Seeing Hagar with new eyes

by Rabbi Shoshana Kaminsky

One of the great advantages of starting at a new congregation is the opportunity to recycle some of my better ideas to a fresh audience. How lucky am I! And so I have the chance to offer what I think are some pretty interesting insights into this morning’s Torah portion. The Torah portion that we read out here on Rosh Hashanah morning is not actually the portion traditionally assigned to this day. In much of the world, Rosh Hashanah is observed for two days. The unforgettable story of the binding of Isaac is reserved for the second day. The first day’s reading is the previous chapter of Genesis. It is a happy story, because it tells of the miraculous birth of a son to Abraham and Sarah when they are already 100 and 90 years old. The whole event is so hilarious that they decide to name the baby Yitzhak, meaning laughter. But it is a sad story as well. Abraham already has an older son Ishmael, borne to him by his servant Hagar. Sarah determines that her son should not have to divide his inheritance with the son of a servant, and she demands that Abraham expel the mother and son from his household. God assures the worried Abraham that no harm will befall his son, and so Abraham agrees to Sarah’s request. For a while, it’s touch and go; Hagar and Ishmael quickly drink through the water that Abraham has provided them, and it looks like they’re going to die of thirst. But then an angel opens Hagar’s eyes and she finds a well of water. Ishmael grows up to father his own people, and both he and Isaac bury their father Abraham when he dies.

Hagar’s name is striking. It means “the stranger.” Hagar is a stranger in the land of Canaan. She is a native of Egypt, and so Canaan is as foreign to her as it is to Abraham. In this story, she is cast in the role of a stranger within Abraham’s family as well. As a woman, a foreigner, and a slave, she is by far the most vulnerable person in his household. This is not the only story in which she is mistreated. When she first learns that she is pregnant with Ishmael, her mistress Sarah, embittered by her own infertility, makes her life so miserable that she runs away. An angel appears to her and assures her that everything will be okay, and that it will be worth her while to submit to her mistress’ harsh treatment. She returns, only to be cast out years later. When Sarah orders her to leave, she has no legal or familial recourse. She is, essentially, the original stranger in the Torah, and very few characters are treated worse.

What is harder to know is how these events affect Abraham and Sarah. We do not hear from Sarah again. The next mention of her is two chapters later, when the text speaks of her death at the age of 127. Is she haunted by guilt? Does she sleep with a clear conscience? The Torah does not tell us.

Abraham, of course, is quite active in the following chapters. In Genesis chapter 21, he banishes his elder son Ishmael from his household. In chapter 22, God calls upon him to sacrifice his younger son Isaac. Commentators note that when God gives Abraham his instructions, God says, “Take your son, your only son, whom you love--Isaac.” But doesn’t Abraham have two sons? Well, not anymore, not really. Although Ishmael still lives, Abraham will never see him again. He does not even know if Ishmael is alive or dead.  Abraham does not argue with God’s draconian request to kill his only remaining son, but rather hurries to carry out God’s will. What is going through his mind? Is this a moment when he perhaps feels that the crime he committed against his older son is coming back to haunt him? Having sent his son and Hagar into the wilderness to almost certain death, should he argue when God now demands that he relinquish his younger son as well?

Many faith traditions, as well as schools of psychology, understand that our actions have consequences both predictable and unforeseen. As I child, I was transfixed by a story my father read me of the miraculous deeds of the founding rabbi of Hassidic Judaism the Baal Shem Tov. A man named Reb Schmerl found a method by which he could dump all of his sins into the lake near his home. Year after year, he carried his sins to the water and dropped them in. Until the lake itself came to life, rose up, and attempted to steal away the soul of Reb Schmerl’s beloved son as repayment. Despite his best efforts, Reb Schmerl could not escape from his sins. And so too for us. We cannot really run away from the baggage in our past. We actually need to face it and, if necessary, to make amends and ask forgiveness where needed.

I first delivered this sermon in Adelaide eleven years ago at a time when, very sadly, both major parties had weaponized the issue of asylum seekers in a competition to see who could be tougher on border control. I argued then, and I continue to argue now, that asylum seekers are the most vulnerable people in the entire world, and that they are also the most eager to build new lives for themselves and their children in their adopted countries. It is deeply discouraging to see them stripped of their humanity for political gain, whether that be in Australia or here in the United States.

I return to the story of Hagar, the prototypical stranger. In Genesis 16, Hagar flees from her mistress who is then known as Sarai and finds refuge by a well. Extraordinarily, an angel of God speaks to her there and seems to see her fully: “Hagar, slave of Sarai, where have you come from, and where are you going?” Hagar replies, “I am running away from my mistress Sarai.” In her current state, ground down by months of suffering, Hagar has no vision for the future. She knows only what she has fled from. The angel assures her that she will bear a son, and that he will become the father of a nation of people. At the end of their exchange, Hagar exclaims, “You Are El-roi,” by which she meant, “Have I not gone on seeing after my being seen!” In her exchange with God’s angel, Hagar has been transformed from a terrified shell of a person into a woman who is brave enough do something no other person in the Torah does: she gives God a new name.

There is a powerful lesson here: when we support the vulnerable, the downtrodden, the scared, we enable them to blossom into impassioned and powerful human beings. When we grind them down, not only do we heap misery upon their already difficult lives, but we reduce our own humanity. In naming God “El Roi” Hagar affirms the enormous impact that comes when God fully sees her. And so we too pray that at this holy season, our eyes may be more fully open. Most of all, may we see the humanity in all, and may we always recognize that we are all made in the image of God. May we all be inscribed and sealed for a year of sweetness and joy, health and peace. Amen.