3 So she named the Lord who spoke to her, “You are El-roi,”[b] for she said, “Have I really seen God and remained alive after seeing him?”[c] Genesis 16:13 NRSVUE
Here in the waste, the wilderness of doubt
Where thorns and dust and brambles choke the ground
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 week I share my thoughts on Hagar.
The midwife who had attended me was packing the diaper-like undergarment with old bits of cloth when Sarai came to see the baby. I was exhausted and wanted no visitors, but I could not refuse my mistress. She came into the tent without asking, nearly frantic. Her eyes shimmered with tears as she came, leaning her aged face over me to see my son. My son. I felt the stirring anger grow hotter as she cooed over the infant laying on my chest. The only reason she was here was to see the boy. I was nothing to her. She hadn’t considered what I wanted at all.
The midwife finished adjusting and jostling me, working around Sarai’s imposing frame without comment. I gritted my teeth as she pushed down on my belly once again, feeling for my womb, making slightly approving mutterings as she palpated me. I felt another gush of blood between my legs. Sarai didn’t notice my discomfort or my indecency. She didn’t seem to notice me at all. She was weeping openly now, eyeing the baby. My baby.
When she reached for my son, I did something I knew I should not do, something that I could never take back once it had been done. When she reached for my son, I clutched him to myself, so she could not take him. When she reached for my son, I turned my body away from her, so she could not even see him.
I peered over my shoulder at her. The joy melted from her face, replaced with surprise, sternness following on its heels. “Let me hold my son, Hagar,” she instructed me.
I did not think. I did not know how the next words I spoke would impact my future, and the future of my boy. I could not do anything but defend myself and my baby from Sarai’s overreaching, indifferent dismissal. I did not think. I spoke only the truth in my heart. “He’s my son.” I could feel my scowl deepening as Sarai pulled back from me. I saw it reflected in her own expression back to me.
“Hagar,” she began, perhaps thinking to chastise me for my insolence. But she did not have the chance before we were interrupted by a commotion outside.
Abram came into the tent, much to the surprise of everyone present. Such a thing was not done. It was a defiance of custom, an unraveling of the sacred space of birth. But Abram, bursting through the tent flap with a joyous sound looked as if custom and norms were the last things on his mind. “My son!” he called out I could hear men outside the tent, calling for Abram to come out. “Let me see him!” he said to me, as he rushed to where I reclined.
Too shocked to disobey him, as I had moments before disobeyed my mistress, I offered the boy to his father, who snatched him up into his arms, as he was crying and praying aloud and praising his god. As I watched him, my own eyes stung with tears because of what I knew to be true. The boy was not mine. This boy belonged to Abram. No one would care who the mother was. No one would care that it was me who finally gave Abram what he desired most. All they would see is that Abram now had a son.
My eyes slid to Sarai, whose joy was now gone as she studied her husband with the baby. Though she didn’t speak to me, didn’t so much as look at me, I could tell that her thoughts were similar to my own. This baby did not belong to either of us. This baby was Abram’s.
And I saw her displeasure as clearly as I felt my own.
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 week I share my thoughts on Ishmael.
When my mother laid me under that bush, to cool me from the scorch of the sun, I thought it was where I would die. Indeed, I wanted to die. My father had cast me away, listening to the voice of her first woman, Sarah. She did not like my mother, though they had tolerated one another all my life. But when my brother was born, we all could see how Sarah retreated into herself, becoming almost obsessed with protecting the boy from any danger. I guess he saw me as a danger too, and that is why she was eager to be rid of me.
I loved my brother! If I had known that my happiness at the feast would have been my undoing, my exile, I would have pretended indifference. I would have acted as my mother did, dutiful, grateful, but never warm, never loving. I loved my father, but my mother did not. Though I know he loved me, I don’t think he ever thought of my mother. That’s why it was easy for him to throw her away. But I never imagined he would throw me away too.
As I laid under that bush, thinking of my father, and all he had taught me, I could think of nothing to do with the pain that grew in my chest other than cry of to God—God, whom my father had taught me about, to whom my father had taught me to pray. I called out to God, crying out for death, begging to be taken from the pain of my father’s rejection. I called, and God answered me.
At first, I thought I was delirious from the heat, and from dehydration, and from fatigue. I saw the angel speaking with my mother, and I saw the spring gush from the rock. My mother filled the water skin and hastily brought it to me, forcing it down my throat. The angel stood by for a moment, watching. He did not speak to me and I did not speak to him. But I saw his flaming eyes, and I knew that God would not grant me death. No, God would grant me a new life. God would rescue me.
I have lived in Paran since then, away from my father and my brother. I heard when Sarah died, but I did not visit them. I heard when my father married again, but I was not invited to the wedding feast. I heard that my father had more sons, and that like me, he sent them away from him, so they would not share his wealth with Isaac. I do not understand these things. My father has forgotten everyone but Isaac. I wish I could also forget my fondness for him. It lives in me still, but I wish it would burn out.
But I have never forgotten my father’s God, the one who heard me and saved me.
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 week I shared some thoughts about Abraham.
I have sent my sons—your brothers—away.
Lot, my brother’s son, whom I would have kept as my own, had I been able to—Lot was lost to me before he was destroyed in Sodom! I sent him away too, thinking it was best, thinking it was for his good and for me. I had need of him, but I also had a promise from YHWH. I did not think that I would lose him forever. I had hoped that we could reunite.
Your brother Ishmael—he pained me the most. For years before your birth, he was the joy of my household. The son whom I loved. The son of my body that YHWH promised to me—I was sure of it. But then your birth was foretold to me, and your mother birthed you through a miracle. I was happy, Isaac. I was happy to have you as well. But I loved your brother Ishmael, don’t you see? He is also my son. And Sarah and YHWH took him from me. I sent him away from my household. What kind of father am I?
And then, I shudder to think of it—the way I assumed YHWH would also take you from me—as Lot and Ishmael had been taken. And I didn’t even protest! I did not complain or question. I took you to Moriah, and raised a knife to slay you! What kind of father does these things? Don’t comfort me! I am ashamed of my weakness. I did not have the strength to save you from death, as I could not save my other sons.
But for you, Isaac, I have sent my sons, your brothers, away from me. I had to—don’t you see? I am a danger to the ones I love. There is no one YHWH cares about more than you. Everyone else is expendable—Lot, Ishmael, Hagar, even Sarah! Why would it be any different for Keturah and your brothers? It was to protect them that I sent them from me. If they are not part of my household, they cannot be part of this covenant that was made.
Now, promise me Isaac! When I die, take me to where I buried your mother. Lay my bones beside her bones in the cave I purchased to be her grave. Let me be reunited with her, my wife, my sister, my kin. She was right to leave after I took you to Moriah. I wish I could have told her what we saw there. I wish she would have understood what I had been through. I wish I hadn’t treated her the way I did.
But it is too late for me now, Isaac. My eyes close and my life nears its end and I have many regrets, many amends to make yet, that will never be made. Make them for me. Find your brothers that I sent away. Reconcile yourself to them, do not carry on the harms I have done. Do better by your own sons. Make a life worth living, one that does not end with thinking of all the harm you’ve caused the ones you loved. Don’t repeat my mistakes, Isaac! Follow God, but fight with God too. Fight for yourself and what you want. And teach your sons to do the same.
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.
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.
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.
The Quick and the Dead 