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Plagues Fell on Pharaoh Because of Sarai

Abram pitched Sarai's tent before he pitched his own. Then the grain failed, and he asked her to tell the Egyptians she was his sister.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Tent He Pitched First
  2. The Grain Failed
  3. Taken Into the House
  4. Sores in the Palace
  5. The Road Back to the Altar
Plagues Fell on Pharaoh Because of Sarai Click for full size

The Tent He Pitched First

Abram came up through the land as far as the oak at Moreh, and the Canaanites were in it, farming it, holding it, with every right to it that anyone had. Then God told him the land would go to his descendants, and he stacked stones for an altar on the spot, over the news and nothing else, because there was nothing else yet.

He moved on to the hill east of Beth El and made camp. He put up Sarai's tent first and his own after it. Then he built a second altar and called on the name of the Lord out loud, where the herdsmen could hear him.

He had a promise, two piles of stone, and no field of his own.

The Grain Failed

Then the rain did not come, and the famine in the land was heavy.

Egypt had the Nile and the storehouses, so Egypt was where people went. Abram took his household down the road south with the dust rising off the flocks. He was walking toward full granaries and a king who collected women the way other men collected horses.

Near the border he stopped and said the thing he had been turning over for days.

"I know what a beautiful woman you are. When the Egyptians see you they will say, this is his wife, and they will kill me and keep you alive. Say you are my sister, so that it will go well with me because of you and I will stay alive."

She did not answer, or nobody wrote down her answer. They went in.

Taken Into the House

The Egyptians saw her at once. Pharaoh's officials saw her, and then they went and talked her up in front of their king, and she was taken into the royal house.

Abram was paid. Sheep, cattle, donkeys, male and female slaves, camels. The gifts came in from the palace while his wife was in it, and he took them, and no one at the gate said out loud what the payment was for.

The nights in the women's quarters went slowly. Sarai said nothing that was written down there either. She was inside the house of a man who had never once been refused, and there was no one in that country who would refuse him for her.

She was already under a ban she could not see. Do not touch my anointed ones. Do not harm my prophets. That guard had been over the family since they left Haran, and it had a way of finding kings.

Sores in the Palace

The plagues hit Pharaoh's house that night, and they were heavy ones, and they did not stop at the king.

Servants broke out. The women of the household broke out. The diviners came running with their charts and could not name it. Somewhere in the palace a man worked out which guest had arrived just before the skin started going wrong, and the king sent for Abram.

Pharaoh had lost the swagger by the time Abram was standing in front of him.

"What is this you have done to me? Why did you not tell me she was your wife? Why did you say she was your sister, so that I took her for myself? Here is your wife. Take her and go."

He gave orders about Abram, and men walked them out of the country with everything they owned, the flocks and the slaves and the camels the palace had paid for, all of it still in their hands. Sarai came out of the house with the king's plan unfinished. The sores had been her wall.

A servant girl carrying wash water saw the foreign woman go past into the light and understood, without a word of Torah, that some guests travel with a God who hits kings.

The Road Back to the Altar

They came up out of Egypt loaded down, into the dry country, and kept going by stages until they were back on the hill between Beth El and Ai, at the place where the altar was.

The stones were where he had left them. He called on the name of the Lord there again, in the same voice, on the same hill, with a wife who had been taken and returned and a herd three times the size it had been when he went down.

He pitched her tent first.


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From the tradition

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The texts behind this telling. Some cards carry a translation of the source; others are our own retelling of it, and each card says which. Every card links out to the original.

Midrash Tehillim 105:4Midrash Tehillim

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.Rabbi Mike Feuer, Jerusalem Anthology · CC-BY

The ancient rabbis certainly did. And they found evidence of it woven throughout the stories of our ancestors. to a fascinating little gem from Midrash Tehillim (a collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Psalms) that explores just this idea.

” Who are "they"? Well, the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) immediately clarifies: Remember the story? A famine hits Canaan, and as (Genesis 12:10) tells us, “Now there was a famine in the land, and Abram went down to Egypt to dwell there, for the famine was severe in the land."

Here's the intriguing part. The Midrash emphasizes that even in a foreign land, facing potential danger, Abraham and Sarah were protected. "No one was allowed to oppress them," it says, "these Egyptians." Kings like Abimelech and Pharaoh, powerful rulers, were even rebuked for their actions. As (Genesis 12:17) recounts, "But the Lord afflicted Pharaoh and his household with severe plagues because of Sarai, Abram's wife."

So, what's the message here? It's more than just a historical anecdote. Rabbi Berechiah steps in with a powerful interpretation: "Do not touch My anointed ones," he says, referring to the Patriarchs. And then, extending the idea, "And in the Prophets, do not harm My prophets," referring to the prophetesses.

This isn't just about physical protection; it's about a divine mandate. A hands-off policy, if you will. Abraham, Sarah, and all those who carry the torch of prophecy are under a special kind of guardianship. They are Moshiach, anointed, set apart.

But how does this protection work? Is it always obvious? The Midrash anticipates this question and offers a glimpse into the more subtle ways divine guidance operates.

Rabbi Yudan, quoting Rabbi Isaac, brings in the story of Rebekah and her sons, Jacob and Esau. (Genesis 27:42) says, "And Rebekah was told of the words of Esau." But here's the puzzle: (Genesis 27:41) tells us, "Esau spoke to himself." So, who told Rebekah?

The answer, according to the Midrash, is profound: "It was the Ruach (spirit) HaKodesh," the Holy Spirit, that told her. Ruach HaKodesh, that whisper of divine inspiration, that intuition that guides us even when we can't see the source. It’s that feeling you get when you just know something, even if you can’t explain how.

What does this all mean for us? It suggests that divine protection and guidance aren't always about dramatic plagues or overt miracles. Sometimes, it's about that quiet voice within, that subtle nudge in the right direction. It's about being open to the possibility that even when we feel alone, we are part of something larger, something that watches over us, and guides us on our journey. Maybe, just maybe, we too are under that same divine protection, in ways we can't always see.

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Bereshit Rabbah 39:15Bereshit Rabbah

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Sefaria Midrash Rabbah, 2022 · CC-BY

The Torah tells us, "Abram passed through the land to the place of Shekhem, until the plain of Moreh. And the Canaanites were then in the land" (Genesis 12:6). But there's more to this seemingly simple verse than meets the eye. The ancient rabbis, in their interpretations of scripture, the Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), unpack layers of meaning.

Bereshit Rabbah, a classic midrashic collection, picks up on a crucial detail. "Abram passed through the land…[and the Canaanites were still in the land]" – until then, the Midrash emphasizes, they still had a right to the land. In other words, Abraham's arrival wasn't just a casual stroll. It was a moment of immense significance, hinting at a future transfer of ownership.

The very next verse drives this point home: "The Lord appeared to Abram, and said: To your descendants I will give this land. And he built there an altar to the Lord, who had appeared to him" (Genesis 12:7). The Midrash underlines the connection: "The Lord appeared to Abram, and said: To your descendants…[and he built an altar]" – he built an altar only over the good tidings of [being granted] the Land of Israel. Abraham understood the promise, and his act of building an altar was a physical manifestation of his faith and gratitude.

The journey doesn't end there. "He relocated from there to the mountain east of Beit El, and he pitched his tent, Beit El to the west, and Ai to the east; he built an altar to the Lord there, and proclaimed the name of the Lord" (Genesis 12:8). There's a fascinating geographical and perhaps even a theological detail hidden in this verse. The Midrash notes, "He relocated from there to the mountain east [kedem] of Beit El" – in the past it was called Beit El, and now it is called Beit Aven.

Aven means iniquity. Beit Aven, the "House of Iniquity," is mentioned several times in the Tanakh (Hebrew Bible). The Midrash explains that it is a later name for Beit El. Why the name change? According to the tradition, after Yerovam placed an idolatrous golden calf there, its name was changed to Beit Aven, a stark reminder of the spiritual corruption that had taken root. The Midrash expounds kedem in the sense of "previously," highlighting the contrast between the place's former sanctity and its later degradation.

Rabbi Elazar offers a further, somewhat biting, commentary. It did not merit to be called Beit HeAmad, but is called Beit HeAmal. In other words, instead of being a place of upright standing (amida), it became a place of… well, something less dignified. There, in Babylon they call good deeds amida, and a chamber pot amila. It's a play on words, a subtle jab at the idolatry that defiled the site.

Finally, the Midrash focuses on a seemingly minor detail: "He pitched his tent [oholo]" – ohola is written, using the feminine suffix. What’s the significance? It teaches that he pitched Sarah’s tent first, and then pitched his tent. Even in the act of setting up camp, Abraham demonstrated respect and consideration for his wife.

The story of Abraham's journey isn't just about physical travel. It's about faith, promises, and the ever-present tension between holiness and corruption. And it highlights the importance of small acts of kindness and respect, like pitching Sarah's tent first. These details, illuminated by the wisdom of the Midrash, add richness and depth to a story we thought we already knew.

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Bereshit Rabbah 58:1Bereshit Rabbah

Retold in our words. Read the original at the link below.The Sefaria Midrash Rabbah, 2022 · CC-BY

It's rarely a mistake. More often, it’s a little breadcrumb, a hint that there's something deeper going on. Take the verse in (Genesis 23:1): "Sarah’s lifetime was one hundred years and twenty years and seven years, the years of the life of Sarah." Seems straightforward. But our sages, poring over every letter, noticed the repetition. "Sarah’s lifetime was… the years of the life of Sarah." Why say it twice?

The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary), specifically Bereshit Rabbah 58, dives into this. It uses a beautiful verse from Psalms (37:18) to illuminate Sarah’s life: "The Lord knows the days of the faultless; their inheritance will last forever." The Midrash connects the idea of being "faultless" – temimim in Hebrew – to how Sarah is described. Just as the faultless are without blemish, so too were Sarah’s years, according to this reading.

How can someone's years be faultless? The Midrash offers a stunning interpretation: When Sarah was twenty years old, she was as beautiful as a seven-year-old girl. And when she was a hundred years old, she was as free from sin as a twenty-year-old. Sarah’s youthfulness wasn’t just physical; it was spiritual and moral as well. The Bereshit Rabbah is saying that Sarah maintained a level of innocence and purity throughout her life. Only from the age of twenty is one held accountable for those sins that are punishable by heavenly action.

Rabbi Yoḥanan offers another perspective, comparing Sarah to a "calf without blemish" – temima. Again, that word "faultless" echoes. This isn’t just about physical perfection; it's about inner integrity.

So, why the repetition in the verse? "Sarah’s lifetime was… the years of the life of Sarah." The Midrash answers that it's to tell us that the lives of the righteous are beloved before the Omnipresent in this world and in the World to Come. The doubling of the phrase "life of Sarah" indicates that she in fact had two lives – one in this world and one in the World to Come.

According to Ginzberg’s retelling in Legends of the Jews, this is evidence of the enduring impact of a righteous life. It’s not just about the years we live, but how we live them. Sarah’s life, marked by faith, beauty, and a commitment to righteousness, resonated not just in her time, but eternally.

What aspects of your own life do you hope will resonate for generations to come?

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