We stand here on the shoulders of giants such as Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, and Job. This year’s High Holyday sermons will explore what they continue to say to us.

This morning we explore lessons our ancestor Sarah taught us.

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Poor Sarah. Some people don’t even know who she was. I once asked a group of our younger Religious School children: “What was the name of Abraham’s wife?” Silence. “Aw, come on. Doesn’t anyone know the name of Abraham’s wife?” A little voice came from the back of the room: “Mrs. Lincoln?”

Some people don’t know the Reform movement has, for quite some time, recognized Sarah and the other Matriarchs (Rebecca, Leah and Rachel) as of equal standing with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Our version of the first paragraph of the Amidah, the central petitionary prayer of the service, mentions all seven, the women as well as the men. Especially at shivah houses I run into people who’ve never heard of this way of doing things. I hope someday the rest of the Jewish world will catch up.

She has great deal she has to teach us, this Sarah.

Abraham’s wife, Sarah, is not just Abraham’s wife. She is also his equal. They are partners. Together they leave the technologically sophisticated but morally corrupt city of their youth, and strike out together into the unknown. Sarah is not subservient to her husband. She is active, not passive. She acted independently when necessary. Abraham sought out Sarah’s counsel, and on one occasion it was God who told Abraham he should listen to her. When God changed Abram’s name to Abraham, God also changed Sarai’s name to Sarah. The only woman that God spoke to directly in that era is Sarah.

Do you realize how long ago this was? Scholars date the time of Abraham and Sarah to about four thousand years ago! At the very beginning of Jewish history our first family consisted of a man and a woman who were equal partners. Not only wasn’t that usually the case in their world, it wasn’t in ours, either. In this free and equal democracy of ours it wasn’t very long ago that women were first allowed to vote. And of course, inequality hasn’t gone away since that happened in 1918:

A few years ago, the European Economic Community pointed out to the Irish government that it had not yet implemented the agreed upon sex equality legislation. The Dublin government immediately advertised for the position of Equal Pay Enforcement Officer. The advertisement offered different salary scales for men and women. [“Dynamic Illustrations,” July/Aug/Sept. 1998.] 

The first thing that Sarah has to teach us is that at the very core of our Judaism, from the very beginning, men and women are equal. It should be our way of being in the world as well.

The second thing Sarah teaches us about is survival and hope. There is a strange passage in her story that we usually pass over when we discuss it with children:

11 As [Abraham] was about to enter Egypt, he said to his wife Sarai, “I know what a beautiful woman you are.” 12 If the Egyptians see you, and think, ‘She is his wife,’ they will kill me and let you live. 13 Please say that you are my sister, that it may go well with me because of you, and that I may remain alive thanks to you.”

14 …the Egyptians saw how very beautiful the woman was... and the woman was taken into Pharaoh’s palace…

17 But the Lord afflicted Pharaoh and his household with mighty plagues on account of Sarai, the wife of Abram. 18 Pharaoh sent for Abram and said, “What is this you have done to me! Why did you not tell me that she was your wife? 19 Why did you say, ‘She is my sister,’ so that I took her as my wife? Now, here is your wife; take her and begone!” [Genesis 11:10-19] 

Apparently there was a rule about marrying another man’s wife. But there was no such rule about marrying his widow. And if she was not a widow? That could easily be arranged. That is what Abraham was afraid of.

Abraham passes his wife off as his sister so his life would be spared. She goes, quietly, but certainly not willingly, into another man’s household. What is this all about? I think it is about survival. In Egypt, here are two people who have gone there because of famine. There was not enough food for them to survive where they were. Pharaoh’s power is far beyond anything that they can exercise. When he decides he wants Sarah, there is little they can do.

The choices are stark and painful. Abraham can say Sarah is his wife. Maybe Pharaoh will back off. But maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll have Abraham killed. He can try and run away. To where? The food is in Egypt. And he is no match for Egyptian soldiers. Sarah can say she’s Abraham’s sister, and then commit suicide rather than be defiled. All of these are unacceptable. As painful as it is, the only real alternative is for Sarah to go into Pharaoh’s household and remain alive, no matter what happens to her.

Is this Abraham and Sarah’s fault? No, they live among people who are more powerful than they. Live, survive. Those are the operative words. Unlike Islam, for example, our religion rejects martyrdom right at the beginning. Would it have been tragic if Abraham and Sarah did what they had to do so that both of them remained alive? Of course. But the rest of the story, the punch line, so to speak, is that we never really do know the outcome. As long as there is life, as long as there is survival, there is hope. Their hope is vindicated. Both Sarah and Abraham escape unscathed.

Unscathed, and, we would expect, with a sense of joy and relief:

In years past, people visiting the Kotel, the Western Wall Plaza in Jerusalem, in the early morning hours met an old Jew carrying a bottle of schnapps and a bag of cookies. He would approach them and say, “Today is a Simcha -- a celebration for me. Please join me for a Lechaim.” Suspicious tourists soon discovered that he was no schnorrer -- he asked nothing from them, so they inquire as to the nature of the Simcha. His answer? “Being alive!” “You see, I survived Auschwitz and since then every day is a Simcha.”

But that wasn’t enough. Abraham and Sarah had a people to create and time was passing. The final lesson Sarah teaches us today has to do with children, the children she didn’t have. Right at the beginning of their story, when she and Abraham set out on their journey, we are told that Sarah was barren. A number of years pass, Sarah still doesn’t conceive, and she’s concerned that God’s promise of making Abraham the founder of a great people won’t happen. She has an Egyptian slave/handmaiden/servant and tells Abraham to take her and have a child by her so that Abraham’s line might continue. This was no moral problem in a polygamous society, and ancient law allowed her to adopt a child born into the household as her own.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but it wasn’t. Sarah was trying to be selfless. But when it comes to our most central instincts, feelings can be much stronger than ideas. When Hagar becomes pregnant, before she even delivers, she begins to lord it over Sarah. Sarah asks Abraham what she should do and he passes the ball back to her: “Do whatever you think is best.” Sarah begins to make Hagar’s life so miserable that Hagar runs away, though she eventually comes back. A boy is born, Ishmael, who will be viewed by the Arab world as their progenitor.

Then, finally, Sarah gives birth to Isaac. A little while later she sees Ishmael and Isaac “playing” and becomes angry. With all the fury of a mother protecting her young, she demands that Hagar and Ishmael leave. She cannot see any way in which the two can co-exist. Isaac is hers. Ishmael is not.

Such anger, such jealousy, such fierce protectionism from the first Matriarch of the Jewish people? Yes. These are real people with real lives dealing with real problems. Perhaps that’s why the Torah portion that deals with Sarah’s death is called Chayai Sarah, The Life of Sarah. In typical fashion our Rabbis ask why the story of her death is called The Life of Sarah? Because, they answer, Sarah really lived. She was a three-dimensional, real live person with good qualities and bad, thrown into this world and trying to make a life in it, just like the rest of us.

We are told that the years of her life were seven and twenty and one hundred. Why not just one hundred twenty-seven, ask the Rabbis? Because she was a person, not a symbol. She was seven when she was a seven year old child, a twenty year old with all the exuberance and world-conquering joy of youth, and an elderly person – perhaps a hundred, perhaps not – ripe with wisdom and experience.

Were the facets of Sarah’s life any different than ours? The equality of men and women, the path of survival, and managing our deepest feelings and instincts – these are as central to our lives as they were to hers. On this New Year may we be reminded, as the Reform movement teaches, the dilemmas facing human beings have remained pretty constant. It is the means of dealing with them that changes.

Sameness amidst change – that is what Sarah teaches us.