Hearing God's Voice

Hearing God’s Voice

Genesis 22:1–19

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Opening – Recognizing a Voice in a World of Noise

Have you noticed how loud life has become?

Before I even finish my first cup of tea, a dozen sounds compete for attention—phone notifications, breaking news, podcasts, and opinions flying in from every corner of the internet.

Each one shouts, “Listen to me first. Trust me. Obey me.”

I remember a day when our family was traveling through Amsterdam’s massive airport.

Announcements blared in multiple languages, gate changes echoed from every direction, people hurried shoulder to shoulder.

Suddenly we realized our son Eric was missing.

We called, we searched, and panic began to rise.

Then, through all the noise, I heard it—a single sound that cut through everything else.

A voice I knew.

I didn’t have to see him to know it was Eric.

I recognized it instantly.

Friends, that is what it means to know the voice of God.

When Genesis 22 says God spoke to Abraham and he answered, “Here I am,” it wasn’t a guess or a hunch.

It was recognition born of years of friendship.

In a world where every message is amplified, the question for us is:

How can we cultivate that kind of relationship, so we recognize the Shepherd’s voice when He calls?

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A Lifetime of Listening (Genesis 22:1–2)

“After these things God tested Abraham and said to him, ‘Abraham!’ And he said, ‘Here I am.’

He said, ‘Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains of which I shall tell you.’”

Abraham had heard this voice before.

He left Ur at God’s call (Genesis 12).

He trusted through decades of promises.

He welcomed Isaac when he was 100 and Sarah 90—a miracle only God could accomplish.

Think of a dear friend’s phone call—you know their voice before they give their name.

Abraham had that kind of history with God.

Recognition grows from relationship.

But now the voice says,

“Take your son, your only son, whom you love…”

Every phrase tightens the knot: your son… your only son… whom you love.

This command seems to unravel every promise God has ever made.

If I heard something like that, I’d be arguing immediately:

Lord, You gave a commandment against murder—this cannot be You.

But Abraham doesn’t argue.

He simply answers, “Here I am.”

Parents today sometimes face decisions that feel impossible—a sudden diagnosis, a call to relocate and leave familiar support.

We know the tightening in the chest when God’s leading seems to contradict what we expected.

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Setting Out Before Dawn

“So Abraham rose early in the morning, saddled his donkey, and took two of his young men with him, and his son Isaac.

And he cut the wood for the burnt offering and arose and went to the place of which God had told him.”

Picture it.

The desert air is cool before sunrise.

A thin mist clings to the low ground while stars still sparkle overhead.

Leather straps creak as Abraham tightens the packs.

The scent of freshly cut wood mixes with the earthy smell of donkey and dust.

The only light comes from a flickering torch and the first faint stripe of dawn on the horizon.

Isaac stirs beside the coals of last night’s fire, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

This isn’t the first time father and son have set out to build an altar.

For years they’ve traveled together to offer sacrifices, so nothing seems unusual—yet there is a quiet tension in Abraham’s face that even a young man can sense.

They move out before the camp awakes.

Sand crunches under sandals.

The rhythmic clop of donkey hooves marks the miles as the cool of night slowly gives way to the first heat of day.

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The Long Walk

On the first day, the talk is ordinary.

Abraham asks about the flock Isaac tended yesterday.

Isaac tells of a stubborn goat and laughs when he remembers how it leapt the fence.

They speak of where they might camp that night, how much bread and water remain.

The easy talk of a father and son who enjoy each other’s company fills the morning.

But beneath the small talk, Abraham’s mind runs deep.

Lord, You gave this boy as a miracle. How can You now ask for his life?

What will I tell Sarah if I return alone?

Again and again he clings to the promise: Through Isaac your descendants will be named.

He begins to reason—just as Hebrews 11 later records—that God could even raise the dead.

Night falls.

They make a small fire.

The air smells of smoke and dry sage.

Isaac lies close, his breathing slow and steady.

Abraham watches the stars wheel overhead—the same stars under which God once promised descendants beyond counting.