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Lot Clung to Abraham, Sarah Laughed, and Esau's Cry Reached Shushan

Lot followed without being called. Sarah's laughter remade the barren world. Esau sobbed one bitter cry the rabbis said surfaced as Haman's decree in Shushan.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The man who went without being asked
  2. Sarah's laughter and the world it rebuilt
  3. Esau's cry and the decree at Shushan
  4. The cry answered in Esther's hall

The man who went without being asked

The call of Genesis 12 was addressed to one person. God told Abram to go from his land, from his birthplace, from his father's house to a land that would be shown to him. The text says Abram went as the Lord had spoken to him, and Lot went with him. One verse. Two travelers. The rabbis stopped on the second name.

Why was Lot on this journey? He had not received the call. He had no divine instruction. No promise had been made to him. Bereshit Rabbah read the phrase and Lot went with him as a confession of motive. Lot was not a partner. He was a passenger. He had watched Abraham closely enough to understand that Abraham was the one with the promise, and he intended to be present when the promise opened. He was optimizing for proximity to blessing, not for blessing itself.

The rabbis found this both understandable and cautionary. They were not entirely critical. Lot's attachment to Abraham would eventually bring him close enough to be rescued from Sodom. His connection to Abraham would make him the ancestor of Ruth, and through Ruth, the ancestor of David and of the messianic line. The clinging produced something. But Lot clung from calculation, not from conviction. He was following a man who had something he wanted, and the rabbis marked the difference between that and the reason Abraham walked.

Sarah's laughter and the world it rebuilt

When Sarah heard the angels' announcement that she would have a son, she laughed. The Torah records the laugh and records the divine response to it. "Did you laugh?" Sarah denied it, saying she had not laughed. God said she had.

The rabbis read that exchange as more than a small scene about honesty. They heard Sarah's laughter as a laugh of disbelief that transformed into something else when the event it had dismissed actually occurred. When Isaac was born, Sarah said, "God has made me a laughter." The Hebrew word is tzchok, which can mean laughter or Isaac, the child whose name is laughter.

Bereshit Rabbah extended the laugh across the world. Every barren woman who had given up hope heard the news and was moved. Every sick person felt something shift. The day Sarah gave birth at ninety, laughing, was a day the impossible had visibly failed to stay impossible, and that failure was contagious. The rabbis described the joy as radiating outward beyond Sarah's tent, past the immediate celebration, into the larger world of people who had reason to consider whether the limits they had assumed were fixed were actually fixed.

The laugh that had begun as disbelief became the seed of a different possibility for anyone who was waiting for something they had already stopped expecting.

Esau's cry and the decree at Shushan

When Jacob came to Isaac wearing Esau's clothing and carrying a meal of goat meat, Isaac gave him the blessing intended for the firstborn. When Esau returned from the hunt and the deception was discovered, the text records Esau's response in terms that are almost unbearable to read. He cried out with a very great and bitter cry and said, "bless me too, my father."

Bereshit Rabbah traced what that cry produced. A cry of that quality, the rabbis said, does not disappear. It moves through time and arrives somewhere. Esau's one bitter cry, the great and bitter cry of a man who understood in that moment exactly what had been taken from him and that he could not get it back, traveled forward through the centuries and surfaced in Persia.

When Haman received Ahasuerus's permission to destroy the Jews of the empire and the decree went out to all the provinces, Mordecai tore his garments and cried out with a loud and bitter cry. The Hebrew used for his cry in Esther 4:1 echoes the Hebrew used for Esau's cry in Genesis 27:34. The rabbis heard the same register of sound in both places. Esau's cry had been owed a response. Haman's decree, they said, was that response arriving at last.

The cry answered in Esther's hall

But the story did not end at the decree. Esther went to the king. The decree was reversed. The same cry that had traveled forward as Haman's persecution arrived and then was answered. The rabbis were not celebrating the symmetry. They were tracing how nothing in the patriarchal narratives was sealed off from the later story. Lot clung to Abraham and the attachment reached Ruth. Sarah laughed at the impossible and the laughter remade what was possible. Esau sobbed one bitter cry and the echo found Shushan.


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The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Bereshit Rabbah 39:13Bereshit Rabbah

Our ancestors dealt with that too, as we see in the story of Abraham and his nephew Lot.

The book of Genesis (12:4) tells us, "Abram went, as the Lord had spoken to him, and Lot went with him." But the ancient rabbis weren't content with just a simple reading. They saw layers of meaning, hints of deeper truths. Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations of Genesis, pauses on this verse. It points out the seemingly redundant phrase, "[and Lot went with him]." What's the big deal?

The rabbis suggest this wording tells us that Lot was subordinate to Abraham. He wasn't an equal partner, but rather someone following Abraham’s lead, dependent on his journey. He was along for the ride, so to speak.

Then the verse continues, "Abram was seventy-five years old." Why is Abraham’s age mentioned right here? It seems like a simple detail, but nothing in Torah is ever just a detail.

This leads the rabbis to a fascinating detour, connecting Abraham’s age to none other than Esther, the heroine of the Purim story! The verse in Esther (2:7) states, "He was rearing Hadasa, she was Esther." Hadasa was Esther’s Hebrew name, a name that hints at hidden depths.

But what’s the connection to Abraham? Well, the rabbis launch into a discussion about Esther’s age. Rav says she was forty. Shmuel says eighty. But then, the rabbis chime in with their own opinion: seventy-five years old!

Wait a minute… seventy-five? Just like Abraham!

As the rabbis from Babylon explain, God essentially said to Abraham: "You left your father's house at seventy-five. By your life, the redeemer I will establish from your descendants will also be seventy-five." This corresponds to the numerical value of Hadasa. Now, the numerical value, or gematria, of Hadasa is actually 74, but it was common to add one when making such calculations. (Hebrew letters have numerical values, allowing for hidden connections between words and ideas).

So, what’s the takeaway here?

The rabbis are weaving together seemingly disparate threads: Abraham’s initial journey, Lot’s dependence, Esther’s hidden name, and the numerical value of that name. They’re suggesting a profound connection between beginnings and endings, between leaving the old and embracing the new. Abraham’s departure at seventy-five foreshadows Esther’s eventual role as a redeemer, also linked to that significant number.

It's a reminder that even seemingly small details, like someone's age, can hold profound significance. And that the echoes of the past can resonate in the future in ways we might never expect. Are we open to seeing those connections in our own lives?

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Bereshit Rabbah 53:8Bereshit Rabbah

After decades of barrenness, at a very, very advanced age, she miraculously conceives and gives birth to Isaac. In (Genesis 21:6), she exclaims, "God has made laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh for me!" But there’s so much more packed into that verse than just Sarah’s joy.

The Rabbis of the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), those ancient interpreters of scripture, saw layers upon layers in Sarah’s words. Rabbi Berekhya, quoting Rabbi Shmuel ben Rabbi Yitzḥak, asks a pointed question: "When Reuben is rejoicing, why should Simeon care? So, Sarah was remembered, why should others care?" Why should Sarah’s personal miracle affect anyone else?

The answer, according to Bereshit Rabbah, is astonishing. Sarah’s miracle wasn’t just a personal one. It was a catalyst. It was a gift to the entire world. The Midrash tells us that when Sarah was “remembered” – when she conceived – many other barren women were “remembered” along with her. They, too, conceived. And it didn’t stop there! The deaf regained their hearing, the blind had their eyes opened, and even those with intellectual disabilities gained intelligence.

Wow.. The text emphasizes the word "making" (asah) in Sarah’s statement: "God has made laughter for me." It then draws a parallel to another verse, ((Esther 2:1)8), "He made abatement for the provinces." (referring to King Ahasuerus throwing a party and granting tax relief). Just as the "making" in the Book of Esther brought gifts to the world, so too did the "making" in Sarah’s story. Sarah's joy became a wellspring of blessings for all.

Rabbi Levi adds another dimension to this miraculous event. He suggests that an addition was made to the heavenly lights. In other words, the sun shone especially brightly on that day, as a sign of the birth of the great righteous one, Isaac. Again, the word "making" is key. "Has made…for me" in Sarah's verse echoes "The Lord made the two lights" (Genesis 1:16) from the creation story. The birth of Isaac, a child born of a miracle, was akin to a new creation.

So what does this all mean? It's easy to read these stories as fantastical tales from a distant past. But I think they offer a profound message about the interconnectedness of humanity and the potential for miracles to ripple outwards, touching countless lives. Sarah's laughter wasn't just for her. It was a spark that ignited hope and healing throughout the world. And maybe, just maybe, that spark can still ignite something within us today. What kind of ripples can we create?

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Bereshit Rabbah 67:4Bereshit Rabbah

Our story hinges on a moment of profound anguish: "When Esau heard the words of his father, he cried out, a very great and bitter cry, and he said to his father: Bless me too, my father" (Genesis 27:34). A heart-wrenching scene. But the Rabbis, never ones to shy away from a deeper reading, see something more.

Rabbi Ḥanina, in a rather colorful statement, cautions us against thinking that God is "lax." In other words, God isn't just sitting back, twiddling his thumbs. Rather, He is patient, meticulously "collecting His due." The idea here is divine justice, a cosmic balancing of the scales.

So, how does this connect to Jacob and Esau? According to Rabbi Ḥanina, Jacob caused Esau to cry out in anguish. And where, the Rabbis ask, did Jacob ultimately pay for this? The answer they find is striking: in the Shushan citadel, during the events of the Purim story! "When Mordekhai learned what had happened…[he] cried out an exceedingly loud and bitter cry" (Esther 4:1). The parallel is undeniable – Jacob, through Mordechai, experiences a similar cry of anguish. Is this a direct karmic consequence? The Rabbis seem to suggest so.

The passage unfolds Esau’s accusation: "Your brother came in cunning, and he took your blessing" (Genesis 27:35). The Hebrew word used here, bemirma – "cunning" – is key. Rabbi Yoḥanan points out that the Torah specifically uses mirma, and not other words for deceit like sheker, rama’ut, or honaa. Why this particular word? Because mirma doesn't always have a negative connotation. Rabbi Yoḥanan argues that Jacob's "cunning" stemmed from the "wisdom of his Torah." In other words, Jacob wasn’t simply being deceptive; he was acting according to a higher understanding.

But Esau isn't buying it. He cries, "It is for this [hakhi] that his name was called Jacob [Yaakov], as he deceived me these two times; he took my birthright and, behold, now he took my blessing. And he said: Have you not reserved a blessing for me?” (Genesis 27:36). Reish Lakish offers a fascinating interpretation of the word hakhi. He connects it to the sound of someone clearing their throat, meḥakekh. Esau, in his bitterness, is almost spitting out the word, choked with resentment.

Esau laments, "He deceived me…he took my birthright" – and I said nothing to him. "Behold, now he took my blessing" – shall I say nothing to him? He feels doubly wronged. All he's asking for now is a lesser blessing, "from the inferior ones," as the text puts it.

What are we to make of all this? The Rabbis, through their intricate interpretations, invite us to consider the long-term impact of our actions. They suggest that even seemingly isolated events can have far-reaching consequences, playing out across generations. The story of Jacob and Esau becomes a cautionary tale about the importance of integrity, and the enduring power of divine justice. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, about the echoes of our own choices in the grand scheme of things?

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