Abstract
We live in a time when the morality of conception, fertility, and procreation is locked in the struggle between possibility and permissibility. A gay colleague of mine is making plans to marry his long-time partner, and then start the process of creating a family—sperm from his partner, egg from his sister, and a surrogate womb from one of his close friends. When I was a parish pastor, I counseled with several married women around the ethics of abortion—and in one case, a mother decided to abort one of the twins she was carrying due to abnormal growth. Three young women I know, who waited to get married until they were in their early thirties, have had trouble conceiving. But through the wonder of in vitro fertility treatments, they are all happily nursing new babies. What is the world coming to?
Actually, the Scriptures are full of strange stories about barrenness and surrogates and difficulty giving birth. And God manages to work through them all, embracing difference, healing trauma, and welcoming all into the covenant of holiness. And nowhere is this more obvious than in the story of Abraham, Sarah, Hagar, and Ishmael.
Most commentators urge us to consider Genesis 16 and Genesis 21 together as two versions of the same story. As with many tales in the Genesis soap opera, we are introduced to familial dysfunction that spirals downward with cruelty and animosity. In a scene reminiscent of modern television’s Big Love, old barren Sarah pleads with Abraham to have sex with her slave girl, in order to escape the humiliation of no offspring (Gen 16:2). But when Hagar, after conceiving, looks at Sarah in contempt, Sarah changes her tune and pushes Hagar out into the desert (vv. 4–6). The text says that Abraham gladly does the deed, and then backs out of the ensuing conflict, letting the fight between the two women play itself out.
What a mess! Which is exactly the place that God most often shows up. Disguised in the voice of an angel—the first angel to show up in the Hebrew Scriptures—God takes the initiative to save, strengthen, protect, and bless. Even though Sarah and Abraham want to put the whole episode behind them, God has other plans. In both Genesis 16 and Genesis 21, God finds Hagar, speaks with her, and promises a future for her son Ishmael. At the same time, God protects and blesses Abraham, Sarah, and Isaac in order to further God’s gracious plan. Refusing to play favorites, and gracious in the midst of human foibles, God brings hope out of despair, relationship out of brokenness.
There are two theological themes in this story that might inform a sermon. They both speak to our contemporary condition, and they are connected. The first is God’s sovereignty—God taking charge in ways that defy tradition and transform expectations. We see a God who is emergent—exercising grace as the messy story unfolds—and thinking outside the box of acceptable practice. According to the law, Ishmael, as the firstborn son of Abraham, should have center stage and inherited authority, thus pushing Isaac into the background. But God needs both Isaac and Ishmael to fulfill the universal covenant of human shalom. And so, God puts grace before law—refusing to choose—intent on loving all the sinners in this story. In our contemporary debates about universal salvation, about who is in and who is out, about how we can proclaim Christ while embracing our multi-faith partners, perhaps this story can give us pause. Can we passionately live our faith while remaining open to a diverse world? Can we let the final judgment rest with God?
All of which leads to a second theological theme, one that only intensifies God’s sovereign right to change, and to startle us into new ways of being. Hospitality is at the core of God’s beating heart. And so loving the stranger, welcoming the “Other,” seeing our own humanity in faces and cultures and faith traditions different from our own—this is our central calling as blessed and baptized children of God. When God finds and saves Hagar, when God names and blesses Ishmael, God is bringing the “Other” into the promise of chosenness. And so we see a major thread of Scripture, weaving itself through generations of God’s broken but beautiful people: the widow at Zarapheth, saved by Elijah while his own tribe starves; Amos, lifting up all the enemy tribes as beloved children of God, saving his wrath for the disobedience of Israel; Jesus, horrifying the religious authorities by eating with the marginalized, healing the centurion’s child, touching and transforming a bleeding woman, seeking out the lepers and those filled with demons; the Good Samaritan—eternal symbol of human compassion—embodying God’s generous love; Peter, eating desecrated meat; Philip baptizing the Ethiopian eunuch, the sexual outcast of his day; and Paul, leaving his Jewish community of comfort in order to bring the Gentiles into the covenant promise.
All of these biblical stories, beginning with Hagar and Ishmael, push us beyond our comfort zone. And they speak to the deep division in our political and religious world today. God delights in difference and asks us to celebrate difference. God takes special pains to find the lost, the stranger, the “Other”—and sweeps them into divine grace consistently and persistently. And God imagines a universal banquet table—where all shall feast, and all shall be one.
As I write this essay, immigration reform continues to elude the United States Congress. A television commentator recently made headlines by insisting that Jesus is white—news to anyone who has seen a Middle Eastern Semitic face. In our changing neighborhoods, the percentage of immigrant and foreign-born residents continues to change with electrifying speed. But in all too many of our congregations, we symbolically exclude these strangers from our Christian life—clinging instead to music and liturgy and language and leadership that cry “white privilege.” And in the global community, our human refusal to embrace and cherish the “Other” continues to fuel terrorism, violence, and prejudice.
The Hagar and Ishmael story is at the heart of today’s conflict in the Middle East between Jews and Arabs—and within the Muslim and the Jewish communities. For years, I have been part of the struggle within Presbyterian circles both to understand the conflict in Israel/Palestine and to offer authentic strategies for peace and reconciliation. The conflict is deep and bitter, and goes back to the tension between Hagar and Sarah, and the pedigree of Ishmael and Isaac. Most scholars agree that the inheritors of God’s promise to Abraham, Sarah, and Isaac are the Jews. And the inheritors of God’s promise to Hagar and Ishmael are the Arabs—both Christian and Muslim. But instead of hearing and embracing God’s inclusive promise to both, our contemporary stereotypes pit them against one another.
The theology of the land is crucial in this festering conflict. For many who live in and revere the land of Israel, it seems clear that God’s promise to Abraham, Sarah, and Isaac makes the land of Israel theirs—not only historically, but also spiritually. And yet when Joshua leads the people out of the wilderness into the promised land of Canaan, there are plenty of people already there—the descendants of Ishmael. And so, the tug-of-war between the particularity of identity and the universal grace of covenant promise continues to play itself out.
Years ago, before the Second Intifada that led to the building of the Security Wall in Israel, I traveled with a small group of parishioners to both Israel and Palestine. One day, we visited the huge sanctuary in the midst of Hebron. Because of Hebron’s history rooted in the story of Abraham, this holy place is claimed by both Muslims and Jews. In an effort to honor both traditions, one end of the building has been consecrated as a mosque, while the other end is an active synagogue. Our guide that day was a young Palestinian Christian, who was trying to help us open our eyes to the reality of the tension in the region. Little did he know how clearly we would learn this lesson. As he approached the Muslim entrance to the sanctuary, a young Israeli soldier stopped him, preventing us from entering. An argument ensued, with both young men shouting at each other. And what was so astonishing was that they looked like twins, two Semitic youth—both born out of the loins of God’s covenant promise.
Human animosity—so apparent in the story of Hagar, Ishmael, Sarah, and Abraham—continues to break the universal heart of God. As followers of Jesus, the one who comes to break down the dividing walls of hostility, we are called to transform human hostility into hospitality.