I have been spending a lot of my time reading and re-reading the text of Genesis 12-25 as I work on writing my master’s thesis. In the project, I am exploring the family of Abraham, and the many systems within the narrative that create conflict between the characters. As part of my analysis, I have written some midrash for each of the key characters, based on the research I have done and the pieces of the text I want to pull to the forefront. This second story is from the perspective of Sarai/Sarah, Abraham’s first wife.

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My husband must have a son. I repeated this to a myself as I approached her tent, a mantra that armored me against the sinking reality that had plagued me all my marriage—YHWH had closed my womb. Every moon, when my blood flowed, it was as if my very life was flowing out of me. I hated the sight of it, the constant reminder that there was no child in my womb. The reminder of what every woman dreads—that she is of no value to her husband. Abram knew I was of no value to him, which is why he had tried to adopt Nahor’s boy, why he had tried to give me away to Pharaoh, and why he has chosen Eliezer as his heir.

My husband must have a son, I thought again, for the thousandth time that morning. The wrinkles on my hands as I pulled back her tent flap were a stark reminder to me that I was old. Abram is even older that I. But he came back from his communion with YHWH—full of strange visions and stranger talk of descendants enslaved, speaking about how the generations after us will inhabit this land in which we are only wanderers. What descendants? I could laugh if I wasn’t so sick from the words. There will be no descendants for Abram! Not unless he has a son. And his time is surely running short.

My husband must have a son. These words were my armor against the indignation I knew she would feel. I thought of how I would not want to be used in such a way, as I had not wanted to be used by Pharaoh, but I did not see another way. I entered her tent and inside my eyes could not see for the darkness. “Hagar,” I called into the stillness.

“Yes?” I heard her voice, soft, sleepy, as if she had already been worked too hard, though it was only just now dawn. The thing I was going to command of her might be more than she could bear. I pitied her, but only because I also pitied myself. But she would be my redemption, just as I had been hers when she was cast away.

I squinted into the darkness of the tent, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. I found her sitting in the corner, looking as if I had awakened her. I had not thought of the hour. I had been up all night, ever since Abram had come back home, telling me of his vision of the smoking pot and the torch passing between the pieces. “Hagar, my husband must have a son,” I said to her.

I could see her face now, and she stared at me blankly, as if she hadn’t heard me, or as if she did not understand. It angered me; she was not a stupid girl. That’s why I had picked her for this task. She would understand the severity of our situation. She would understand, and she would do this for me, since she also knew what it was like to be worthless. I had taken care of her when she had been handed to me, and I had been good to her. Surely, she would know that I asked her this out of desperation. But she looked as if she did not know at all. “Did you hear me?” I said, my voice nearly trembling from my nerves and the unfairness of it all.

“Yes, Sarai, I heard you,” she said. But she did not move from where she sat. She did not even smooth down her mussed-up hair. She only stared at me, not defiantly, but blankly, as if she did not care. I could have chewed on the silence that settled over us, it was so thick. I raised my chin, and straightened my back, trying to appear as tall and proud as I could, even though inside I felt small and weak. She caught the slight gesture of my superiority. She lowered her eyes.

“Look at me, Hagar!” I snapped at her, feeling the age in my bones, and the pressure of the years of my barrenness, as I drifted in my unhappiness. “Does it look like I will be the one who will give Abram a son?!” But Hagar did not raise her eyes to meet mine. Even this girl—enslaved, cast off from her house of birth, discarded from her land for my sake—even she knew that I was nothing.

Hagar clenched her jaw in anger at my outburst, which only angered me more. What did this girl know of anger? What did she know of pain? I knew then that this thing would set a wedge between us, one that would split us apart forever. But my husband must have a son. I told myself this because every other path he had tried had failed. Short of a miracle, this was the only way.

“He will come to you tonight,” I said. Hagar did not acknowledge my words, but I did not berate her for it. There was no point. She did not have a choice. Neither did I. We had been pressed into this predicament by YHWH and Abram. What else was I supposed to do?

I departed from her tent feeling ill, the creeping sickness stymying the few tears I had left.       

I have been spending a lot of my time reading and re-reading the text of Genesis 12-25 as I work on writing my master’s thesis. In the project, I am exploring the family of Abraham, and the many systems within the narrative that create conflict between the characters. As part of my analysis, I have written some midrash for each of the key characters, based on the research I have done and the pieces of the text I want to pull to the forefront. This first story is from the perspective of Lot, Abraham’s nephew.

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My uncle Abram has been good to me, but I can’t continue to live in his household. Though he was obligated to take me in when my father died, he didn’t have to be kind to me. Yet he was. He gave me everything. I was his chosen heir, since he had no son of his own.

            But I always knew that I wasn’t enough for him. Every year that his wife, my aunt Sarai, grew older, every year that she did not produce a child of his own body for him—I saw how it weighed on him. He only wanted me because I was the next best thing. He would not have chosen me at all if it were up to him.

            I knew this from the time we left Ur, and I knew this when we left Haran. I even knew this about him when we went from Canaan down to Egypt because of the famine. I knew that in his heart, he only took me with him to secure his legacy. He was a rich man, and he was concerned about the future of his name. He was obsessed with that promise that YHWH had made with him. When he looked at me, I knew that he did not want the descendants to come through me. For I am Nahor’s son, not Abram’s. He knew this, though he never said so aloud.

            Your great-uncle Abram was a trickster, my girls, and when we went down to Egypt, he played a trick on all of us. He said he was afraid for his life because of your great-aunt’s beauty. He told a lie, that wasn’t really a lie, to save himself. “Tell them you’re my sister,” he said to my aunt. “Tell them that you’re my sister, so I will be spared.” Girls, you must understand, my aunt was a beautiful woman, but there was no indication that my uncle’s life would have been forfeit because of her. But he told this lie anyway, because it was partially the truth. Yes, it is true, girls. Your great-grandfather Terah was the father of them both. You may sneer, but this is how things are done in our family. One day, you will understand.

            So Abram sold Sarai into Pharaoh’s house, because he was afraid. I have no doubt he was afraid, but I don’t think he was afraid for his life. I think he was afraid that if Sarai remained his wife, that he would die without a child of his own body. He tried to be rid of her, which means he tried to disown me.

            Don’t look so shocked. Doesn’t it make the most sense? You girls do not know uncle Abram, and his obsession with the things YHWH has spoken.

            He tried to disown me, right before my very eyes, by giving away his wife. And so, when we left Egypt, with all the sheep, donkeys, goats, cattle, servants and slaves in tow, taking Sarai with us away from the house that had been struck with plague on account of her mistreatment, I decided I would disown him before he could disown me. Sarai was barren, and she was old. What would happen if she died, and he took another wife, who was not barren? I stewed over this thought, raging over it so that my anger spilled out of me, infecting my herders, who in turn fought with uncle Abram’s herders. He knew I was unhappy, that I had been unhappy since we went into Egypt, and so he came to me to settle the dispute.

            “Let us separate,” he said, “If you want. We are kinsmen, we should not quarrel.” But all I heard was “go.” So I went, and I took my flocks and my herders and I came here to Sodom, where the people do not listen to Abram’s god. Abram thinks his god has chosen him over everyone else on earth, and it shows in the way he treats others.