Laughing at God

Sarah sat grinding grain into flour.
She was making the meal her husband had requested for the visitors who had appeared as if from nowhere, visitors more alien to this land than Abram himself: angels.

Abram recognized that the Lord himself was among them—an astonishing fact that would beg the question for centuries to come: “How did he know it was the Lord?” The most reasonable answer is that when the Lord wants someone to know he is with them, they know. Still, this visit would fill the minds of young and old with a sense of wonder and mystery.

In a rush to offer hospitality, Abram gave Sarah a list of preparations, and although she was nearly ninety years old, she got to work as Abram and his guests sat down to talk in the shade of an old oak tree.

Sarah listened from her tent. (Gen 18:10 ) As she ground the flour, (Gen 18:6
) her mind replayed how they’d gotten to where they were. This guest of theirs—the Lord himself—was the reason they were in this foreign land in the first place.

Her memories were heavy and long. She thought about when she was young and beautiful. Even at the age of sixty-five, her beauty was so compelling that her own husband worried that powerful men would kill him to have her. So he lied and pretended she was his sister. If they thought Abram was her brother, they would more likely heap honor upon him just to make an impression on her. (Gen 12:10–20)

Sarai, as she was known in those days, remembered the competing swells of pride and embarrassment that came over her during the great famine when they had gone to Egypt for food. Her dear husband asked her to pretend to be his sister so the Pharaoh wouldn’t kill him. (Gen 12:11–20 ) Abram reasoned that it was better to be defiled and dishonored than dead. It wasn’t safe, he said. She was too beautiful, he told her.

What could she say to that? She agreed even though it might mean she’d have to deal with suitors again. But if she must, then she must. Better dishonored than dead, after all.

But the irony of this charade was not lost on Sarai. She harbored deep within her a wounding secret. Yes, in the eyes of men she was vibrant and alive with beauty. But in a place no man could see, deep in the sanctuary where she would have given anything to sow the seeds of life, she was dead.

Her womb was barren, and she was desperate for children. She had been raised to understand that it was her honor and purpose to give her husband an heir, a son. But she couldn’t. For thirty years she had lived the life of a nomad’s wife because her husband believed the Lord was going to give them a son, and that through him all the nations of the earth would be blessed.

But there was nothing Sarai could do about it. Nothing. The covenant God had made with her husband would require a miracle birth. For her to be able to give Abram a son, God would have to resurrect her womb from the dead. And that sort of thing simply didn’t happen.

With her flour ready, she began to knead it into dough for the oven. Her mind wandered back again. She thought of Hagar. Oh, how she loathed the sight of that woman and her boy, Ishmael.

Ishmael. A surge of remorse, guilt, and anger came over her. This boy was, after all, her idea.

She knew her barrenness wasn’t her burden alone. Her husband bore it too. So with all this talk of an heir and with her inability to deliver one herself, she came up with an idea. What about her maidservant Hagar? Hagar wasn’t barren.

Sarai went to her husband and said, “The Lord has pre- vented me from bearing children. Go in to my servant; it may be that I shall obtain children by her.” (Gen 16:2)

In what must have seemed like far too little time, Abram agreed to this, and Hagar bore him a son, Ishmael. Sarai’s words had become flesh which now dwelt with her. She got what she wanted, and she hated what she got. (Gen 16:3–6)

Hagar and Ishmael may have been her idea, Sarah thought as she slid the bread into the oven, but this was certainly not God’s plan. Just months prior to this angelic visit, the Lord had appeared to Abram. And once again their meeting focused on this promise of an heir.

The Lord gave Abram the sign of circumcision so that he might remember God’s intent: Abram would have a son with his wife—with Sarai, not Hagar or anyone else. (Gen 17:1–14 ) This sign was to be applied to the source of Abram’s seed, and to every other man in his household, signifying that they had been cut off from the land they had come from and were now irreversibly separated and consecrated unto God in a lasting way for an eternal purpose.

Sarai was as much a part of God’s covenant as Abram was. The son through which the Lord intended to bless the earth would come from Abram through her. So specific was this point that during the institution of circumcision, God changed Abram’s name, which meant “Exalted Father,” to Abraham, “the Father of Nations”—but that wasn’t all. God also changed Sarai’s name to Sarah, which meant “Princess.” She would be the one to carry the line of blessing, barren and old though she was. God renamed these two not according to who they were, but according to what he would make of them.

Sarah heard one of the visitors outside ask her husband, “Where is your wife?”
“There, in the tent,” Abraham replied.

Then the Lord said, “I will surely return to you about this time next year, and Sarah your wife will have a son.” (Gen 18:9-10)

When she heard this, Sarah laughed.

It wasn’t just that her childbearing years were behind her. It was that they had never happened, and everything she tried to do to improve her situation only complicated her life. This shell of an old woman with this wisp of a husband were now going to succeed at what they had failed to do for over fifty years? And by this time next year? Really?

The Lord outside heard her laugh. He asked Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh at that?”

Sarah lied, “I didn’t laugh.”

But the Lord said, “Yes, you did.” And he knew why. Her laugh was likely not deliberate as much as it was reactionary—half laugh, half exhale. Why would God rebuke her for this? The Lord knew her situation—her barren beauty and her surrogate son.
Her laugh was the laugh of turning away. She had reached her end. Surely he understood this.

But with his rebuke, he turned her back to face him. The Lord would not permit Sarah to separate her heart from him. (Rom 8:38–39) This princess would be a queen, no matter how she felt, no matter what she thought. The One who had read her mind could also open her womb.

One year later, Sarah laughed again. It was well past midnight when she crawled out of bed for the second time that night to feed her hungry, crying, rosy-cheeked baby boy. She named the boy Laughter, or Isaac, saying, “God has brought me laughter, and everyone who hears about this will laugh with me.” (Gen 21:6–7)

About the Post: This post is an excerpt of chapter 5 of my 2015 release Behold the Lamb of God: An Advent Narrative, Rabbit Room Press, 2011.

About the Art: Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn (1606-1669), Abraham and the Three Angels, Oil on canvas, 121cm x 162cm, c.a. 1635.

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