Sermon: Rosh Hashanah – Learning from Hagar

Written by Rabbi Nicola Feuchtwang — 9 October 2022

 

Hagar about whom we read this morning, is not one of the matriarchs of Jewish tradition.  Indeed, as the mother of Ishmael – ancestor of the Arab peoples and therefore of Islam – far from honouring her story, our rabbis have often given her a pretty bad press. Even her name is derogatory:  ‘the Egyptian’ or ‘the stranger’.  Sarah, the woman for whom she worked and to whom she was given as a child, treats her terribly, never refers to her by name at all, just ‘the maid’.  Sarah makes Hagar become Abraham’s concubine, but then cannot cope with the consequences – throwing her out initially when Hagar becomes pregnant, and then again in today’s chapter when she cannot bear the idea of Ishmael sharing the family inheritance with Isaac.[1]

Of all our biblical characters, I think that Hagar’s life is one of the most hellish – but her story has helpful hints for us today, as a community…struggling to establish “new normals”.

 

‘Hellish’ is a strong word, but I use it deliberately.

There is a story, or parable, or legend which you have almost certainly heard many times before.  It concerns soup, or a bowl of stew – or maybe a bowl of rice – or perhaps a huge feast or banquet – depending on which culture or folklore tells it.    The Jewish version seems to be attributed to a Rabbi Haim of Romshishok (a popular preacher in Lithuania in the 19^th century).  It goes something like this:

 

Rabbi Haim is allowed to see a vision of hell:  what he sees is a room laid out for a sumptuous banquet, but the people in it are all miserable and starving. The observer gradually realises that the people’s arms are splinted so they cannot bend at the elbow, and the only implements they have are spoons with very long handles.  No-one can actually get any food into their own mouth.

When the observer is allowed a glimpse of heaven, at first sight it looks exactly the same:  the same banquet, the same long spoons, the splinted arms – yet the people are happy and well-nourished.  How is that possible?   The answer of course is that although here too they cannot feed themselves, in heaven they feed one another.

 

What has this to do with Hagar?

Thrown out of Abraham’s household, Hagar wanders about in the desert and runs out of water;  Ishmael  is dying of thirst – she cannot bear to watch him die, so she abandons him, and sits and weeps loudly some distance away.  Yet our text tells us twice that it is the voice of the child – not Hagar’s – that God hears.

 

When life feels really tough, any of us can become so mired in our own anxiety and distress that we fall short in our ability to attend to those who need us, to hear their voices.

The children and young people whose social and educational lives were completely derailed during the pandemic at crucial stages in their development and are still far from ‘OK’;  those who cannot share in our relief at being together again, because they are still vulnerable and afraid;  others who felt they were wandering alone in the desert because despite our efforts, the technology of Zoom was just not accessible for them. We need to listen to their voices, not just leave it to God.

 

What is it that the divine messenger says to Hagar?

“Kumi.  Get up, lift the boy, grasp his hand in yours…”.

Kum.  It is what we implore of God before the morning Amidah (Tsur Yisrael, Kumah b’ezrat Yisrael – Rock of Israel, Arise to the aid of your people).  We say it again as we open the Ark (Kumah Adonai, veyafutzu oyveicha – Arise O God and may your enemies be scattered) .  It is also God’s instruction to Jonah which we will hear next week (Kum, lech el Ninveh – Get up; go to Nineveh). It should be an irresistible command to each one of us – Don’t just sit there.

 

And what happens to Hagar next?  We are told that ‘God opens her eyes’ and she sees a well of water from which she is able to revive her son, and presumably herself.  It was right there; she just hadn’t seen it for herself.

 

To return to the parable of heaven and hell:  heaven and hell are essentially the same.  The difference between them lies in people’s willingness to cooperate with and help each other.

 

Even when we feel we are lost in a desert, when our own situation feels hellish,  there may be life-saving water nearby, if only we could find it.

Each one of us also has the potential to be the ‘Angel’ who helps someone else to open their eyes and see that well – which has actually been there all the time, if only we had realised.  I know that there are already many Angels at Alyth, even if not everyone has seen or heard them;  people who give of their time and energy and love to respond to unmet needs in the community – but we need many more of you, for many different roles and tasks over what are likely to be difficult months ahead.

In the words of the French poet Emmanuel Eydoux which have found a place in our Siddur:[2]

To open eyes when others close them

to hear when others do not wish to listen

to look when others turn away

to seek to understand when others give up

to rouse oneself when others accept

to continue the struggle even when one is not the strongest

to cry out when others keep silent

 

to be a Jew

it is that

it is first of all that…….

 

As the Angel in our story said to Hagar:  Get up, lift up the boy, grasp his hand in yours….

Let 5783 be the year in which I, you, each one of us, contribute to the strength of this Alyth community, and the other communities and wider world of which we are part.

Kumu!  Get up, let’s not wait for someone else to do it.

 

LeShana Tova Nikateiv vNeichateim – May we all be inscribed for good in the year ahead.

 

 

 

 

 

[1] Genesis chapter 21

[2] Forms of Prayer 2008 p346 (poem continues for a further 3 lines)