The ancient altar where Isaac was laid was meant to be the birthplace of legacy, yet it has become a haunting mirror of generational breach of trust. Designed for sacrifice and divine alignment, it now stands as a symbol of shattered covenants and selfish ambition. Our fathers, entrusted with the sacred task of lifting us higher, instead bargained away the future on the tables of expedience. Like the Igala proverb warns, “The one who holds the yam and the knife must not lie about hunger,” yet many who held both still watched their children starve. Indeed, as the prophet declared, “The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.” (Ezekiel 18:2, KJV)
When God called out to Abraham, saying, “Take your son, your only son, whom you love—Isaac—and offer him there as a burnt offering,” it was a test of trust, not cruelty. Abraham did not argue; he rose early, saddled his donkey, and journeyed in obedience. But where Abraham trusted the voice of God, our fathers trusted the voice of demons and self-interest. At the altar where Abraham’s faith birthed a nation, our leaders’ fears birthed broken promises. Bishop David Oyedepo rightly said, “There is no faith without a test,” but ours was a generation that fled when the firewood was set and the knife raised, leaving the altars cold and the Isaacs wounded.
Many of our fathers in faith and leadership positions have murdered their Isaacs—not in literal sacrifice, but by living outside the faith and obedience to God’s will. Their sacrifices, once meant to honour God and uplift the future, have instead become instruments of self-glorification. In their arrogance, they have taken liberties with the sacred trust they were given, turning a divine mandate into a self-serving pursuit. God is not pleased, and His heart is heavy with the weight of their disobedience. He is pained by the abuse of the very privileges and honours He bestowed upon them to make lasting, positive impacts on this generation. The positions they occupy at the helm of affairs are not their own; they are God-given. Yet, many have forsaken the divine path in favour of temporary gain and glory. If they do not repent, God will not remain silent. His justice, tempered with mercy, awaits their return.
The corruption of the altar reverberates through our society like a broken drum. Politics has become a game of plunder; faith has been turned into performance. The youth—the true Isaacs of promise—have been abandoned on roadsides littered with empty campaign posters and tattered church flyers. It echoes or ripples the Igbo adage, “A child not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.” What we call crimes today are often the wild cries of a generation betrayed by the same hands that once blessed them, their teeth set on edge by the sour grapes of their fathers.
Even in sanctuaries where divine conversations once birthed destinies, sacred dialogues have been silenced by greed. Abraham listened and obeyed when God interrupted and said, “Do not lay a hand on the boy… for now I know that you fear God.” But many of our fathers have silenced the divine interruption, preferring to sacrifice Isaacs for temporal applause. Pastor Chris Oyakhilome once warned, “The anointing is holy; do not touch it with dirty hands,” yet many traded sacred responsibilities for vanity, desecrating the places where prayers once summoned fire.
The tragedy lies not in the altar itself—the altar remains sacred—but in the polluted hands that touched it. Dreams were auctioned for not just nairas but strange dollars; promises were mortgaged for positions. The hands meant to lift Isaacs heavenward instead thrust them downward into oblivion. And now, the ground trembles not under the weight of fulfilled promises but under the rubble of abandoned prayers, crushed hopes, and a lineage of broken altars. Yet prophecy stirs anew: “In those days they shall say no more, ‘The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.'” (Jeremiah 31:29)
Yet mercy whispers through the ruins. If Abraham’s obedience summoned a ram caught in the thicket, perhaps our repentance can still summon redemption. Juanita Bynum once declared, “It is not over until God says it’s over.” There is still a ram hidden for a remnant—young Isaacs rising with clean hands and burning hearts, willing to rebuild what treachery tore apart, willing to obey the voice that says, “Spare the child and trust My provision.” The new generation, if it dares, can rewrite the bitter parable written over it.
In the final hour, the altar or sanctum will not forget. It will bear testimony either to our faithfulness or to our folly. The Igala proverb says, “He who repairs the fence saves the farm from thieves.” We must repair the broken fences of leadership, sacrifice, and community. We must lay down our Isaacs—ambition, comfort, personal gain—not to barter them for applause, but to seed them into a future greater than ourselves. Only then will the altar of Isaac cease to ripples with failure and begin to resound with songs of true faith once more.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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