Parshat Lech Lecha6 min read

Hagar Fled Into the Wilderness and Found a Well

Sarah's barrenness was not an accident and Hagar's flight was not a betrayal. Bereshit Rabbah reads both women as mirrors of each other.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Silence Before the Story
  2. What Happened When Hagar Conceived
  3. Sarah's Affliction
  4. The Angel at the Well

The Silence Before the Story

Sarah had been Abraham's wife for decades. She was beautiful, gifted with prophecy sharper than Abraham's, favored by God in ways the text shows but rarely names. And she could not conceive. Not could not yet. Could not. The years had passed and the silence in her body had become its own kind of speech, the absence of children speaking louder than everything else in a household built around a covenant whose whole point was descendants.

She gave Hagar to Abraham herself. This is the part the rabbis studied most carefully, because it does not read as resignation or strategic calculation in the way the tradition handles it. Sarah was making a choice she understood would hurt her. She knew what she was arranging. She arranged it anyway, because the covenant needed to go forward and she was willing to accept pain as the price of that movement. The rabbis read this as the act of a woman whose devotion to the covenant exceeded her personal interest, which is a large thing to say about a woman who wanted children and had been unable to have them.

What Happened When Hagar Conceived

Hagar conceived immediately. The contrast with Sarah's decades of silence was exact and devastating. And then something changed in the way Hagar carried herself. The verse says her mistress was diminished in her eyes. The rabbis in Bereshit Rabbah debated what this meant, because it matters whether Hagar's response was contempt or something else.

One reading: Hagar was genuinely confused. She had conceived where Sarah had not, and she reasoned that Sarah's righteousness must be inferior to her own, that the inability to conceive reflected some hidden deficiency, because in a world governed by divine providence nothing happened without a reason. This was not malice but a theological error: confusing the measure of a person with the measure of their visible success.

Another reading from Philo: Hagar saw the outward facts and took them for the whole truth. She saw fertility and interpreted it as divine approval. She saw Sarah's barrenness and interpreted it as divine withdrawal. She was operating with partial information and treating it as complete. Sarah's barrenness was not evidence of God's distance. It was evidence of something the tradition holds about waiting: some gifts are withheld precisely because their arrival will carry more weight.

Sarah's Affliction

The verse says Sarah afflicted Hagar. The rabbinic tradition does not smooth this. Sarah afflicted her, and Hagar fled. What the affliction consisted of is left unspecified in the Torah, and the tradition offers multiple readings: Sarah made her work harder, Sarah withdrew privileges, Sarah spoke harshly to her. One reading from the tradition around Philo moves in a completely different direction: the affliction was beneficial, a form of instruction, the discomfort that a student experiences when a teacher pushes past comfort toward genuine understanding.

Philo's reading is deliberate about its frame: Sarah represents wisdom and Hagar represents the preliminary work of education. The relationship between them is the relationship between the student who has learned enough to function and the wisdom that requires the student to go further. Flight from that kind of teacher is not escape. It is delay. The student who flees from the discipline that would complete her learning has to come back eventually, or remain permanently at the preliminary stage.

The Angel at the Well

Hagar fled into the wilderness toward the road to Shur, the road back to Egypt, back to where she came from. An angel of God found her at a spring in the wilderness and asked her a question the tradition has never stopped examining: Hagar, servant of Sarah, where are you coming from and where are you going?

She answered the first half: from the face of my mistress Sarah I am fleeing. She did not answer the second half. She had no answer to where she was going. She was going away, which is not a destination. The angel told her to return, to submit herself to Sarah's hands. The instruction was hard. The wilderness offered nothing except a spring of water and the recognition that the road back to Egypt was the road back to before, which is not actually a road to anywhere.

The angel also told her something that changed the register entirely. She would bear a son. His name would be Ishmael: God has heard. Because God had heard her affliction. The God who heard Hagar in the wilderness was the same God who had heard Sarah in her barrenness. Two women, both afflicted, both heard, both given specific promises about the sons they would bear. Hagar named the well Be'er Lahai Ro'i: the well of the Living One who sees me. She was the first person in the Torah to give God a name. She was also the first person the tradition records as having been found by an angel in the wilderness and spoken to directly.


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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 45:4Bereshit Rabbah

Meanwhile, weeds seem to sprout up effortlessly, choking everything in their path. Jewish tradition grapples with this very question, especially when it comes to something as fundamental as having children.

We find ourselves in (Genesis 16:4). “He consorted with Hagar, and she conceived; she saw that she conceived, and her mistress was diminished in her eyes.” This verse sparks a fascinating debate in Bereshit Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations of Genesis.

The rabbis are pondering: how quickly did Hagar conceive? Rabbi Levi bar Ḥayata is pretty direct. He says, "She conceived from the initial act of intercourse!" Simple as that. But Rabbi Elazar disagrees, stating flatly that "A woman never conceives from her initial act of intercourse."

Wait a minute, you might be thinking. What about Lot's daughters? They conceived from their father. (Genesis 19:36). Rabbi Tanhuma offers a rather… creative explanation. He suggests they "manipulated themselves, broke their hymens, and conceived as though it were from a second act of intercourse." A bit graphic, perhaps, but it highlights the lengths to which the rabbis went to reconcile apparent contradictions in the text.

But the discussion goes deeper. Rabbi Ḥanina ben Pazi brings us back to that initial question: why do some things come so easily while others are such a struggle? He uses the metaphor of weeds and wheat. Thornbushes grow wild, untended. Wheat, on the other hand, requires immense labor. It’s a powerful image, isn't it?

And this brings us to the matriarchs: Sarah, Rebecca, and Rachel. All had immense difficulty conceiving. Why?

Here, Rabbi Sheila of Kefar Temarta and Rabbi Ḥelbo, quoting Rabbi Yoḥanan, give us a beautiful answer: God desires their prayers, their supplications. It’s as if God is saying, “My dove, in the clefts of the rock… Show me your countenance, let me hear your voice” (Song of Songs 2:14). The “clefts of the rock” are a metaphor for their infertility, as infertile as rocks themselves! God wants to hear their heartfelt cries.

Rabbi Azarya, in the name of Rabbi Yoḥanan bar Pappa, adds another layer. Delaying conception allowed the matriarchs to remain beloved to their husbands in their beauty. It's a reminder that beauty and intimacy held value within the marital bond.

And Rabbi Huna, citing Rabbi Ḥiyya bar Abba, offers a more cosmic reason. By delaying the births of Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph, God was shortening the period of enslavement decreed for Abraham's descendants. According to (Genesis 15:13), there was a 400 year exile planned. By delaying the births of these key figures, the most extreme period of enslavement would be shortened.

Finally, Rabbi Huna and Rabbi Avun, quoting Rabbi Meir, give a more… pragmatic reason. So that their husbands could enjoy them! Pregnancy, they suggest, can make a woman feel "unsightly and neglected." All ninety years that Sarah didn't have children, she was as beautiful as a bride, they said.

The text then shifts back to the dynamic between Sarah and Hagar. We learn that Sarah's noblewomen would come to visit and ask about Sarah's well-being. And Sarah, in turn, would direct them to Hagar. But Hagar, emboldened by her pregnancy, would speak ill of Sarah, claiming Sarah only seemed righteous, but in reality was not. She then taunted Sarah, pointing out that she, Hagar, conceived in one night while Sarah had remained barren for years. This, understandably, upset Sarah.

Sarah, wisely, decides to go straight to the source. As the verse says, "Should I have a discussion with this woman? Better that I should have a discussion with her master." She goes to Abraham and complains about Hagar, setting the stage for the next chapter in their complex story.

So, what do we take away from all of this? It’s not just a story about conception and infertility. It's about the mysteries of life, the reasons behind our struggles, and the profound connection between prayer, desire, and divine will. It invites us to consider that sometimes, the greatest blessings come wrapped in the most challenging packages. And maybe, just maybe, the "weeds" in our lives can teach us something about the beauty of the "wheat."

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The Midrash of Philo 4:1The Midrash of Philo

Our question comes from (Genesis 16:4): "When she saw that she had conceived, her mistress was despised in her eyes." Hagar, Sarai’s maidservant, becomes pregnant with Abraham's child, and suddenly, things get… complicated. But what’s really going on here? What are the layers beneath this seemingly straightforward statement?

The Rabbis, masters of delving into the depths of scripture, weren't content with a surface reading. They saw this verse as a window into the complex relationship between Sarai (later Sarah) and Hagar, and the power dynamics at play. In that time, a woman's worth was often tied to her ability to bear children. Sarai, barren for years, felt that lack deeply. She was living in a patriarchal society where motherhood was paramount. Then comes Hagar, who conceives almost immediately. The shift in status must have been seismic.

The text says Hagar "despised" Sarai. But what does that mean? Was it outright disdain? Or something more subtle? According to some interpretations, Hagar began to act superior, flaunting her fertility. She probably felt empowered, emboldened, finally important. Can you blame her? The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) sees her as thinking, "Sarai is not as righteous as I am" since Sarai's prayers were not answered (Bereishit Rabbah 45:5).

Let's not paint Sarai as a victim either. As we find in Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer (chapter 26), Sarai was mistreating Hagar. She was making Hagar do all the work, even though that was supposed to be the job of multiple servants. Sarai probably felt threatened, insecure, and maybe even a little jealous. It’s a complex mix of emotions, isn’t it?

These ancient texts, like the Midrash, aren't just telling us what happened; they're inviting us to explore the why. Why did Hagar act this way? Why did Sarai respond as she did? They're holding a mirror up to human nature, showing us the messy, complicated reality of relationships, ambition, and the yearning for belonging.

The Zohar, the foundational text of Jewish mysticism, often explores the hidden meanings of scripture. While I don’t have a specific quote directly addressing this verse from the Zohar, its general approach would encourage us to see Hagar's "despising" as a disruption of the divine flow, a disharmony in the cosmic order. The Zohar likes to find hints of deeper spiritual realities within these earthly interactions.

So, what's the takeaway? Perhaps it's a reminder that power dynamics are always shifting. Maybe it's an invitation to consider the perspectives of everyone involved in a situation, especially those who are often overlooked. Or maybe, it's a challenge to recognize our own biases and insecurities and how they influence our interactions with others.

The story of Hagar and Sarai, as illuminated by the Midrash, isn't just a tale from the past. It’s a timeless exploration of the human condition, a reminder that even in the most ancient of stories, we can find echoes of our own lives, our own struggles, and our own potential for both greatness and… well, a little bit of despising.

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The Midrash of Philo 5:1The Midrash of Philo

The Midrash of Philo turns to Sarah Confronts the Tension With Hagar Head On.

Remember the story? Sarah, unable to conceive, suggests that Abraham have a child with Hagar. It’s a common practice of the time, meant to provide an heir. But, as The familiar version gives us, things rarely go according to plan, especially when family dynamics are involved.

Flip to (Genesis 16:5). Sarah says to Abraham, "I am receiving injury from you: I gave my handmaid into your bosom, and now, because she sees that she has conceived, I am despised before her?"

Wait, what’s really going on here? Why does Sarah, as the Midrash of Philo puts it, "as it were repent of what she has done"? After all, it was her idea! Didn't she orchestrate this whole thing?

The text highlights Sarah's feeling of injury and being despised. She feels wronged by Abraham because Hagar, now pregnant, seems to look down on her. This is not just about fertility; it's about status, about recognition, about the pain of feeling inadequate.

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) here invites us to consider the complexities of human relationships, particularly within the context of ancient cultural norms. Sarah’s actions, while seemingly selfless, are also born out of her own deep-seated desires and insecurities. And when the plan doesn't unfold as she imagined, she experiences a profound sense of disappointment and betrayal.

Isn't that so true to life? We make a plan, thinking we know how it will play out, and then reality throws us a curveball.

We can feel Sarah's frustration simmering beneath the surface. She initiated this arrangement, hoping it would solve a problem, but it's only created new ones. Now, she feels devalued and hurt, even though, in a way, she brought this upon herself.

It’s a reminder that even the most well-intentioned actions can have unintended consequences and that sometimes, the solutions we seek can create even more complicated problems. It also speaks to the very human tendency to feel resentment when our sacrifices don't bring us the expected rewards.

So, what does this little snippet from the Midrash of Philo leave us with? Perhaps it's a gentle nudge to examine our own motivations, to consider the potential impact of our decisions, and to approach complex relationships with empathy and understanding. Because, let's face it, we're all just trying to navigate this crazy world, one cosmic sitcom episode at a time.

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The Midrash of Philo 6:8The Midrash of Philo

Affliction is often remembered as purely negative, something to be avoided at all costs. But what if I told you that, according to some ancient wisdom, affliction can actually be… beneficial?

That's what's hinted at in a fascinating reading of (Genesis 16:6). You know the story: Sarah, unable to conceive, gives her handmaid Hagar to Abraham. Hagar conceives, and then, well, let's just say things get complicated. The verse in question says, "Sarah afflicted her." Simple enough The first reading. But Philo of Alexandria, a Jewish philosopher living in Egypt in the first century CE, saw something deeper in those words. He wasn't interested in just the p'shat, the literal meaning. He wanted the drash, the deeper, more allegorical understanding. And in his interpretation, he suggests that not all affliction is created equal. A doctor inflicts discomfort, even pain, on a patient in order to heal them. A tutor might push a student hard, causing frustration, but ultimately leading to knowledge. Even a well-meaning friend might offer some tough love when we need it most. These aren't acts of malice, but rather acts of kindness disguised as something less pleasant.

Philo argues that true wisdom, chokhmah (Wisdom), can actually afflict us in a similar way. It challenges our preconceived notions, our comfortable illusions, and our ingrained habits. It demands that we confront uncomfortable truths about ourselves and the world around us.

He uses the analogy of a soul "pregnant with sophism," filled with clever but ultimately empty arguments. This soul, puffed up with its own supposed knowledge, needs to be "admonished" by wisdom. Wisdom acts as a kind of corrective force, preventing the soul from rebelling and reminding it of the "superior and more excellent nature" – a nature that embodies constancy and authority.

In other words, wisdom can be a humbling experience. It can be painful to realize that we don't know as much as we thought we did, or that our beliefs are flawed. But this "affliction" is ultimately for our own good. It's a necessary step on the path to true understanding and growth.

So, the next time you're facing a challenge, a setback, or even just some uncomfortable feedback, remember Philo's words. Could this "affliction" actually be a hidden blessing? Could it be an opportunity to learn, to grow, and to become a wiser, more compassionate version of yourself? Maybe, just maybe, the pain you're feeling is actually the sound of wisdom knocking at your door.

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The Midrash of Philo 8:7The Midrash of Philo

Why Hagar Fled From the Face of Sarah Her Mistress is the question behind this passage from The Midrash of Philo.

Simple enough The first reading. But as always with midrash, there's SO much more lurking beneath.

Philo, in his unique way, isn't just interested in the literal. He’s digging for deeper meaning. He asks: why would Hagar run away from Sarah? After all, Sarah, in this context, represents wisdom and virtue. Shouldn’t Hagar be drawn to that?

Philo suggests something truly insightful. He proposes that Hagar isn't running out of hatred or malice, but rather out of a kind of… awe. for a second. He argues that Hagar "recoiled at the outward appearance of wisdom and virtue." She trembled before its "royal and imperial presence." It’s not that she hates goodness. Instead, she feels unworthy, unable to "endure to look upon its majesty and sublimity."

Have you ever felt that way? Intimidated by someone who embodies the very qualities you admire? Maybe a mentor, a spiritual leader, or even just a friend who seems to have it all together? You might even feel a pull to distance yourself, not out of spite, but out of a sense of your own inadequacy.

Philo puts it beautifully: "there are some people who do not turn from virtue from any hatred of it, but from a reverential modesty, looking upon themselves as unworthy to live with such a mistress."

It's a powerful idea, isn't it? That sometimes our flight isn't from the thing itself, but from our perception of our own unworthiness.

This interpretation invites us to examine our own motivations. Are we truly running from what's good for us, or are we simply intimidated by its brilliance? And if it's the latter, what can we do to overcome that feeling of unworthiness and embrace the wisdom and virtue that beckons us? It's a reminder that the journey towards self-improvement isn't always linear, and sometimes, our perceived limitations are the biggest obstacles we face. Maybe, just maybe, understanding why we run is the first step toward finding our way back.

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