Abraham and Sarah

by Roberta Kells Dorr

  He sank to his knees and then lowered his head to the ground and covered his face. The words enveloped him. They seemed to come from a great distance, and yet they were as close as his own heart. It was as though someone not only spoke the words, but also wrote them with a sharp stylus somewhere in his mind so that he heard them over and over again whichever way he turned.

  He lost all consciousness of time. He was caught up in heart-rending emotion. He, a rational man, a man shrewder than most, a bargainer, and an intellectual, felt he was in the very presence of the great Creator God. The fear and doubt lifted, and in their place was a quiet ecstasy, an almost rapturous delight. The Creator God, Elohim, had spoken. Abram recognized His voice. Elohim had singled him out for this special blessing, and Abram was speechless with wonder.

  Gradually the glory faded. The moment passed and Abram became aware again of his immediate surroundings. He stood up. The sun was edging its way down to the rim of Mount Carmel in the far distance, and in the valley he could see bright spots of light that must be their campfires already lit.

  He lingered, still feeling the euphoria of the encounter. He had no doubt it was God who had spoken, the God he had encountered first in Ur and then in Haran. Joy flooded his entire being. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to return to the valley. He repeated the words over and over.

  He had been right. His every instinct had led him to this place, and now he knew that it was to be his.

  The sun dropped lower, hovering on the horizon, while in the valley it was already dark. The vision had faded and with it came a terrible reality. This was the place, the place he’d been promised, and it was a barren, parched wasteland. Even worse, he’d brought all these people with him on extravagant promises. What would they say? What would they think when he told them this was all he was going to have?

  He sank down on a jutting rock and let his head drop into his hands. “Oh my God, what am I to do? What will I tell all these people … and Sarai? How can I tell her that this is the land you promised me, the land we have been talking about?”

  There was no answer. No breeze stirred. A hawk flew overhead, balanced effortlessly on the warm air. Abram sat motionless and watched its slow, circling descent. When it finally disappeared, he stood up and with a sigh started back down to the camp.

  At the base of the mountain he found Lot looking frustrated and impatient. Things had not gone well. “My lord,” Lot’s voice was urgent and strained. “There’s barely enough water for our flocks and camels. We’ll all die here if we don’t move on quickly.”

  Abram hardly heard what he was saying. His mind was still preoccupied with what he’d seen and heard. “Pass the word through the camp,” he told Lot, “that they are to sanctify and cleanse themselves. Tomorrow we will climb the mount, build an altar, and worship.”

  Lot frowned. “But, my uncle, there is almost no water, and our own drinking supply will soon be gone.”

  “Tomorrow you will see. We are going to climb the mountain and build an altar in this place,” Abram said, looking around with an air of grim determination.

  “An altar?” Lot asked.

  “Tomorrow. It will be a time of dedication for all of us.”

  Lot could see that trying to dissuade his uncle would be useless. Reluctantly he relayed Abram’s message to the people, then hinted that perhaps Abram had some explanation, some revelation from his God.

  The next morning, before daybreak, the men gathered at the edge of the camp. Depression had given way to curiosity. As they started up the mountain, an air of excitement, then expectation, began to grow. They sang the old songs and felt the renewal of hope, of something spectacular about to happen.

  The women and children huddled together in the deep shadows of the encampment and watched them go, wondering at the strangeness of it all.

  At the summit the stars still hung low in the east, and the moon gave a hard, sharp light that brought the barren rocks into focus. Quickly, at Abram’s command, the men picked up stones and silently piled them in the shape of a crude altar.

  Just at sunrise the altar was ready and a young lamb was sacrificed as the men broke into an ancient hymn of thanksgiving and praise. When the singing died down, Abram offered a prayer to Elohim, the Creator God.

  By that time the sun had risen over the summit of Gilboa, and its rays illumined the mountains beyond the Jordan. As the whole landscape became visible, there was a gasp of surprise. The long, tedious trek they had made from Mount Hermon now looked only a stone’s throw away. They were filled with awe as they gazed in every direction. Most of them had spent all their lives on the flat plains of the Euphrates and could not imagine the possibility of such a view.

  Abram waited until they had finished exclaiming, and then he began to point out the sights, Mount Carmel to the northwest, to the east Mount Hermon, and behind the eastern hills the Jordan, and to the south the port of Joppa.

  “This land, all of it that you see, is the very land my God has promised me and my descendants.” Abram glanced around expectantly, hopefully, but when he saw their sober, worried faces he grew silent.

  First there were covert whispers and then overtones of displeasure. Finally Lot could contain himself no longer. “My lord,” he sputtered, “do you mean that the land you have been promised is this?” His hand swept around, taking in the valley and the barren mountains.

  Abram nodded, his gaze sweeping the horizon. “Yes, yes, this whole land is to be given to me and to my descendants.”

  As murmurs of displeasure broke out among the men, Lot spoke again, his voice bitter with disappointment, “Did you not ask your God why He has given you a land of death? One from which even the wild animals and pleasant birds have fled?”

  Abram could see that they could think of nothing but the famine. He tried to encourage them. “I have seen the valley when it was green and bursting with figs, olives, grapevines, and great fields of wheat and barley,” he said. “This drought will pass. It will be green again. That is the way of things.”

  The steady rumble of unease continued, but only Lot dared speak, “My lord, last night we were barely able to water our animals. If we aren’t to die, we must move on quickly.”

  Abram looked from one to the other and saw their anger and frustration. He had no answers, and he didn’t want to discuss anything at the moment. “We’ll go back to our tents,” he said, turning away so they couldn’t see the hurt in his eyes. “It will become clear what we’re to do.”

  Lot was not ready to drop the subject so quickly. “My lord,” he said, “the place is impossible.”

  Abram turned and looked at Lot, meeting his eyes. “We may not understand, but it will become clear,” he said. “The Creator God, the God of mountains and of hosts, He is the one who has made the promise, and He will show us what to do.” With that Abram turned and started back down the mountain with a fast, determined stride.

  The next morning when Abram ordered the old rags to be taken down from the tree of the sorceress and the ground around it completely cleared of debris, Lot questioned his wisdom. “My uncle,” he said, “if we destroy his sacred place, won’t the local god, Hadad, punish us?”

  Abram paused a moment before replying. “This place is no longer his,” he said finally. “It belongs to the living God, the God not made with hands.”

  Soon the great tree had been restored to its simple beauty and the area around it completely cleared. Even the air was freshened with incense. “God has spoken to me here in this place,” Abram said. “This tree will no longer mark the place of the sorceress but will from this time on be called the Tree of Grace.”

  When Lot reported the events of the day to Mara, she could tell he was depressed, even angry. “Can you imagine,” he said, jabbing the fire with a pointed stick, “he was excited. He didn’t even see that it was a rotten trick.”

  “The people predicted Ur’s god would wreak revenge on Abram,” Mara said. “Now Abram’s come against Hadad too.” M
ara’s eyes were large with fright.

  “To come against the moon god and the god of thunder is to invite trouble.” Lot’s voice registered his frustration.

  “He’s to have descendants. Where will he get them, do you suppose? Not from Sarai, I’m sure.” In the darkness Mara bit her lip to keep from showing her pleasure. “If that promise turns out to be as empty as the others … well!” She saw she didn’t have to say more. Lot understood perfectly.

  Though Sarai wasn’t pleased with the turn of events, she made up her mind to hold her peace and probe the subject gently. However, she was puzzled that Abram didn’t seem to be angrier. His God had gotten him into this predicament, and she felt he should have been more resentful and bitter.

  For herself, she wanted none of it. She secretly hoped he would give up this wild adventure and go back to Haran. It was true that, like Abram, she found the idol worship questionable at best, and the religious practices vulgar, but she had her family and so paid little attention to these things that bothered Abram so much.

  She had always known that Abram listened to her, and she felt sure that if she insisted and was determined to go back, he would take her. With that bit of assurance, she ordered her maidens to lift the tent flaps so she could see the moon rise over the mountains to the east and catch any breeze.

  She directed one of them to bring her a small earthen jar purchased in Damascus. She held the little jar carefully between two fingers while she gently pulled away the wax that held the stopper in place. “He chose this for me,” she said as she poured a bit of the rare fragrance into her palm. She rubbed her hands together and then held them up so she could smell the heady odor of jasmine.

  “He always buys the very best,” she said as she proceeded to rub the oil up each arm, on each earlobe, down her neck, and around each breast.

  She handed the bottle back to the maid and then dismissed all of them. Tonight she wanted to be alone. She was sure Abram would come looking for her, and she intended to be ready.

  The next day they folded their tents and were on their way out of the valley. Although Abram was interested in seeing more of the land he had glimpsed from Mount Ebal, he was becoming more and more perplexed and deeply disturbed. He had pictured it all so differently. He had been so sure of the promises, and now he found himself wondering, pondering, almost doubting.

  Listening to Sarai hadn’t helped. The moment he had entered her tent and smelled the jasmine, he knew she wanted something. He was surprised when she didn’t come right out and tell him like she usually did.

  How subtle she’d been to remind him of the house and fields they’d left in Ur and the comforts his brother was enjoying in Haran. She had even suggested that perhaps the slaughter carried out by the Elamites was over and life in Ur was normal again. She left no doubt that she wanted to go back. She was already tired of their constant wandering, and the idea of famine frightened her.

  He thought briefly of his brother Nahor and his prediction of disaster. If Nahor’s gods were real, he had certainly offended them. Could it be possible that Ningal alone knew the secrets of life? Would Sarai forever be barren because she had not acknowledged the goddess’s power?

  While he was thinking these thoughts he was busy seeing that everything was ready to move on. He was quiet and preoccupied, easily irritated. He had no explanation to give these people who trusted him. He could see in their looks and in the silence as they kept glancing at him that they were expecting him to give some reason for their disappointment.

  He squared his shoulders and looked around. Perhaps farther on he would find the prosperity and plenty he had at first envisioned. There had to be some explanation. He didn’t doubt that he had heard the voice of this unseen God called Elohim, but there was so much he didn’t know. If he could only meet someone who shared this same experience … someone who knew this God.

  To his surprise, things didn’t get better. They continued to get worse, much worse. They began to see hordes of locusts. The locusts buzzed and hummed, their wings vibrating in a continual whir. They landed on the tents in droves, letting their fragile legs cling tenaciously to the stiff goat hair weave, their small treacherous jaws boring holes in the sturdy stuff. They were in the sleeping rolls, on the cushions, and even crushed underfoot. Every green thing disappeared before their all-consuming hunger.

  As Abram’s band made their way up into the hill country toward Ai and Luz, they battled and struggled against the onslaught. Though the locusts skewered on a stick and roasted were surprisingly good to eat, the people soon tired of them. They yearned to get relief from the plague and to find fresh, sweet water, ripe figs, and grapes, but there were none.

  Gradually they noticed that the soil was no longer rich and dark. Instead, hard layers of red earth barely covered the solid rock. Only in the ravines that fell away to the west would it be possible to plow or sow regular crops of grain. Most of the men were deeply disappointed. Eliazer was the only one who encouraged Abram. “Perhaps,” he said, “Elohim is using the famine to drive the people out so you can have the land without shedding blood.”

  Abram gave serious thought to the words of his friend, though the farther they went from Shechem, the more doubts tormented him. How could it be, he wondered, that the voice was so distinct and the message so clear and still there is no guidance as to what we are to do about the famine?

  To make matters even worse, the people were constantly asking questions he couldn’t answer, while Sarai had grown silent. He could tell by the way her mouth was set and the impatient way she swatted at the locusts that she was at some sort of breaking point.

  Finally when they reached Luz, there was a degree of relief. The nights grew cooler and the plague of locusts came mercifully to an end. At last they found some water. It was not in great abundance, but enough to sustain them if they were careful and used it mostly for drinking.

  Abram obtained permission for his people to camp in the open fields between Luz and Ai. He forced himself to move among them as they pitched their tents and tried to encourage them. Instead of being encouraged, they looked at him with wide, troubled eyes, hoping for a decision that would rescue them from their misery.

  When days passed and Abram had no solution to offer, open hostility sprang up among the women and then spilled over to the men. They pleaded with Lot to convince Abram of the seriousness of their situation. It was no secret that most of them wanted to turn back.

  Urim, the cheese maker, was the most vocal. “We didn’t know it would be like this!” he complained one day as he brought some smoked cheese to Abram’s tent.

  Abram had been praying, and he resented the interruption by the feisty little man. More than that, he found it irksome to be reminded constantly and now even in his own tent of the disappointment people were feeling. Despite his frustration, Abram waved Urim to a cushion and was surprised when he sat down.

  Abram studied the man, realizing again that Urim was a man of action, with little ability to reason. However, he did make wonderful cheese. “It is the way of the world that things are not perfect,” Abram said, hoping to silence him.

  “But, my lord,” Urim said leaning forward, one hand resting on his knee and the other scratching his head, “your God seemed to promise so much. Has He perhaps forgotten you?”

  No one else had dared voice such a thought, and Abram found it unsettling. He had struggled to put down the same nagging thought, and now as the words hung on the air between them, he found them as real and palpable as the tent over their heads. The words had taken on form and shape, demanding a response. “Were you with us on Mount Ebal?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes, my lord. I was there. I saw the land and heard all that you said. From up in the clouds it looked quite grand, but it’s down here we live and here there’s nothing but thirst and hunger for man and beast.”

  “So …” Abram said as he carefully studied the man, “what would you suggest?”

  “Why, to me, it’s quite plain. We s
hould forget about this God awhile and use our wits.” Urim never let his eyes waver from Abram’s face. He seemed to be expecting some favorable response.

  “And if we used our wits, what would we do? What could we do that we aren’t doing now?” Abram was growing impatient, but he could see that the man prided himself on his own common sense and perhaps could be depended on to find some answer.

  Abram’s interest encouraged Urim. He smiled and leaned forward. “Go down to Egypt like everyone else. Wait it out. It’s obvious your God isn’t thinking about the famine. Probably doesn’t even know it exists since He’s somewhere up there on Ebal. No, there are times, I always say, when one has to think for oneself.”

  Abram didn’t answer, and Urim was always nervous when people didn’t talk. He got to his feet and pushed the offering of smoked goat cheese on its circle of matting toward Abram. “There’s more if you need it,” he said. When Abram still didn’t look up or answer, he slowly backed out of the tent, feeling satisfied that he’d said all that he had wanted to say.

  That night Abram sat in his tent, not wanting to see anyone. The words of the cheese maker drummed in his head stronger than the words of his God on Mount Ebal. “Forget about this God awhile and use our wits,” the man had said.

  It had been a long time since he had entertained such thoughts, but now they seemed to ring with some truth. What bothered him was the fear that if he once began to rely on his wits, would he still be able to hear the voice of his God? Would he lose the promises altogether?

  It grew late and his servants still waited to roll out his sleeping mat, raise the tent flaps, and bring him the silver pitcher and basin. Even with the shortage of water he could not think of retiring for the night without washing his feet and hands. As he had learned long before when traveling with his father, it took only a small amount of water when poured from the pitcher over the hands and then the feet into the basin.