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Hagar Named God in the Desert and No One Else Had Done It

Hagar is the only person in the Torah to give God a new name. The Tikkunei Zohar reads her desert exile as the same flight as the Shekhinah in exile.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Woman Who Named God
  2. Why Hagar Ran
  3. The Angel at the Spring
  4. The Tikkunei Zohar Reads Hagar's Story as the Shekhinah's Story
  5. The Expulsion and the Water in the Desert

The Woman Who Named God

In the wilderness, Hagar did what no patriarch had done. She gave God a name.

Moses, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob: none of them named God. They received names. They were told who God was, given the divine designations, handed the terms of address. Hagar, a foreign woman, a servant, a fugitive running from the household of Abraham and Sarah, looked up from the place where she expected to disappear and addressed the One who had found her: El Roi. The God Who Sees Me. The text records her exact words: "You are El Roi. Have I really seen God and remained alive?" (Genesis 16:13). The shock in her voice is not gratitude. It is the surprise of a person who expected to be invisible and discovered she was not.

Why Hagar Ran

The surface story is domestic and painful. Sarah cannot conceive. She gives her servant Hagar to Abraham as a secondary wife. Hagar becomes pregnant. Something in Hagar's bearing toward Sarah changes: the text says her mistress became light in her eyes (Genesis 16:4). Sarah treats Hagar harshly in response. Hagar flees into the wilderness of Shur, south toward Egypt, alone with a child growing inside her.

The Midrash Rabbah on Genesis, compiled c. fifth century CE in Palestine, offers a more sympathetic portrait of Hagar than the surface text allows. Hagar was not arrogant. She was bewildered by her own sudden spiritual status. She had seen that Abraham prayed and his prayers were answered. She prayed and her prayers were answered. She interpreted this as evidence that her spiritual standing was higher than Sarah's. She was wrong about the comparison, but the impulse behind it was devotion, not contempt.

The Angel at the Spring

An angel found Hagar at a spring in the wilderness and asked a question that appears nowhere else in the Torah addressed to someone in her situation: "Hagar, maidservant of Sarah, where have you come from and where are you going?" (Genesis 16:8). The question is not interrogation. It is acknowledgment. The angel uses her name and her specific context. He is not generalizing. He is addressing exactly who she is.

The Midrash on Philo's account of this moment focuses on the philosophical dimensions. Philo, the first-century CE Jewish philosopher of Alexandria, reads Sarah as wisdom, Hagar as general education or preliminary learning. The one who is not yet ready to dwell with wisdom must first be disciplined by the rigors of preliminary study, then sent back to serve. Philo's Hagar is not a victim of household tension. She is a soul at a specific stage of development, being redirected toward the preparation she still needs.

The Tikkunei Zohar Reads Hagar's Story as the Shekhinah's Story

The Tikkunei Zohar, compiled c. 1300 CE in Castile, Spain, pairs Hagar's moment in the wilderness with a verse from Lamentations: enemies were gloating over her undoing (Lamentations 1:7). In the Kabbalistic reading, the her in both verses is the same figure: the Shekhinah, the divine feminine presence, the aspect of God that dwells among the suffering. Hagar fleeing from Sarah and the Shekhinah driven from Jerusalem by the destruction of the Temple are the same flight in the mystical topology. The same seeing. The same divine response to the one who is seen.

When God found Hagar at the spring in the wilderness, the Tikkunei Zohar reads that finding as a prototype of all the moments in which the divine presence finds the Shekhinah in her exile. Hagar in the desert is the Shekhinah in Babylon, the Shekhinah in Rome, the Shekhinah in every place Israel has been driven. El Roi, the God Who Sees, sees not only Hagar. He sees every iteration of her flight, every repetition of the exile, every wilderness where the one who should not be invisible finds herself forgotten.

The Expulsion and the Water in the Desert

The Book of Jubilees, a second-century BCE Jewish text written in Hebrew and preserved in full only in Ethiopic translation, gives a stark account of the second expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael. Abraham sends them into the wilderness early in the morning with bread and a skin of water. The water runs out. Hagar sets Ishmael under a shrub to die. She cannot watch. She sits at a distance and weeps.

God hears the voice of the boy (Genesis 21:17). An angel calls from heaven and asks Hagar what the matter is: "do not fear." And then the water appears. Not the water that was finished. New water, from a source she had not seen before. The Tikkunei Zohar's reading circles back to the eye that sees: Hagar in the second expulsion, like Hagar in the first, is found precisely when she has given up expecting to be found. The God Who Sees is not waiting for the person to prove themselves worthy of being seen. He is looking at the person who has exhausted every other option and sat down at a distance to wait for the end.

HagarExileWomenDivine PresenceKabbalah
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From the tradition

Sources

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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.

Legends of the Jews 5:98Legends of the Jews

Sarah, wife of Abraham, certainly did when they journeyed to Egypt. to a fascinating episode from Legends of the Jews that shows just how powerfully things can turn around.

Sarah, a woman of incredible beauty, finds herself in the court of Pharaoh. Abraham, fearing for his life because of her loveliness, introduces her as his sister. It's a precarious situation, ripe with potential danger. But then, wouldn't you know it, an angel appears!

This wasn’t your everyday, run-of-the-mill angel sighting. This angel appears specifically to Sarah, unseen by the king himself. The angel delivers a message of hope, a divine reassurance: "Fear naught, Sarah, for God hath heard thy prayer." According to Ginzberg's retelling in Legends of the Jews, this celestial visit brought courage and a sense of divine protection.

Pharaoh, captivated by Sarah, questions her about Abraham. She maintains the ruse, calling Abraham her brother. And here's where the story takes an unexpected turn. Instead of harm, Pharaoh showers Abraham with gifts! Gold, silver, diamonds, pearls, livestock, servants… you name it, Abraham received it. He was even given a residence within the royal palace.

But the most extraordinary part? Pharaoh, deeply enamored with Sarah, draws up a marriage contract. He deeds to her all his wealth: gold, silver, slaves, and even the province of Goshen. Goshen, remember, is the very same land that would later become the home of Sarah’s descendants. As Legends of the Jews points out, it was rightfully theirs.

And hold on, there's more. As if giving away half his kingdom wasn't enough, Pharaoh gives Sarah his own daughter, Hagar, as a handmaiden! for a second. He would rather see his daughter as Sarah's servant than as a queen in another man's palace. That’s some serious respect, born of both fear and admiration.

Why Hagar? Well, later on, Hagar becomes a key figure in the story of Abraham’s family. The Midrash Rabbah fills in some gaps, explaining the reasoning behind such an extraordinary gift. Pharaoh recognized Sarah’s special status, her connection to the divine, and wanted his daughter to benefit from being in her service. It's a evidence of Sarah's character and the divine favor she carried.

So, what does this all mean? It's more than just a captivating story from Legends of the Jews. It's a reminder that even in the most challenging circumstances, hope can appear in unexpected forms. Divine intervention, protection, and even the reversal of fortune are all possible. And sometimes, the greatest treasures come in the most surprising packages, even as a king's daughter serving as a handmaiden. What challenges are you facing where you might need an angel to whisper, "Fear naught"?

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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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Book of Jubilees 17:14Book of Jubilees

Abraham is often remembered as this towering figure of faith, but the Book of Jubilees, an ancient Jewish text from the Second Temple period, gives us a stark look at the consequences of his actions on those around him.

Abraham, early one morning, sends Hagar, his concubine, and his son Ishmael, into the wilderness. He gives them bread and a bottle of water, placing it all on Hagar's shoulders. Then…he sends them away. Just like that. The Book of Jubilees 17 tells us she "departed and wandered in the wilderness of Beersheba."

The water runs out. The child, Ishmael, is dying of thirst. He can't go on. He collapses.

Can you feel the desperation?

Hagar, a mother watching her child suffer, does the only thing she can think of. She lays him under an olive tree. Then, she walks away. Not far, mind you. Just a bow-shot's distance. Why? Because she can't bear to watch him die. “Let me not see the death of my child,” she cries, as she sits and weeps.

It’s a scene of utter desolation. A bow-shot. That’s how close she is to her son’s suffering, yet feels utterly powerless to stop it. This small distance becomes a vast chasm of despair.

The Book of Jubilees doesn’t offer a lot of commentary here. It simply lays bare the stark reality of their situation. It's a raw, unflinching look at the human cost of decisions made, even by those considered righteous.

What are we to make of this? Is this a story of abandonment? Of faith tested to its breaking point? Or is it a reminder that even in our darkest moments, hope, however faint, can still flicker? Perhaps it's all of these things, woven together in a tradition of human experience that continues to resonate with us today. A reminder that even in the wilderness, we are not always alone. And even a bow-shot distance can be bridged.

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Targum Pseudo-Jonathan on Genesis 16:13Targum Pseudo-Jonathan on Genesis

At the spring in the wilderness, Hagar does something that no one in Genesis has done before. She gives God a name. Targum Pseudo-Jonathan on (Genesis 16:13) renders her declaration with full theological weight.

She gave thanks before the Lord whose Word spake to her. And she said: Thou art He who livest and art eternal; who seest, but art not seen!

The Aramaic leans on two of its favorite concepts, the Memra, the divine Word through which God engages creation, and the Shekhinah, the indwelling Presence. Hagar, a fugitive Egyptian slave, is the first human in the Torah to say aloud: you are invisible, and you see me. The paraphrast even explains her logic: here is revealed the glory of the Shekhinah of the Lord after a vision.

The Maggid sits with the wonder of this. Not Abraham, not Sarah, not Isaac, not Jacob. A woman running from her mistress, pregnant, thirsty, scared, is the one who coins the earliest biblical name for God from raw personal experience, El Roi, in the Hebrew, the God who sees me (Genesis 16:13). The Targum folds her cry into the grammar of Jewish mysticism itself: the Word that speaks, the Presence that dwells, the One who is alive and eternal and utterly unseen.

Theology, the Targum quietly admits, sometimes starts at a desert spring rather than at an altar. The people who most need to be seen are often the first to see the One who sees them.

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