Trust or Wile E. Coyote Places His 29th Order with Acme Products

I n the aftermath of the flood the survivors’ main task is repopulation. Noah’s sons and their wives don’t take the, uh, job lightly. I know. It’s hard to get amped up for another genealogy, but it’s kind of unavoidable when the population has been depleted to three fertile couples. Genesis 10 doesn’t waste time with foreplay, it hands out 350 years’ worth of new birth certificates in under two minutes. And you thought the Sammael was a fast reproducer. For the first and only time in history kids have a foolproof excuse when their parents walk in on them having sex: “Ah, Mom, what’s the big deal? We’re just repopulating the planet.” It’s not exactly spellbinding reading, but the list does offer a few notable details about the sketchier side of Noah’s family tree. Turns out, Ham’s grandson, Nimrod, is a regular Emilio Molina Vargas. Scripture calls him “the first powerful ruler on earth”^† (v. 8). General consensus is he was a bad dude, so it’s no surprise to read: “The beginning of his kingdom was Babel” (v. 10), a place that would eventually become one of the greatest hubs the in recorded history: the Babylonian Empire.

Genesis 11 briefly recounts the story of Babel: “The whole earth was of one language and of common purpose” (v. 1). That sounds promising, right? Ten generations have come and gone since the flood. There’s no mention of injustice. Instead, a common purpose is touted. The community comes together to construct a great city with “a tower with its top in the heavens.” Uh-oh, are those storm clouds in the distance? If they’re simply building a city, why do they emphasize a tower. Why not many towers? It appears they have something special in mind. This isn’t going to be your typical live, work, play community. Did someone say Barad-dûr?

The tower of Babel exhibits all the signs of being a ziggurat. Cool word, but what’s it mean? Back in the day a ziggurat was the focal point of the city it represented and part of a larger temple complex. It has the appearance of a more accessible pyramid with an altar at its highest point. So basically the Tyrell Corporation’s headquarters. Its main function is to be a stepstool for the gods when they come down to receive worship. Watch that first step, it’s a doozy. Ray Stantz would probably say the whole building is a super-conductive antenna built expressly for the purpose of pulling in and concentrating spiritual turbulence. In fact, that’s exactly what he’d say. Whatever the case, the structure has nothing to with the ever-present, personal nature of God as it’s described in the Torah.

The people are unified in their defiance: “[L]et us make a name for ourselves, lest we be dispersed across the whole earth” (v. 4). This goes against God’s earliest instruction to spread out and “fill the earth.” Yep. Genesis 1:28 just stuck its decomposing zombie hand out of the ground again. This forced unity is the antithesis of what God wants: “[T]hey are one people with one language for all, and this they begin to do” (v. 6). This isn’t like the inhuman activity that caused him to turn on the sprinklers in Noah’s day. God concludes, “[N]ow nothing which they purpose to do will be impossible for them.”* That almost sounds like a compliment—and perhaps it would’ve been if their goal wasn’t at direct odds with his instruction. But God doesn’t gear up for another widespread destructive event to correct the issue. Nope. This time he gives humanity a well-timed comedic nudge by “confusing” their speech (v. 7). This is what happens when you don’t follow Moe Howard’s advice. You get poked. The very thing they’re attempting to avoid becomes their punishment. Unable to contend with the language barrier, the people lose their unity, give up building the city and wander out across the globe to fill the earth with diverse peoples and nations as God intended (v. 8).

After this the story picks up with yet another riveting section of Scripture where the birth of several generations is chronicled. Try to contain your excitement. You know the drill: So-and-so beget So-and-so, who beget Also and Another. Genesis 11:10-30 lays out the lengthy record of the descendants of Shem (Noah’s favored son), culminating with Terah, the father of Abram. This genealogy also documents the dramatic reduction of a normal human being’s lifespan. Prior to Noah’s generation, everyone ended up on a Smucker’s jar with Willard Scott’s endorsement. But the days of people living to be nearly a thousand years old are over—most notably Methuselah, who the Torah claims lived to be 969 (see Gen. 5:27). As Yoda would say, “When 900 years old you reach, look as good, you will not.” The normal life expectancy dwindled from a still respectable 500 years of age to less than 200 in a ten-generation span. It appears the Antareans’ swimming pool has finally dried up. From a modern perspective these numbers sound absurd. With advanced technology and the cryogenics that preserved John Spartan we still struggle to reach triple digits. To be fair, the air quality was a lot better in 2000 B.C.E.

The genealogy ends with the introduction of Abram—soon to be known as Abraham. To avoid confusion, we’ll go ahead and start referring to him as Abraham now (to read about him filling out all of the necessary paperwork for a name change skip ahead to Genesis 17:5). Interestingly, his story begins without fanfare. Interesting because he’s the gold standard when it comes to scriptural patriarchs—but his back-story is surprisingly sparse. After being counting among the descendants of Shem, we read that Abraham and his father abruptly decide to pack up the Winnebago and strike out for the land of Canaan. But they don’t make it that far. Instead, they end up settling in Haran. That’s it. That’s how chapter 11 ends. It’s like there was a writer’s strike before they could finish the pilot episode. Not surprisingly, there are a lot of theories on Abraham’s back-story, especially in Jewish lore. The most popular version alleges he got into it with a ruler (say hi to Nimrod again) because of his outspoken distaste for the worship of idols. This leads to a confrontation. After some creative name-calling, Nimrod goes all Buford Tannen on Abraham—“Nobody calls me Mad Dog!”—and tosses him into a furnace. God spares Abraham’s life and in the smoky aftermath he and his father conclude it’d be best to leave Nimrod’s territory and start fresh. To be clear, none of this is recorded in the Torah, except the decision to move. That said, there’s some possibility of an event like this having taken place. Families didn’t move without good reason in those days.

Then, as if nothing else needs to be explained, God speaks to Abraham immediately in the opening verses of Genesis 12. No introductions are necessary. God doesn’t say, “Hi, Abraham, I’m God of the universe. Oh! Sorry if I frightened you. Here’s a new pair of pants.” It appears these two have interacted before, which begs for a back-story like the one above. But the text never explains why God chooses him. The implication is Abraham has proven trustworthy in the past and now God is ready to up the ante: “Go forth from your country, away from your relatives, to the land which I will show you”* (v. 1). This sounds like hippie talk: “Ever thus to deadbeats, Lebowski.” But make no mistake, he isn’t suggesting Abraham should find a place to squat in Los Angeles and take up bowling full time. That wouldn’t be so bad. God’s request goes against everything that’s considered normal at that time. He’s asking Abraham to give up the most familiar aspects of his life. And for what? According to God, the big payoff is Abraham’s descendants will have a home in the land of Canaan one day. That’s the deal. Abraham has to leave his country and wander homeless for the rest of his life for the benefit of his descendants centuries down the road. Now might be a good time to point out that his wife, Sarai, or Sarah (see Gen. 17:15), is barren. As H.I. McDonough would say, “Her insides were a rocky place where my seed could find no purchase.”

So, to review, God asks Abraham to trust him and give up everything so that his children, which he’s currently incapable of producing, can be landowners in the distant future. And what does Abraham do? He goes! There’s no discussion. He doesn’t ask for a night to sleep on it or question God or request a sign or even confirm his route on Google Maps. Abraham barely takes time to check the tread on his sandals before heading out the door: “So Abram went as Hashem had spoken to him” (v. 4). It’s as simple as that. As Teela would say, “Don’t say goodbye. Say good journey.” Also tagging along is his nephew, Lot. It’s not stated why Lot joins the caravan, but the logical conclusion is that after his father’s premature death he has come to regard his uncle as something of a father-figure (see Gen. 11:27, 28).

At a glance it appears promises are made, but the text reveals God simply tells Abraham what he’ll do. No promise is necessitated. Actually, the word “promise” doesn’t exist in the Hebrew lexicon. Turns out, God doesn’t have to make promises. His word is presented as reliable in and of itself. This puts a lot of pressure on the outcome of the story.

God reiterates his word when they reach Canaan: “To your offspring I will give this land” (v. 7). But no sooner have they arrived than a famine occurs. Wait, didn’t God say he was going to take care of him? This is worse than when Lucinda Perriweather gave Ella of Frell the gift of obedience. You’d think it’d be all downhill from here since Abraham has put his life on the line, but God doesn’t step in to prevent less than ideal circumstances from occurring. Apparently, following God doesn’t mean life becomes more convenient or less real, because Abraham is in the soup immediately.

In reaction to the famine, Abraham hightails it for Egypt (v. 10). On the way, he gives his wife a compliment, then asks her to pretend she’s his sister (vv. 11-13). Seeing as she’s the daughter of his deceased half-brother it’s actually an avunculate marriage (normal practice in those days). It’s not exactly Jaime and Cersei Lannister, but it’s still plenty creepy. They implement their plan upon arriving in Egypt and smoking hot Sarah is immediately taken into Pharaoh’s harem. Abraham is treated like royalty in return, but it costs him his wife, er, I mean sister. As Happy Gilmore would say, “Talk about your all-time backfires.” God shows up on the scene to intervene on stupid Abraham’s behalf and puts the whammy on Pharaoh’s household. When he finds out Sarah is married, Pharaoh hits the ceiling. He gives Abraham what for and sends him packing: “[H]ere is your wife; take her and go” (v. 19). It all plays out like an episode of Seinfeld. In the end, it’s as if the whole sideshow never happened. They leave Egypt and return to Canaan, where they pitch their tents in the same place as before.

Not long after this Abraham and Lot decide to go their separate ways, partly because their flocks and possessions have become so large and partly because Lot’s greed has branched into Gordon Gekko territory. Abraham graciously allows his nephew to pick which area best suits his needs. Lot chooses the fertile plain of Jordan and ends up living in Sodom’s city limits (so he can be near the Super Walmart). Meanwhile, Abraham keeps on rocking the suburbs just like Michael Jackson did. Quick, somebody cue up Ben Folds. God pulls him aside (again) and tells him all of the land he sees in every direction will one day belong to his descendants (Gen. 13:14-17). This is the third time he gives his word. If God doesn’t come through on this, we may have to demand a refund.

Genesis 14 tells the story of some local warring kings. The event plays out like a modern gangland dispute like you might hear about on the six o’clock news. There’s a face-off, shots are fired, innocent bystanders get caught up in the fray. In this case, the innocent bystanders include Lot’s family. When Abraham hears the news, he smears on shoe polish, grabs a rocket launcher and goes John Matrix on the perpetrators who have kidnapped his nephew. But, unlike Colonel Matrix, he’s not a one-man army. He has over three hundred servants—the Torah calls them “disciples”—that help out. They attack by night, drive the bad guys off and rescue the captives. You know, hero stuff. Upon returning everyone to Sodom, Abraham refuses to accept a reward, saying he won’t take so much as “a thread to a shoestrap,” so no one can claim they helped make him wealthy (v. 23). He’s going out of his way here to make sure people know the credit belongs to God. Duly noted.

You’re not gonna believe this, but God reiterates his word to Abraham yet again in Genesis 15, this time with more emphasis. It’s a clear night. He tells Abraham to try and count all of the stars. Then comes the kicker: “So shall your offspring be” (v. 5). Holy crap! This sounds like a threat. The thought of one kid running riot around the campsite is enough to consider a vasectomy, but Abraham welcomes the news. It’s high stakes poker and God is playing croupier. Like Bret Maverick, Abraham has yet to see his hand, but stays in the game, betting to win with only God’s assurance that he’ll deal the cards in his favor. It says, “[H]e trusted in Hashem” (v. 6).

But God doesn’t stop there. He blows the dust off his crystal ball and tells Abraham about the extended future of his descendants. The CliffsNotes version is they’ll be oppressed in a foreign land for several hundred years, before eventually leaving with great wealth (vv. 13, 14). The only reason God gives for this is “the iniquity of the Amorite [Canaanites] shall not yet be full until then” (v. 16). Basically, he’s giving the current landowners (Ham’s progeny) 600 years to get their act together. Am I reading that right? God is dedicated to the future of Abraham’s progeny, but isn’t kicking anyone out until they’ve forfeited their right to ownership? Yep. Stanley Roper just rolled over in his grave. That’s like the bank saying you have half a millennium to pay off your mortgage. No problem, right? That gives your family generations to pull the cash together. That’s what the Canaanites are facing. Shape up or else Abraham’s great, great, great, great, great (you get the idea) grandkids are moving in. That’s crazy lenient.

Immediately following the sneak peek, Sarah approaches Abraham in Genesis 16 with a solution to their childbearing dilemma. God’s word is fine and dandy, but she’s not getting any less barren and age is becoming a serious factor as well. Sarah’s biological clock is ticking harder than Mona Lisa Vito’s. Her idea is for Abraham to marry her maidservant, Hagar, and sleep with her. “I will be built up through her” (v. 2). It’s win-win for Abraham. Please the wife and sleep with the hot, young Egyptian maidservant. No need to consult God on this one. What could possibly go wrong? So he marries Hagar and she becomes pregnant. It’s a plotline straight out of The Young and the Restless. As expected, the drama promptly kicks into high gear. Hagar gets uppity once her status is elevated and Sarah reacts defensively, placing the blame squarely on Abraham: “The outrage against me is due to you” (v. 5). Then she proceeds to treat Hagar like a second-class citizen to the point she stresses out, has a miscarriage and runs away. Nope. This isn’t the Cinderella story you’re looking for.

Of course, the most interesting part of Abraham’s story is how God involves himself in his life and the lives of those around him. God obviously has a soft spot for old Abe, but he doesn’t snub the rest of the world in the meantime. Despite Abraham and Sarah pulling a Vicky Christina Barcelona, God doesn’t allow the persecuted Egyptian maidservant to fade into obscurity. He could’ve. After all, she isn’t part of the original plan. Nevertheless, God proves gallant by showing up and giving his word to Hagar in much the same manner as he did with Abraham. And her requirement is no different from her esteemed master. It’s trust, plain and simple. I keep looking for that ah-ha moment with God, expecting at every turn to spot something sketchy. But, so far, he’s maintained his GPA. The worst thing he’s guilty of here is building up expectations. And, sure, if he fudges the outcome or doesn’t come though it won’t just dent his reputation, it’ll ruin his character. One mistake and God isn’t God.