by Brian Godawa
When Sarai picked up a small rug to use as a tool, Hagar could take no more of it. She ran out of the tent.
Sarai stopped. She could not believe what she had just done. She had become overwhelmed by her own emotions. Taken away, possessed by a spirit of rage.
Now she tried to catch her breath.
She walked outside to find Hagar, but she was nowhere to be found. She had run away.
Later that afternoon, Hagar had not returned for the lunch meal and Sarai was getting frightened for her. She could not take care of herself in the hill country. She wondered where she might be and blamed herself for the outburst.
What was happening to me? she thought. And the memory of that giant queen and her treatment of Sarai intruded in on her thoughts. I have become the very monster I detest.
Abram arrived back at the tent and asked Sarai where Hagar was.
Sarai burst into tears, “I do not know, I do not know! I drove her away, and now she is somewhere in the desert or the hills and the wild animals will get her, and it is all my fault, and I am so sorry, Abram, please forgive me!”
She bawled into his arms. He held her tight.
“My precious beautiful Sarai.”
“What have I done?” She whimpered.
Abram patted her back reassuringly. “She will be back. I am sure she just wanted to give you time to cool off.”
Sarai said through her tears, “I just want a family of our own.”
“Sarai,” he said with a hurt voice, “We are a family, you and I. We may not have children, but that does not make us any less a family before the eyes of El Shaddai.”
He was right. She realized that by saying such a thing, she was reducing their marriage to a mere tool for having children. When El Shaddai created marriage in the Garden, he said the first priority was oneness. Procreation was second in importance to that union. She was making an idol out of children and negating her husband as her priority.
It only made her cry more in repentance.
“I am so sorry, my husband. You are my heart and soul. Please forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, my beauty pie. You are my heart and soul.”
They kissed.
He said, “I did not tell you about the vision I had.”
She looked at him curiously. “What vision?”
“Well, I was sitting by the Diviner’s Oak of Moreh down by the river.”
She interrupted, “What did you see?”
“El Shaddai appeared to me,” he said.
“In what form?” she said. “Was he just a voice or did you see him?”
“Calm down,” he chuckled. “I am trying to remember the details. He appeared in earthly form and told me — now what was it again? Something about — oh yeah, he told me that my reward would be great, or something like that.”
“Something like that?” She sighed. “Then what did you say?”
“Well, I told him that I still had no children and assumed Eliezer would be our inheritor.”
Getting Abram to tell her the details was like getting a mule to talk. She said, “Then what did he say?”
“He said, Eliezer would not be my heir, but that we would have a child of our own.”
He sat there, leaving the line like it was the climax of the story without an ending. Sarai’s eyes went wide with wonder. “Come on, Abram, do not make me beg for the details.” Men were terrible gossips. They just did not have a sense for the conversationally dramatic.
“I am trying to remember now,” he said.
“You remember our number of cattle, sheep, and goats, and the exact kinds of predators and prey in our area down to the long haired jackrabbit. You can describe every possible variation of a shepherd staff or sickle sword. But you cannot remember what El Shaddai says to you?”
“I remember now. I just needed to jog my memory a bit.”
“Well?” she said impatiently.
He grumbled, “Well, then he brought me out under the sky and showed me the stars of the heavens, and said, ‘number them if you can.’ I laughed and he said, ‘so shall your seed be.”
Sarai said, “Then what did you say?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I just believed him. And then he told me I was righteous.”
“Why did you not tell me this, my beloved?” she said.
“I thought it would just drive you more into your sadness because it was just another hurry up and wait promise. I am sorry. I should have told you.”
“You are probably right,” she said. “It would have depressed me further. You know me so well.” She held his face and kissed him.
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot, then he had me sacrifice a goat, a heifer, and ram, a turtledove and a pigeon.”
“You almost forgot that?” she said incredulously.
“He made a covenant and passed between the halves of the sacrifices. And he told me once again that he gave this land to my seed, from the river of Egypt to the great river Euphrates.”
Abram’s face then turned sober. “But then a great darkness fell over me and he said that my seed would be sojourners in a land not their own and that they would be slaves and be afflicted for four hundred years.”
“Four hundred years?” she gasped. “That is forever.”
“But he would judge that nation and bring them into this land in the fourth generation.”
She was as confused as ever with El Shaddai’s vague hinting. “So it will be four hundred years before your seed inherits this land?”
Abram added, “He said the iniquity of the Amorites was not yet complete.”
Sarai was confused. “Whatever does that mean?”
“I do not know,” said Abram. “But it does not sound good.”
Just then, Hagar came back into the tent.
She looked to Sarai to see if she was going to be punished. But Sarai was too exhausted, and she was genuinely sorry for her excess.
“Where did you go, Hagar?” said Sarai.
“The spring of water on the way to Shur,” said Hagar.
“I am so sorry for raging out of control,” said Sarai. “You did not deserve that. Please forgive me.”
Hagar nodded her head. “I am sorry, mistress, for my arrogance.”
Abram sighed with relief. And he knew he would get sex that night — maybe from both of them.
Then Hagar said, “El Shaddai visited me at the spring.”
Sarai was shocked that her lowly servant received such a royal presence. “What did he say?”
“He said I was to bear a son and to call his name Ishmael.”
Sarai’s eyes started to tear up. Everyone but her was getting a visit from El Shaddai. She held it back. She was not going to blow again. She was supposed to be more spiritually mature than that.
Hagar continued, “He said he would multiply my seed so that it would be a multitude.”
Sarai and Abram looked askance at one another.
Abram said, “Hagar, did you just hear my discussion with Sarai?”
“No,” she said.
They did not believe her.
Abram put his hands on his hips and asked, “Are you repeating El Shaddai’s words to me as if he spoke to you?”
“I swear not, my lord,” said Hagar. “He told me to return to my mistress and submit to her, and then he said that he had heard my affliction and that he was giving me a son who would be a wild donkey of a man who would fight with everybody.”
This was all very odd to Abram and Sarai, but then, El Shaddai was fond of doing odd things, so they just dropped the subject.
Abram thought that this was the sign of a long lasting regret for ever having listened to his wife and sleeping with Hagar.
And then he noticed Hagar was looking real good again.
Both of them were looking real good.
Chapter 57
One day, Sarai was dusting out the tent, when Abram came running in out of breath and rambling on like a madman.
“Where is a flint knife? Do we have a flin
t knife?”
“In the kitchen. What is wrong?” she asked after him.
Abram then let loose an uninterrupted stream as he raced around looking for the blade. “El Shaddai appeared to me again, and he told me to change my name to Abraham because he was making me a father of many nations, and that he was establishing his covenant with me and my seed after me throughout their generations for an everlasting covenant, and that he was giving my seed the land of Canaan for an everlasting possession, and then he said to change your name to Sarah, and that he would bless you with a son, that kings would come from you!”
“Slow down, Abram!” she said.
“Abraham,” he corrected her. “And El Shaddai said your new name is Sarah.”
Sarai sighed. “Okay, master Abraham. We have been through all this before. He has told you nothing new.”
“He gave us new covenant names.”
“But did he give you any new information?”
“He said Ishmael would be a great nation, but that his covenant would be with Isaac.”
“Who’s Isaac?”
“That is going to be our son. He told me to name him Isaac. You are going to bear him next year.”
Sarah stood dead still. Isaac? She was going to have a child named Isaac? Next year?
She almost fainted. She held herself together.
“Where is that confounded flint knife?” he yelled impatiently.
She reached in a drawer and pulled out the flint knife and handed it to him. “I guess it was not jumping out at you. What on earth do you want a flint knife so badly for?”
“Because El Shaddai told me to seal our covenant with circumcision. I have to circumcise every male in the household, as a sign of the everlasting covenant with El Shaddai.”
Sarah was familiar with the procedure from their time in Egypt where some of the Egyptians did it for ritual purposes. It was a bloody ritual that entailed the removal of the fleshy foreskin sheath that covered the head of the male member. Done on infants it was virtually indistinguishable from any other pain an infant experiences in its newborn life and it healed quickly. But for teenagers and adults, it was a very different and very painful matter.
Suddenly, Hagar was now in the tent listening to their exchange. “Ishmael too?” she asked.
“Every male — son, servant, and soldier.”
Hagar fainted and fell to the ground. Sarah went to help her.
It was the heat of the day. The camp of Abraham was still, but filled with the quiet moanings and groanings of male children and adults tending the pain in their groins after having their foreskins removed by the flint knife of Abraham.
Abraham himself sat in the door of his tent. If he did not move much, the pain was less. He was turning his new name over and over to himself, Abraham. Abraham of Mamre.
And he was thinking about the meaning of circumcision, how it was a symbol of purification of the male member, through which the chosen seedline would come. It was part of his promise to El Shaddai that he and his offspring would not intermarry with the Canaanites of the land. They were to remain pure and untainted by the demonic religion and culture that enveloped these pagans.
He moved and groaned. “Sarah, would you please fetch me some water?”
She was already there with a goatskin for him. She whispered into his ear, “You men are so weak. Circumcision is nothing compared to childbirth.”
“Nothing? This is worse than childbirth!” he yelped.
Hagar was there cleaning up. She burst out laughing. It was one of those moments where she could not stop. She dropped her broom and was laughing so hard, she had to gulp to get breaths.
“What is so funny?” complained Abraham.
“I am sorry, my lord,” said Hagar between giggles. “It is just that you got a little cut across your precious little penis.” She looked at Sarah, and the both of them belted out laughing.
“Why is that so funny!” he bellowed. “Do you have any idea what it is like to have your privates cut?”
Hagar then barely got it out, “Yes, they have to do it to help get the baby out when born. But do you know what it is like to crap a watermelon?”
“Ohhhh! That is vulgar,” said Abraham.
“I told her she could say it,” said Sarah.
“Forgive me, my lord,” said Hagar, “but that is what childbirth feels like.”
Abraham grumbled and turned back around to peer out the tent entrance. Sarah came up behind him and whispered to him, “All my empathy goes out to you and your pain, my lord and husband. Do you want me to kiss your boo boo?”
He winced just thinking of the pain, “Owwwww! No! Get away!”
Sarah went to work with Hagar. “Never heard him turn away that offer before, did you?” They giggled.
“Heartless women,” he muttered to himself.
And then his attention was taken by the appearance of three men standing out by the Diviner’s Oak a short distance away.
He knew exactly who they were.
He struggled off his chair to go meet them.
He limped, groaning with each step as he made his way to the large oak tree. Sarah and Hagar watched him curiously, wondering if the three men would come and introduce themselves.
When he got to the oak, he recognized all three of his visitors. One was El Shaddai, the Angel of Yahweh, the second was Mikael, and the third was the huge quiet giant one he had met many years earlier at the fall of the Tower of Babel: The Destroyer.
The monstrous angel’s presence brought chills down Abraham’s spine. This was the one who brought mass destruction and death to a population. What was he doing here?
Abraham bowed to the ground, grunting with pain.
El Shaddai chuckled. “I see you have responded with rapid obedience regarding our covenant sign and seal.”
“Yes, my Lord and God. I just hope recovery is as quick.”
El Shaddai looked at Mikael and said, “Now that is faith.”
Mikael was a bit playful, “How is that Hagar situation working out for you, Abraham?”
“Please, do not ask,” said Abraham. “I have reaped what I have sown. And I will never second guess my Lord again.”
El Shaddai quipped back to Mikael, “I ask for faith, not perfection.”
Of course, it was all in good-natured fun. Mikael would not question El Shaddai, but he liked to tease him about his odd choices of weak or flawed heroes for his seedline.
El Shaddai concluded with lightheartedness, “I think Mikael is spending too much time around Uriel. He is picking up his biting wit.”
Mikael smiled.
The Destroyer did not. The Destroyer never smiled. He only sat and watched silently.
They helped Abraham up and he said, “If I have found favor in your sight, please do not pass me by. Allow me to wash your feet and prepare a meal for you, and after that, you can pass on.”
El Shaddai said, “Go, do as you have said. But you do not have to run.”
Abraham smiled and wagged his finger. He hobbled his way back to the tent, yelling ahead of him, “Sarah! We need some bread cakes and milk! And get a calf from the herd! Hospitality! Hospitality for our guests!”
Abraham brought the meal that Sarah prepared with Hagar’s help and stood with the visitors as they ate.
When they finished, they took a stroll with him back to the tent.
“Where is Sarah your wife?” asked El Shaddai.
“She is in the tent,” said Abraham.
Sarah was indeed in the tent, hiding behind the flap listening to every word the men spoke. She knew Abraham would probably only remember half of what they said, so it was her duty to listen in and get the full details.
El Shaddai said to Abraham, “I will return to you about this time next year and Sarah shall have a son.”
Sarah laughed to herself. Yeah, right. I am eighty-nine years old, a generation past menopause. We are a couple of worn out old goatskins.
Suddenly, El Shaddai said, “Why di
d Sarah just laugh and tell herself that you are just a couple of old goatskins?”
Abraham’s eyes went wide.
From behind the tent flap, Sarah’s little voice peeped up, “I did not laugh.”
“Oh, but you did,” said El Shaddai with a wink at Abraham. “Is anything too hard for El Shaddai? Come out here, my precious Sarah.”
Sarah slowly revealed herself like a child caught with her hand in the honey jar.
El Shaddai was smiling at her.
“I did not laugh,” she said.
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I did not.”
“Did.”
“Did not.”
“Sarah,” said El Shaddai, now sternly.
“Okay, I am sorry,” she said, and bowed.
El Shaddai laughed. “I will return to you this time next year, and you shall have a son.”
“Thank you, my Lord. It has been a long wait.”
“Sarah!” scolded Abraham.
“No, it is all right,” said El Shaddai. “You are right. It has been a long wait. I have not given you much to hold on to. And do you know why I waited so long?”
Sarah thought about it. She did not want to be irreverent or flip. But she could only think of one thing: “So it would be impossible?”
“Because I really like to hear you laugh,” he replied and turned to leave with his two companions.
Sarah stood there with wonder.
And then, she laughed, but this time, with joy, and went back into the tent.
Abraham accompanied the three visitors through his land up to the hilltop overlooking the valley.
El Shaddai stopped with Abraham as the two other angels continued onward to the east.
“Where are they going?” asked Abraham.
“I have thought to myself whether I should tell you or not,” said El Shaddai. “The cities of the plain.”
“Sodom,” said Abraham, thinking of his nephew Lot. With the Destroyer going there, he knew it was serious. He knew Lot would not have a chance of surviving such a weapon of mass destruction.
El Shaddai said, “The outcry against Sodom and Gomorrah is great and their sin is very grave.”
“Is not this entire land full of such evil?” asked Abraham. “What makes Sodom and Gomorrah any different?”