said Abraham. “I’m saying it’s the retroactivity of it all. People throw beliefs like darts and say that their miss was actually a target. We end up saying, ‘I knew it was this god that favors me.’ How convenient.” Abraham ran his fingers through his hair. “We need commitment from the start. Thoughtful, faithful commitment. We need to live consistent with values—not change them when convenient—and God will bless us. I’ve thought a lot about this. Sarah and I are leaving Ur.”
Bewildered pain froze Father Terah’s face. Nahor’s stomached dropped. He accosted his brother. “Leaving?! What-why so extreme?”
Abraham repeated his logic: So many bad influences out of his control affected too many people to the point where only a full system reset had a chance.
“I get it,” tried Nahor. “You’re unhappy with your job, your salary, lack of trust and community, the financialization of everything, stagnant bureaucracies, crime, whatever. I get it. I am too. You’ve made some convincing arguments. The people here are desperate. It makes the city selfish, opportunistic, or whatever words describe the human need for answers. The human need for warmth, love, and holiness.” Nahor scooted his chair closer to his brother. “But, you can be that! You can spread your new god’s mission and wisdom here! You can convert people. If your god is true, then he’d be proven by all the converts you’d get here. People would follow your arguments. I agree with a lot of it. Just don’t run. . . please.”
Abraham responded, “I have seen the way. I must leave Ur. It’s the only way to truly commit to God. Distance from the devils. I will accept people who accept God. My actions, steadfast through good and bad times, consistent with my stated faith, will show God as the one true Lord and Way.”
Nahor’s anger didn’t mask his anxiety. “So, all of us here are undeserving of your god for some pretentious, holier-than-thou, narcissism? You’re not even giving people a chance.”
Abraham flippantly said the city would invent a god of censorship.
Nahor answered, “If your god can’t handle a little pushback, violent or intellectual, then he or she is a coward!”
“God is not cowardly. If commanded, I would fight and die. However, I haven’t been. Retreat is not cowardly.”
“Oh, look at you! You hear your god’s commands now?!” mocked Nahor. “Your god is weak!”
“But my faith is strong.”
“You’re the opportunist! You’re the hypocrite!”
Abraham slammed the table. He whisper-yelled, “They killed Haran.” Their brother Haran, Lot’s father, was indeed murdered under suspicious circumstances after advocating reform.
The mention of his murdered son reanimated father Terah. “Enough!” His sudden anger worried the brothers for his health.
The parade started. The sides of streets filled up with citizens to watch. Trumpets, drums, and symbols announced today’s joy. Horsemen winked at little girls. Dancing women grabbed boys for quick spins. Children rode atop a giant fish. Women in floral dresses and flower crowns tossed petals. Allied cities’ dignitaries swung their flags proudly. A man unleashed a box of butterflies every block. Acrobats walked on their hands and front-flipped each other three stories high.
None of our family ate much of their lunch. Their conversation resorted to small comments on the floats’ designs. Furrowed eyebrows and avoided eye contact looked like anger to strangers, but it was mental anguish: Abraham unable to convince his family with what he was convinced of; Nahor in pain because his brother was suffering and coping with what he considered the wrong prescription; Terah fearing a breakdown of the family near the end of his life.
Our family must’ve been the only ones frowning. They managed to smile and wave when Lot and his friends passed by with their float entry. The boys had Mr. Kurabi’s wagon.
- - -
The brothers ended up silently sitting at the empty auditorium to save seats for their wives to view the beauty pageant. Nahor’s plans to tour the magician’s lair, to compete in the spear tosses, to watch epic mythic plays, to jest with the town clown were all canceled without verbalizing. Joy was sapped.
The mood of both brothers wasn’t angry or loud anymore. It was disappointed. Both were confident in their stances, yet defeated in attempts to gain ground. Calm frustration. Annoyance that solidified arrogance. Apathetic tones sharpened words.
Nahor broke the silence. “Where will you go?”
“Canaan.”
Nahor scoffed. “Not even another city. Not even in the empire. Why?”
“Everyone here’s unreliable. Worse, we depend on them, yet their undependable.”
“You’re abandoning us for a god you haven’t even named yet.”
“He’s above human names.”
“So he’s a ‘he’,” mocked Nahor. “Not above a gender though?”
Abraham glared from the side of his eyes.
Nahor continued, “You’re just gonna’ reinvent the wheel and the same shit’s gonna’ happen as always. Same piecemeal fixes that have their own unintended consequences. You act like Ur just appeared with all its gods and laws in a day.”
Abraham stared ahead. “But it’d be mine. My land, my crops, my herd, my home.”
“You’ll end up ramming your beliefs down your family’s throat like you claim this city does.”
Abraham sped up his speech. “Every night, any sound jolts me awake. I can’t sleep without nightmares. I walk to work not knowing if I still have a job. I walk home clutching my miserly wages. I don’t let Sarah leave the house after dark. She prays there’s enough wood to bake bread. We’re stressed. It hurts. It hurts our souls. We cannot live here. All people do is try to sell us on their god. It’s only promises of impossible futures. We must leave.”
Nahor’s stomach hurt. Adrenaline pained his arms. He had to say what he thought was the true root of Abraham’s suffering. He had to try. “I think you’re pissed the gods haven’t blessed you with children.”
Abraham took a deep breath. “Maybe. It doesn’t feel that way. I now believe God blessed us by not bringing another life into this forsaken city. I was always hesitant about having a child here. But, now, with God’s revelations of what his holy and right, I feel ready to have a child. Join us, Nahor, please.”
Nahor said, “It’s not noble. I think what you’re planning is wrong. If everyone ditched, the world would revert to dog eat dog once again. Banditry and everything we only hear from travelers’ stories outside the city’s safety.”
“I’m not everyone. I’m myself and my family. You’re my family too, Nahor! Come with us!”
Nahor chuckled condescendingly. “I wouldn’t want to disprove your god so quickly.”
Abraham clicked his mouth. “So be it.”
They stopped speaking. Fifteen minutes later Abraham said he was going home. He asked Nahor to tell Sarah. Nahor responded “Yup” before his brother finished talking. They didn’t look at each other.
- - -
The pageant began. The wives sat pointing out their help given to the competing, adolescent girls. Nahor couldn’t keep his head up. His wife asked what was wrong, and he deflected. So many young women smiling depressed him. The fire dancers’ twirling sticks mocked him. Sarah rubbed his back.
Dusk approached and commenced dancing. Nahor said he’d save seats and watch. He nodded approval to every man who asked his wife’s hand for a dance. Eventually, Sarah came and demanded he dance with her. Nahor obliged.
They stepped side to side slowly, out of sync with the other faster dancers.
Sarah said, “So, he told you.”
Nahor sighed slowly. “Yes. What are your thoughts?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. I am only a wife.”
Nahor closed his eyes to battle tears. “I’m going to miss you, sister.”
“Don’t cry.” She wiped a tear, and it rubbed off mud from Nahor’s face.
Fading sunrays sparkled Sarah’s necklace. For some relief, Nahor said, “It’s a shame. He’s going to make you get rid of that necklace.” The sun’s final shine revealed Sarah was about to cry herself. She couldn’t speak. Nahor said, “It’s you. You know. It has to be. Whatever god or gods my brother claims, it’ll be you who makes it possible.” He hugged Sarah. Her perfume mostly masked her body odor.
“I love you too, brother.”
