During Lent, I’ll be writing six hymns that capture the spirit of reflection for the season. I will publish them on Sunday mornings. All the hymns will be set to well known tunes, so they will be easily shareable and singable upon reading.
Hymn 1 is titled Sit in Silence and in Prayer and uses the same tune as What a Friend We Have in Jesus (Converse).
Getting a Masters in Religion, especially since I focused on Biblical Studies, has filled my head with a number of things that I would love to hear and say from the pulpit. Hard topics are not typically the ones that get preached, but it is the hard topics that captivate my imagination the most. What if instead of giving easy answers that always point towards the fulfillment of scripture in Jesus’ ministry, we really let people wrestle with the text, the way Jacob wrestled all night, and was wounded for the rest of his life because of it? What if instead of always coming back to the same ideas of grace, mercy and love, that we recognized without our scriptures are stories that we can easily use as proof to do the opposite? I have no idea if I will ever get to share these ideas in a more public way, but it feels right to voice them nonetheless.
Hagar and Sarai (Gen 16)
Can we stop looking at this text as if one of the women loses and the other gains? I don’t see anyone in this story gaining anything other than a complicated mess. If we push past the tendency to pick a side, I think we can see that both women are trapped in systems that do not benefit either one of them, and these systems also prevent them from working towards their mutual good.
Samuel and Eli (1 Sam 3)
Can you imagine being a child and having to tell Eli, the priest of all Israel, that his sons are so corrupt, and that it reflects on his leadership? Do you hear the quaver in Samuel’s voice when he tells Eli that he will be replaced? Do you feel the weight of the words he speaks, a small voice given authority to speak the truth to a mighty power? And what is Eli’s response? “Let it be.” What a perfect example of humility.
Vashti (Esther 1)
Vashti said no. She said no to being used, to being a tool for the powerful, to being a plaything for her husband and his friends, to be a possession to prop up his ego. She said no despite what it would cost her. How brave.
The Woman Healed from Her Flow of Blood (Mark 5)
The desperation that drove this unnamed woman to touch the hem of Jesus’ garment must have been so powerful, that the story made a remarkable impression upon the writer of the text. Her story interrupts the story of a man asking for healing for his daughter. Her story represents the millions of people who live with chronic illness and yet somehow must live their lives. That Mark includes a case of healing from gynecological disease should give us hope that the gospel is powerfully inclusive. Jesus’ ministry includes women’s and reproductive health. Are we preaching the same kind of gospel?
The Faith of the Father of a Demon Possessed Boy (Mark 9)
Asking for a miracle for his son, this unnamed man utters “I believe! Help my unbelief.” And isn’t that a wonderful five word summary of the whole journey of faith?
For the last few years, United Methodists have been experiencing the agony of schism within our denomination. Now finally, it feels like we might be at the end of the process of separation. May it not be so forever.
After the divorce
I’ll hand you the keys to what was my car
And as you drive away I’ll pray
That its wheels fall off from underneath you
Once you’ve driven halfway down
The highway of your self-indulgent surety
And that when you wave down a passerby
They’ll take one look at the mess you’ve made for yourself
And offer this simple piece of advice:
You should have stayed at home.
After the divorce
I’ll set my phone to block your calls
So that when you realize your mistake
You’ll be halfway to nowhere with no one to come get you
And I’ll pray that you’ll come to your senses
That maybe crawling back home with your tail between your legs
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 last piece is about Isaac.
Rebekah, please tell me if I’m not thinking clearly. I want to be righteous, but I feel that I can’t when there are all these questions I have about myself, about my father. Why me, Rebekah? Why us? Why did God choose my father, and why did God choose me over Ishmael? Why am I any more special than anyone else?
I thought, when my father took me to Moriah, that it would be the end of it. My special status would be confirmed to everyone as I went up in flames. The first human offering to God. That is why God waited so long before he opened by mother’s womb. I was a miracle child, and I would become a witness to God’s loyalty in the fire. I would be made a sacrifice so that my father would be seen as the holiest of men. And in some way, I too was to be made holy because of my death.
But this is not what God wanted from either of us. It was only a test. It tested my father’s faith, but I think it also broke him in some ways. As for me…I feel betrayed by it. Betrayed by my father, and betrayed by God. How could this thing be asked of either of us? Why would my father ever have agreed to take me up that mountain at all? Is it because I was special, or was it because I was replaceable?
You frown! I knew I should not be thinking these things. Tell me, please, is there another way I should feel about all this? I have thought about that moment every day since it happened, how terrified I was, but how I also saw no way out. And I thought of my brother, and Hagar, living in the wilderness. I thought of my mother, and what she must have thought when we were packing up the camels. I thought of the servants, who would wonder why I had not come down the mountain afterwards, and what my father would say to them. I thought, with horror, that no one would know how holy I was to become if no one was there to witness my death!
Don’t turn your head from me, Rebekah! I can see that this distresses you, just as it distresses me. But I must know, if my father was willing to kill me to prove his faith, does that mean I was born, chosen by God, so my father could be seen in this light? Or is there something else that makes me chosen? Some other quality within me that I simply cannot see? Or is it only the fact that I am Abraham’s son?…or perhaps, is it that I am Sarah’s son? Is she the one who was special, and we just never knew it? Don’t laugh at me! Please Rebekah, if you love, tell me the truth. What do I have that no one else does? Why am I singled out? What is it about me that makes me worthy?
I can see that you do not have any more answers for me than I have for myself. I think, now that my mother has passed, I will need to find Hagar and Ishmael. I should ask my brother about these things. Perhaps he has some insight into my father that I cannot see, and will never see after the events at Moriah. Yes, I need to find my brother. I need to understand why neither one of us is as important as our father.
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 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.
The Quick and the Dead 