Abraham and Sarah (13 page)

T
he next day they folded their tents and were on their way out of the valley. Although Abram was interested in seeing more of the land he had glimpsed from Mount Ebal, he was becoming more and more perplexed and deeply disturbed. He had pictured it all so differently. He had been so sure of the promises, and now he found himself wondering, pondering, almost doubting.

Listening to Sarai hadn’t helped. The moment he had entered her tent and smelled the jasmine, he knew she wanted something. He was surprised when she didn’t come right out and tell him like she usually did.

How subtle she’d been to remind him of the house and fields they’d left in Ur and the comforts his brother was enjoying in Haran. She had even suggested that perhaps the slaughter carried out by the Elamites was over and life in Ur was normal again. She left no doubt that she wanted to go back. She was already tired of their constant wandering, and the idea of famine frightened her.

He thought briefly of his brother Nahor and his prediction of disaster. If Nahor’s gods were real, he had certainly offended them. Could it be possible that Ningal alone knew the secrets of life? Would Sarai forever be barren because she had not acknowledged the goddess’s power?

While he was thinking these thoughts he was busy seeing that everything was ready to move on. He was quiet and preoccupied, easily irritated. He had no explanation to give these people who trusted him. He could see in their looks and in the silence as they kept glancing at him that they were expecting him to give some reason for their disappointment.

He squared his shoulders and looked around. Perhaps farther on he would find the prosperity and plenty he had at first envisioned. There had to be some explanation. He didn’t doubt that he had heard the voice of this unseen God called Elohim, but there was so much he didn’t know. If he could only meet someone who shared this same experience … someone who knew this God.

To his surprise, things didn’t get better. They continued to get worse, much worse. They began to see hordes of locusts. The locusts buzzed and hummed, their wings vibrating in a continual whir. They landed on the tents in droves, letting their fragile legs cling tenaciously to the stiff goat hair weave, their small treacherous jaws boring holes in the sturdy stuff. They were in the sleeping rolls, on the cushions, and even crushed underfoot. Every green thing disappeared before their all-consuming hunger.

As Abram’s band made their way up into the hill country toward Ai and Luz, they battled and struggled against the onslaught. Though the locusts skewered on a stick and roasted were surprisingly good to eat, the people soon tired of them. They yearned to get relief from the plague and to find fresh, sweet water, ripe figs, and grapes, but there were none.

Gradually they noticed that the soil was no longer rich and dark. Instead, hard layers of red earth barely covered the solid rock. Only in the ravines that fell away to the west would it be possible to plow or sow regular crops of grain. Most of the men were deeply disappointed. Eliazer was the only one who encouraged Abram. “Perhaps,” he said, “Elohim is using the famine to drive the people out so you can have the land without shedding blood.”

Abram gave serious thought to the words of his friend, though the farther they went from Shechem, the more doubts tormented him. How could it be, he wondered, that the voice was so distinct and the message so clear and still there is no guidance as to what we are to do about the famine?

To make matters even worse, the people were constantly asking questions he couldn’t answer, while Sarai had grown silent. He could tell by the way her mouth was set and the impatient way she swatted at the locusts that she was at some sort of breaking point.

Finally when they reached Luz, there was a degree of relief. The nights grew cooler and the plague of locusts came mercifully to an end. At last they found some water. It was not in great abundance, but enough to sustain them if they were careful and used it mostly for drinking.

Abram obtained permission for his people to camp in the open fields between Luz and Ai. He forced himself to move among them as they pitched their tents and tried to encourage them. Instead of being encouraged, they looked at him with wide, troubled eyes, hoping for a decision that would rescue them from their misery.

When days passed and Abram had no solution to offer, open hostility
sprang up among the women and then spilled over to the men. They pleaded with Lot to convince Abram of the seriousness of their situation. It was no secret that most of them wanted to turn back.

Urim, the cheese maker, was the most vocal. “We didn’t know it would be like this!” he complained one day as he brought some smoked cheese to Abram’s tent.

Abram had been praying, and he resented the interruption by the feisty little man. More than that, he found it irksome to be reminded constantly and now even in his own tent of the disappointment people were feeling. Despite his frustration, Abram waved Urim to a cushion and was surprised when he sat down.

Abram studied the man, realizing again that Urim was a man of action, with little ability to reason. However, he did make wonderful cheese. “It is the way of the world that things are not perfect,” Abram said, hoping to silence him.

“But, my lord,” Urim said leaning forward, one hand resting on his knee and the other scratching his head, “your God seemed to promise so much. Has He perhaps forgotten you?”

No one else had dared voice such a thought, and Abram found it unsettling. He had struggled to put down the same nagging thought, and now as the words hung on the air between them, he found them as real and palpable as the tent over their heads. The words had taken on form and shape, demanding a response. “Were you with us on Mount Ebal?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, my lord. I was there. I saw the land and heard all that you said. From up in the clouds it looked quite grand, but it’s down here we live and here there’s nothing but thirst and hunger for man and beast.”

“So …” Abram said as he carefully studied the man, “what would you suggest?”

“Why, to me, it’s quite plain. We should forget about this God awhile and use our wits.” Urim never let his eyes waver from Abram’s face. He seemed to be expecting some favorable response.

“And if we used our wits, what would we do? What could we do that we aren’t doing now?” Abram was growing impatient, but he could see that the man prided himself on his own common sense and perhaps could be depended on to find some answer.

Abram’s interest encouraged Urim. He smiled and leaned forward. “Go
down to Egypt like everyone else. Wait it out. It’s obvious your God isn’t thinking about the famine. Probably doesn’t even know it exists since He’s somewhere up there on Ebal. No, there are times, I always say, when one has to think for oneself.”

Abram didn’t answer, and Urim was always nervous when people didn’t talk. He got to his feet and pushed the offering of smoked goat cheese on its circle of matting toward Abram. “There’s more if you need it,” he said. When Abram still didn’t look up or answer, he slowly backed out of the tent, feeling satisfied that he’d said all that he had wanted to say.

That night Abram sat in his tent, not wanting to see anyone. The words of the cheese maker drummed in his head stronger than the words of his God on Mount Ebal. “Forget about this God awhile and use our wits,” the man had said.

It had been a long time since he had entertained such thoughts, but now they seemed to ring with some truth. What bothered him was the fear that if he once began to rely on his wits, would he still be able to hear the voice of his God? Would he lose the promises altogether?

It grew late and his servants still waited to roll out his sleeping mat, raise the tent flaps, and bring him the silver pitcher and basin. Even with the shortage of water he could not think of retiring for the night without washing his feet and hands. As he had learned long before when traveling with his father, it took only a small amount of water when poured from the pitcher over the hands and then the feet into the basin.

He had the servants adjust the tent flaps so he could see the moon and stars, and then he dismissed them. He stretched out on the sleeping mat, but sleep wouldn’t come. Instead he kept going over what Eliazer had said about the famine perhaps being Elohim’s way of freeing the land from the Amorites. On the other hand, if he insisted on staying and his herds of goats and sheep starved to death and the people were thirsty, it would be too late to take the advice of the cheese maker.

He got up and went to the door of his tent. He could see the other tents clearly in the moonlight, the dried thorn hedges that marked off the courtyards and sheltered most of the animals at night.

Sarai’s tent was dark. He had shared the cheese with her and had gotten a
bellyful of advice. Sometimes she wasn’t logical. If she had her way, they would fold up their tents and head for Egypt or back to Haran.

She was too quick for him. She made up her mind too fast and seemed to have good reasons for everything. Once she saw anything clearly, she wouldn’t let it go but hung on tenaciously and tried to convince him of its rightness. He felt he had to be alone. He needed to think things through before he saw her again, and so he hadn’t gone to her, even though he’d seen that she was waiting up for him.

In the distance he could see the flat-roofed, whitewashed buildings of Luz as they crowned the ridge. An owl screeched from the bare branches of a nearby oak and was echoed by a braying donkey and barking dog. He had the lonesome feeling of a stranger in a strange land.

The only thing familiar in his surroundings was the low-hanging canopy of stars overhead. As a citizen of Ur, he had made an extensive study of the stars. Now he could clearly see the familiar configurations. There was the great dragon or serpent that wound itself around one-half of the northern sky. In one of the coils of its tail was the unmoving star called Thuban, or “the subtle.” The bright star in its head was called Rastaban, meaning “the head of the subtle.” He knew the desert Semites called the star Al Waid, meaning “who is to be destroyed.”

He always liked to think that a time would come when the promise handed down from the old religion would come to pass: “The seed of the woman will bruise the serpent’s head and the serpent will bruise his heel.”

His eyes next traveled to the group of stars in the form of a lamb called Taleh. From his study with the stargazers of Ur, he knew the ancient Akkadians called the figure Baraziggar. Bar meant “altar” and ziggar, “right making.” Gradually a thought began to form. It was the idea of an altar. An altar would require repentance and making things right. He had noticed that Elohim was most likely to speak and give guidance when men built altars and made things right. Quickly he decided to build an altar.

With final resignation he let the tent flap fall in place. Tomorrow they would build the altar and offer a sacrifice. If they received no guidance, they could consider going down to Egypt as Urim had suggested and Sarai had urged. The move would please Sarai. He wanted to do something to please her. He couldn’t stand this loneliness, this feeling of isolation from the men and his beloved Sarai as well. However, if Elohim spoke and told him to stay, he
would stay … no matter the cost to himself.

With that thought in mind, he once again lay down and was soon asleep.

The next day he reluctantly told Sarai what he intended to do and was rewarded by her tears and loving embrace. When he told the men, he could almost hear the sigh of relief as they hurried off to gather the rough-hewn stones to build the altar.

The wood for the sacrifice was dry and brittle, but it had been hard to light and at first refused to burn. The very air was charged with anxiety and suspense rather than worship. Abram stayed until the coals burned down to glowing embers, then finally had to announce that in spite of their urgent prayers and entreaties, he had received no answer. Elohim had been silent. Glancing around, he noted a look of intense relief on everyone’s face. Reluctantly he agreed to go down to Egypt until the famine was over.

Once the decision was made, he tried to put all further doubts and questions from his mind and instead made plans for going down to Egypt. He had heard the reports of trouble at the border. Too many half-starved, emaciated people were trying to slip by the guards. He had one great advantage, and he would have to make the most of it.

In the old days, when he had come with his father and the uncles on trading ventures down into Egypt, they had made the acquaintance of the pharaoh’s vizier. He was an intelligent man who liked to sit in the evening and hear of other countries, their customs, and their beliefs. He had taken a special liking to these traders from Ur and had always given them a hearty welcome. They in turn had filled his hand with rare and priceless gifts.

Abram had heard that this very vizier had by some strange twist of fate become the new Pharaoh, called Amenemhet. Still more amazing, it was said that he had moved the capital of Egypt from Thebes to a place called Itjtawy in the delta. This made it much more accessible. Abram hoped Pharaoh would remember him from the past and would make things easy for them during their stay.