Well, today was the big day - preaching in chapel. I think it went well. Actually, I enjoyed preaching! I figured I'd post it here. It's a little more on the academic side (still figuring out the process of shifting from exegesis to sermon). Favorite moment afterwards: my OT professor said, "I feel like a proud mom." :o)
Genesis 21:8-21
It was June of last year. After 48 hours of being awake, half of which were spent on an airplane, I found myself in Johannesburg, South Africa, my home for the next two months. My reason for visiting – to volunteer at a daycare centre for underprivileged children at Troyeville Baptist Church. The pastor drove me to the church, where I met Nomalanga and her two children. I learned that I would be living on the church compound in a small house with them. There I was, a small town girl who had never been overseas before and with no idea what I was getting into. Now Nomalanga was a woman with a commanding presence, and a strict set of rules for the children she worked with at the centre. And She would yell at the children in rapid-fire Zulu. And even though I didn’t speak the language, I knew it wasn’t good news for them, and I would sit up just a little straighter to make sure that same speech wasn’t directed towards me. Honestly, I was a bit afraid of her, and wasn’t sure how we would live together. But over time, as we shared our living space and developed a friendship, I began to see the light she had in her. I heard the story of her past, and marveled at the strength she showed. I saw the love that she had for the children and for her church, and her dedication to the people around her. Some nights we would share stories about the children and laugh so hard that we could barely get the words out. Other nights we would watch TV in Zulu and she would explain them to me to make sure I was included. Sometimes, she would even cook for me. Those were good days. One night towards the end of my stay, I gave her a book that I had brought with me, to thank her for everything she had done. She replied, “You have been so humble. I didn't know what you would be like living here. I thought you might come in thinking you were better than everyone else, and wouldn't even sit next to us. But you proved me wrong.”
At that moment, my heart broke, not because I felt insulted, but because of her previous experiences that had caused her to have that expectation. And I felt guilty as well, remembering my initial judgment of her. Just as my first impression of her had been uncertain, so had been hers of me. I was a white American (therefore wealthy by most standards), and she was a poor black South African. Two women from two different worlds, encountering “the other.”
Psychologically, we have a need to label people as “the other.” It’s a part of how we define ourselves. I am this; I am not that. While sometimes this does not mean subjugation, more frequently we have the tendency to establish the other as inferior. Virginia Tech is a better school than UVA. Macs are better than PCs. Or how about that eternal schoolyard chant – my dad is bigger /smarter/ stronger /fill in the blank than your dad. And while these are all harmless rivalries, it becomes serious when they are carried out to an extreme. Suddenly walls are built; relationships are severed; and the seeds of oppression are sown. What is worse is when those divisions are built upon qualities such as nationality or socioeconomic status.
This brings us to our story today – the story of Hagar, the quintessential outsider. Who exactly is Hagar? She is first introduced in Genesis 16 as an Egyptian woman. She is not a part of the “chosen family,” but merely a servant. Even her name reflects her status: “ha-gur” in Hebrew means “the foreigner.” The other. Although she does become Abraham’s wife and bears him a son, Ishmael, they still remain outside the covenant which God made with Abraham. Yet, she is given two whole chapters in Genesis which tell her story. Why give her space in the text unless there is some significance? A closer look at the second part of her story in chapter 21 gives some insight into how God views the “outsider,” and consequently, how we should also treat those who are different or separate.
Our story in chapter 21 begins with a celebration. Isaac has made it to the age of being weaned from his mother. In a time where infant mortality ran high, reaching this age was incredibly significant, for it meant that Isaac would most likely be Abraham’s heir. Truly this is a great time within the household. However, things change dramatically when Sarah sees Ishmael, the son of Hagar, playing with Isaac. Scholars have interpreted this verse several ways. Some say that Sarah becomes jealous, seeing Ishmael so close to her own son. Others say that Ishmael actually is teasing or tormenting the young heir. Regardless of the action that takes place, Sarah decides that Ishmael should no longer be around, for fear that he may receive part of Isaac’s inheritance. However, her word choice in the demand is interesting. Sarah neither speaks directly to Hagar nor says her name, referring to her as her servant-woman. Essentially, Sarah has refused to acknowledge Hagar’s identity, treating her as a possession.
But Abraham does not automatically obey Sarah’s demands. Verse eleven indicates that Abraham had made a connection with his son, Ishmael, despite the fact that he is not chosen for the covenant with God. Like any father, he does not want to send his son away, out into a wilderness where anything could happen. However, missing from his expression of concern is Hagar, the mother of the boy. Though his biological son does have meaning to him, what about his second wife? Fortunately, God does not overlook Hagar, and the response Abraham receives indicates that both will be cared for. And so, the woman and son are sent on their way with limited rations, to wander in the wilderness.
Out in the desert, Hagar has nowhere to turn, and sees no chance of survival for herself and her son. The text doesn’t indicate how long they wander. A few hours? A few days? All we know is, they’re in the middle of a desert and run out of water. Things do not look good, and Hagar fears the worst. So she separates herself from her son, because she cannot stand to hear his cries and watch him suffer. The text tells us that she puts about a bowshot’s distance between them so she can’t see him die. I’m not an archery expert, but I’m thinking that in some situations, visibility can extend beyond a bowshot. This is not an act of desertion to increase her own chances of survival; this is an act of love from a mother who cannot stand to see her child suffer and die. And yet, she cannot completely remove herself from him, keeping him within a certain visibility range. I cannot even begin to imagine the anguish and utter helplessness that Hagar felt at that moment. She is a foreigner, cast out from the home of Abraham, with no where to go and no one to help her, and at risk of losing her only son. A refugee in the wilderness.
But just as promised, God hears the cries of Ishmael. A fitting act, since Ishmael’s name means “God hears.” However, God speaks not to the boy, but to Hagar. When Abraham and Sarah fail to even address her by name, God calls her directly, both showing concern for her situation and instructing her not to fear. The conversation then goes on as God describes the nation which Ishmael will father. They will not just survive; they will prosper. Moreover, God does not just offer them a promise; water is provided, as Hagar opens her eyes and sees a well. Perhaps it was there all the time, or perhaps it miraculously appeared. Regardless, God provides for them, proof that “neither Hagar nor Ishmael are beyond the mercy of God” (Word Commentary 88).
Something you don’t see in the English text is that several of the Hebrew words used within this story are repeated in the story of the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt. And just as Hagar wanders in the desert and God provides water, so the same later happens for the Israelites. The only difference is this: the Israelites are chosen, and Hagar is a foreigner. In fact, she was expelled by the mother of the Israelite nation. Still, God’s attention to this one slave woman connected with the care for the entire Israelite nation reflects God’s love of and care for every individual, regardless of their insider or outsider status. God did not choose Israel “to keep everyone else out of God’s fold; Israel was chosen to make it possible for everyone else eventually to be included” (Spina 6). And despite Sarah’s efforts to exclude the foreigner, Hagar and Ishmael receive their own provision and promise of blessing.
On the one hand, this is a story of liberation. Hagar and Ishmael are saved, and are guaranteed survival for their family. Hagar even rises to take control of and responsibility for her son, as she selects a wife for him, a job normally for the father. The previous abuse of Sarah and the despair of the desert are over. And at times, we like to align ourselves with Hagar, because who hasn’t felt abandoned and abused by others on some level, longing for liberation?
But if we solely align ourselves with Hagar, we miss a crucial part of the story. What if, instead, we look for commonalities between ourselves and Sarah? Sarah is the one who mistreats Hagar, using her for a potential heir for Abraham then turning her away when Isaac takes his place as the true heir. With no regard for her welfare, she demands that Hagar must be gone. Never mind that she has no where else to go. Never mind that she has no resources on her own. She must leave, end of story.
Now, I am sure that few of us have literally thrown people out of our homes. But what people have we refused to recognize? What populations have flown under our radar? What nations have suffered because of our desire to capitalize on their resources?
In short, who are the Hagars of our world? Who has been displaced, excluded, and shut out? Each has their own story, their own wilderness, their own heartbreak. Hagar is the refugee and her family from Sudan, choosing poverty in another nation over the violence in their own. Hagar is the homeless man suffering from mental illness with no money or means to stabilize his condition. Hagar is the woman whose home was wiped out by Katrina and cannot afford to rebuild. Hagar is the man disowned by his family, friends, and church because of his lifestyle. Hagar is the woman dying from AIDS, with no one to care for her. The list goes on and on, in a world full of suffering people in need of liberation from poverty, disease, abuse, and loneliness. The Hagars of our world are not confined to a particular racial or economic group. They are everywhere.
And yes, we can claim the role of God as liberator in their lives. The story of Hagar is proof that God does see and hear those who are “outside.” And that is a powerful message in and of itself. But we must be careful not to neglect our own responsibility in these stories. Though we may not have directly caused many of the situations and circumstances that leave people impoverished, neglected, and/or alone, we perpetuate the cycle by our inability to see and name the Hagars. And until we see them as people, brothers and sisters, with names and faces and stories, we can never reach out to them in their wildernesses and help them in their struggle. By simply labeling the Hagars of the world as “the others,” we can continue to keep them at arm’s length, withholding the dignity they deserve and the help they so desperately need.
Thinking back to my time in South Africa, all the women I worked with probably shared Nomalanga’s initial fears of me. To them, I was a nameless white woman; to me, they were nameless black women. But what was it that changed their minds, and my own? All we did was eat together. Watch TV together. Joke together. Drink tea together. Read the Bible together. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing out of the ordinary. We chose to drop our walls and stereotypes and let the other in. And our ministry to each other became genuine, heartfelt. We couldn’t solve the problems of their community, the daily struggles and economic hardships that created a wilderness of their own. But we could offer ourselves as support to each other, building relationships that crossed boundaries and crushed stereotypes. And suddenly, the “other” turned into “sister.” The faceless women turned into friends with names and stories and vivid lives, because we chose to see and hear each other for who we were. And we were changed.
