I remember a bit of Sunday school. I recall a few stories, from the rabbis and others. I suppose it gelled in college, when I majored in traditional English lit. All drama and fiction in our language started with Bible stories. I became acquainted with the tales.

I’ve been surprised recently, to learn in conversations with educated loved ones, that they don’t know these stories. They are familiar with the Greco-Roman myths, maybe even with some of the Norse legends, but I get blank stares when I mention the rape of Dinah or even her 12 brothers.

I wonder if I can recite the beginning adventures from memory.

It all starts with Abraham. Not the Bible (that opens with Adam and cruises through genealogies and Noah), but the Jews. I recall a children’s story about Abraham as a kid. He grew up in the Mesopotamian big city Ur, and his father was an idol-maker. One day a woman entered the family shop seeking a new big stone idol. Because her old big stone idol had been stolen the night before. While Abraham’s father took the order and began the carving, the boy wondered: how could a god allow himself to be stolen? Shouldn’t a god be powerful enough to protect against simple theft?

Abraham got to thinking. He concluded that a stone statue, built by his own dad, couldn’t be a god. He went on the roof to continue wondering and was struck in the face by all the sunshine. Hello! he thought. The sun is all-powerful; it must be God. And he stayed on the roof, worshiping and probably tanning a bit, until the sun set. Set?! Whoa: up came the moon. The moon appeared to conquer the sun. The moon must be God. But then a cloud covered the moon. And just when the boy was about to name the cloud God, a wind scattered it.

Abraham had seen enough. He sensed the trend. He had a revelation. The only way to answer his question, finally, was to conceive of an all-powerful, invisible God. Just one. There was no need for more than one, and more than one brought problems that resembled silly humanity. No. Just one. Really powerful.

He was the first monotheist. The initial Jew. The male convert from whom most guys who become Jews take a name (the female convert name most popular is Ruth). If he started his ruminations as a child and made his first deal with God when he was beyond full-grown (see below), then he must have mulled over the question all his life. No surprise.

The book says he made a deal with God, promising to circumcise all male children. And (in time) God made an agreement with him, resulting in the birth of a son from Abraham’s long-sterile wife. By then Abraham already had a son, Ishmael, born of his Egyptian concubine Hagar. Wife Sarah birthed Isaac. Isaac became the second Jewish patriarch and Ishmael became the first of Islam. Yes. Brothers.

God wasn’t quite done with Abraham. He tested the man’s devotion by commanding him to sacrifice his beloved son Isaac. God stopped him at the last moment, but the vignette is one of the more disturbing scenes in Genesis.

Isaac was allowed to grow up. He became the father of twin boys, Esau and Jacob. Esau was the slightly older, so he stood to inherit his dad’s position. In Bible terms, Esau held the birthright. That was too bad, because as the boys grew it became apparent to all but Isaac that Jacob was the proper heir. Esau just wanted to hunt and engage in good-old-boy activities. In fact, one day he returned to the family kitchen, footsore and hungry after a day of hunting, and he said to his homebody brother that he’d trade anything for a good meal. Really? asked Jacob. Oh yeah. Will you trade your birthright for a bowl of my stew? You betcha.

And so it was, at least between the twins. Dad still had to be contended with, and Isaac wasn’t about to give the patriarch’s blessing to the younger son. But Isaac was on his death bed and not seeing well. The family put gauntlets of animal hide over Jacob’s arms and, when Isaac felt all the rough hair, he thought he was touching Esau. He gave Jacob the Esau-blessing. Mission accomplished.