When Heaven Touches Earth "Then Adonai appeared to him…" These opening words set the tone for what we discover to be one of the most theologically charged passages in the Torah. Genesis 18-22 walks us through a theophany (a form of visible appearance of the Most High), covenant promises coming to fruition, intercessory prayer that holds God's attention, and a test of faith so extreme it nearly breaks the narrative itself. For followers of Yeshua, this parsha shines with a particular richness and depth. The patterns established here in this parsha don't just repeat in the New Testament: they culminate in it. In fact, Vayeira is one of the most referenced sections of Genesis in the New Testament (after last week’s Lekh-Lekha and of course the opening parsha, Bereshit). This parsha is a common referent in the Mishnah as well, and for good reason, there are so many meaty passages here. No doubt, the young Bar or Bat Mitzvah who has Vayeira as their parsha has no shortage of topics to drash about. But enough of that for now. (Note: I am proceeding with the assumption you have already read the parsha, and if you haven't...pause for a few minutes and go do that first, please!) Convergence: Where Heaven and Earth MeetIn many of his works and lectures, scholar and theologian N. T. Wright refers to passages of Scripture that depict God meeting with humans – whether a theophany as in the present parsha in the form of Messiah Yeshua, or in the form of the Tabernacle / Temple – as convergence. In a post-resurrection world like ours in the 21st century, we would do well as students of Scripture to pay close attention to such passages, as their significance is all the more magnified in light of the work and revelation of Yeshua. So now back to Genesis. There's something striking here about how Abraham responds when three strangers appear at his tent. He's not just being polite. He's ninety-nine years old, recently circumcised (still in that brutal phase of healing on day three when even the most basic of movement yields genuine suffering, if we are to believe Rabbi Hama bar Hanina, according to Baba Metsia 86b). Yet the text tells us he ran to greet them. He hastened to Sarah, who had to hasten to bake bread. The servants hastened to prepare the meat. Everyone is moving at full speed. This isn't the typical ancient hospitality protocol. This is a man who senses something significant is happening and he doesn't want to miss it. The Genesis account maintains an interesting ambiguity here though. It opens with "Adonai appeared to Abraham," but then immediately shows us three men. Jewish tradition has worked through this puzzle for centuries and has produced a rather underwhelming answer: the Rabbis say it was three angels (specifically, Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael). The Talmud claims Michael was sent to announce the birth of Isaac, Gabriel to overthrow Sodom, and Raphael to heal Abraham. They then further probe how two of these beings went to Sodom, and land on it being Gabriel to overthrow, and Michael to rescue Lot. It’s worth pointing out, however, that while the Talmud (B. M. 86b) claims this, the Midrash disagrees, claiming it was Raphael who went on to rescue Lot. From what I can tell, the discrepancy is in how the name of each angelic being relates to their job function: Raphael (rapha) refers to healing and Gabriel (gibbor) refers to might, so the assignments of healing Abraham and overthrowing Sodom make sense. With Michael, his name refers to there being none like God (recall the words of the michamocha: who is like You, oh Lord?), so it is thought he is a declarer or bringer of news. He is at times also seen in a rescuing or protecting role (see Dan. 10-12). But I am getting off track. The point is, while the Rabbis disagree about the exact identities of the messengers in question, they pretty much all agree that the three beings were, in fact, messengers. And this is where they diverge too far from the Biblical text. The opening passage of the parsha is clear: Adonai appeared to Abraham. In light of the additional revelation of Yeshua in the New Testament, we have a means of better understanding the full picture. Yeshua says in John 8:56 that Abraham saw his day, and in 14:8-11 he adds that whoever has seen him, has seen the Father. Comparing this with John 1:18’s declaration that no one has seen God (additionally 1 John 4:12), and Col. 1:15 stating that Yeshua is the image of the invisible God, we can – I believe – safely say that Yeshua is the form of God that has been seen by humans. And as such, Yeshua ate with Abraham that day. Now, what I additionally find fascinating about this passage of Gen. 18 is that Abraham's hospitality directly anticipates something Yeshua would teach his disciples centuries later. The writer of Hebrews may also have had this in mind, writing, " 2Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers—for in doing so, some have entertained angels without knowing it." (Hebrews 13:2). But it goes deeper than that. In Matthew 25, when the King separates the sheep from the goats, he tells the righteous ones: "I was a stranger and you invited me in." (vs. 35) When they ask confused questions, he responds, “Whatever you did to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.” This creates continuity across the entire arc of Scripture. Abraham's posture at the tent door becomes the posture Yeshua calls his followers to maintain. We're supposed to be the kind of people who see strangers and recognize them not as threats or inconveniences but as bearers of heaven itself. Every act of gemilut chasadim—acts of loving-kindness—becomes a potential encounter with Messiah. Sarah's Laughter: From Joke to Joy When God announces that Sarah will have a son within a year, she laughs. But this isn't Abraham's laughter from Genesis 17. His was surprise mixed with wonder. Sarah's laugh comes from somewhere deeper: decades of barrenness, the exhaustion of hope deferred, and probably a bit of resentment and sarcasm. And who could blame her? The thought is almost absurd enough to be funny (if it weren't so painful). And God doesn't let it slide. He asks Abraham directly: "Why did Sarah laugh?" And then comes a line that seizes the narrative: "Is anything too difficult for Adonai?" (Genesis 18:13-14). When Sarah denies laughing (out of fear), God doesn't retreat; rather, he reasserts himself – almost sarcastically – with "No, for you did laugh." Here's where grace gets interesting. God doesn't retract the promise. H doesn't say, "Well, with that attitude, you can forget about the child of promise." He doubles down and reaffirms it with precision: "At the appointed time I will return to you—in about a year—and Sarah will have a son." (Genesis 18:14). Sarah's journey is instructive for anyone who has struggled to believe the promises of God. Her laughter transforms from cynical disbelief into celebration: " God has made laughter for me! Everyone who hears will laugh with me." (Genesis 21:6). It happens at exactly the time God said it would, which is, I think, the point here—divine promises don't expire just because we struggle to believe them. Abraham's Intercession What unfolds between Abraham and God over Sodom and Gomorrah is remarkable. God reveals his intention not to hide what he's about to do, because he's chosen Abraham specifically to "command his sons and his household after him to keep the way of Adonai by doing righteousness and justice" (Genesis 18:17-19). God is educating Abraham about his character and methods. He's teaching him the divine curriculum, if you will, of justice and mercy. Abraham then does something that I think many of us today would find quite audacious. He challenges God: "Will you really sweep away the righteous with the wicked? ...Far be it from you to do such a thing – to cause the righteous to die with the wicked…Shall the Judge of the whole world not exercise justice?" (Genesis 18:23-25). The posture matters—Abraham "remained standing before Adonai" (Genesis 18:22), and he stays there, negotiating. Fifty righteous? God agrees. Forty-five? Agreed. Forty? Thirty? Twenty? Ten? Each time, God says yes. It's not that Abraham is being presumptuous. He's doing what friends do, what mercy demands—he's advocating honestly, pushing back a little, trying to find the way through that preserves both justice and mercy. His nephew Lot is in that city, sure, but the fact that Abraham negotiates all the way down to just ten righteous people suggests his concern extends beyond family. It seems he genuinely wants these people spared if there's any righteous reason to spare them. This conversation establishes something foundational: the idea of the righteous remnant. God will preserve a people, a place, or a witness—sometimes on the basis of just a handful of faithful ones. Centuries after Abraham’s encounter, Isaiah picks up on this same motif: "Unless ADONAI-Tzva’ot had left us a small remnant, we would have been as Sodom, we would have been as Gomorrah." (Isaiah 1:9). And here's where it gets even more Messianic. Abraham stands between God and a condemned city, advocating for mercy without denying justice. That's exactly what Yeshua does as High Priest—he’s "always living to make intercession" for us (Hebrews 7:25). But where Abraham’s finite humanity could only argue and negotiate (how very lawyer-ish of him, eh?), Yeshua actually offers himself as the one who satisfies divine justice while extending divine mercy. He doesn't just advocate from the sidelines. Covenant Faithfulness: Enter Isaac Genesis 21 opens simply, "Adonai visited Sarah just as he had said, and Adonai did for Sarah just as he had spoken" (Genesis 21:1). The Hebrew there for “visited”--paqad—isn't casual. It means God actively intervened, that he paid attention, that he remembered and acted. (There’s a whole side-quest here on how this word is actually different from the usual word in this case, zakar, such as we find with Rachel’s barrenness, but…that’s for a later drash) Twenty-five years had passed since God first made the promise. Twenty-five years of waiting, of Sarah and Abraham getting old enough that the whole thing became physically impossible. Yet at the exact moment God had specified, it happened. Sarah "became pregnant and gave birth to a son for Abraham in his old age, at the appointed time that God had told him." (Genesis 21:2). The precision matters. God doesn't just keep promises, he keeps them on his timeline, not ours. Which, honestly, is usually the hard part. More than just a promise kept, Isaac's birth also carries prophetic weight. Paul explicitly connects Isaac to the Spirit's promise and the Gentile inclusion through faith, contrasting him with Ishmael born of the flesh (Galatians 4:23-31). The pattern repeats throughout Scripture—impossible births that signal God's intervention: Joseph, Samuel, John the Immerser, and ultimately Yeshua himself. Each one demonstrates that God's redemptive story moves forward not because of human capability but because God intervenes. In fact, even his name itself is telling: Isaac (Yitzchak) means "he laughs” and it is a permanent reminder of both Sarah's doubt and her joy. When she declares, "God has made laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh with me" (Genesis 21:6), that laughter has shifted from the cynicism of impossibility to the genuine delight of fulfillment. Grace Beyond the Covenant Line: Hagar and Ishmael The expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael is uncomfortable. Ishmael mocks Isaac at the weaning celebration, and Sarah demands their removal. (Side quest: the interpretations of what exactly it meant that Ishmael mocked Isaac vary widely. Rashi connects it to idolatry based on the word tsachaq here, meaning “to make fun” and the same word appearing in Exodus 32:6 which refers to the sin of the golden calf and the people rising up to “make merry.” Meanwhile, the Midrash offers multiple possible explanations, from Ishmael being an idolater, to claims that Ishmael was a bad influence because he forced himself on women, to claiming that he was threatening Isaac’s murder. The last offered explanation, though, perhaps offers the best resolution of the text that follows, which claims that Ishmael was mocking Isaac because while Isaac was Abraham’s son, Ishmael was still Abraham’s firstborn, and as such, he was still set to be the primary inheritor. This, I feel, explains Sarah’s response that Ishmael and Hagar be banished so that Ishmael would not “be an heir with my son – with Isaac” though once again, the text is not explicit here as to the reason). Abraham is troubled—Ishmael is his son too—but God tells him to listen to Sarah while assuring him that Ishmael will also become a nation (Genesis 21:12-13). Sent into the wilderness with minimal supplies, Hagar and Ishmael face death. When the water runs out, Hagar puts her son under a bush and sits down away from him—she can't bear to watch him die. The text says she "lifted up her voice and wept" (Genesis 21:16). Into that moment of absolute despair, God intervenes. "God heard the boy’s voice, and the angel of God called to Hagar from heaven and said to her, 'What troubles you, Hagar? Do not be afraid, because God has heard the boy’s voice where he is. Get up! Lift the boy up, and hold onto him with your hand, for I will make him a great nation.'" (Genesis 21:17-18). Here's what strikes me: Ishmael is not the child of promise. In fact, he is the direct result of Abraham and Sarah’s attempts to force the promise to come about by human means. Yet God doesn't abandon him. His cry is heard. He's rescued. He's given a future. This is God's grace operating even in ways that seem beyond us and our categories. The God who heard Ishmael in the wilderness is the same God who "came to seek and save the lost" (Luke 19:10). The same one who opens the door to non-Jews being included in God's covenant family through faith, being grafted in. The Akedah: When Everything Hangs in the Balance Then comes the test that nearly breaks the narrative: "God tested Abraham" (Genesis 22:1). And the command: "Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains of which I shall tell you" (Genesis 22:2). Let that sink in for a moment. This is the child God promised. The son through whom Abraham's descendants would become innumerable. The one through whom all the earth would be blessed. The entire covenant hinges on Isaac. And God is telling Abraham to sacrifice him? It looks like God is asking Abraham to nullify his own promises. Moreover, child sacrifice was an abomination practiced by the pagan cultures surrounding Israel—exactly the kind of practice the Torah would later explicitly condemn (Leviticus 18:21; 20:2-5). So, Abraham is being asked to do something that looks like pagan barbarism, something that would destroy God's covenant promise, something that has no logical justification. Right? And then Abraham…obeys. He wakes up early, saddles his donkey, takes Isaac and two servants, and begins the three-day journey to Moriah (Genesis 22:3). No argument. No negotiation like at Sodom. Just obedience. The writer of Hebrews gives us the key to understanding Abraham's mind: "He considered that God was able even to raise him from the dead, from which, figuratively speaking, he did receive him back" (Hebrews 11:19). Abraham's faith had reached the point where he believed God could resurrect the dead. If he completed the sacrifice, God would raise Isaac. His belief in God's power and character had become that absolute. Now, if you read this as a believer who recognizes Yeshua as Messiah, the typological parallels become almost impossible to miss: Both are beloved, only sons of promise. Both carry the wood for their own sacrifice. Both are sacrificed on the same mountain. Both involve resurrection on the third day. (Abraham traveled three days to Moriah and "on the third day Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw the place from far off" (Genesis 22:4)). Isaac is figuratively "received back" from death on the third day, which foreshadows Yeshua's literal resurrection. Both are willing participants. Isaac could have resisted his elderly father, but he doesn't. Instead, he asks a question that cuts to the theological heart of the narrative: "Where is the lamb for a burnt offering?" (Genesis 22:7). Abraham's response is extraordinary: "God will provide for himself the lamb for a burnt offering, my son" (Genesis 22:8). That statement functions on two levels simultaneously: it reassures Isaac, but it's also prophetic. It echoes across the centuries to John the Baptist's testimony: "Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!" (John 1:29). The Akedah, read through Messianic eyes, becomes prophecy. The beloved son, carrying the wood, willingly submitted, figuratively raised from the dead on the third day—it all points to Messiah. But at that pivotal moment, things invert: the grief Abraham was spared becomes the grief that Adonai experiences. The resurrection that Isaac experiences figuratively, Yeshua experiences literally. Friendship With God James reflects on Abraham's willingness to give up Isaac and concludes: "And the Scripture was fulfilled that says, 'Abraham believed God, and it was counted to him as righteousness'—and he was called a friend of God" (James 2:23). The title is extraordinary. Not servant. Not subject. Friend. Friendship with God is the ultimate goal of the covenant relationship. It speaks of intimacy, of confidence, of mutual affection. Abraham's friendship was forged through decades of testing, waiting, trusting, and ultimately proving willing to give up everything. Yeshua extends this same invitation. He tells his disciples: "No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what his master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you" (John 15:15). Through Messiah, what Abraham experienced becomes available to all who trust God and demonstrate that trust through obedient action. Contemporary Application Vayeira isn't just history. As with the rest of Scripture, it is instruction and was written to build us up and instruct us (2 Tim. 3:16). But in a few short snippets, here's what jumps out: Practice radical hospitality. Abraham shows us what it looks like to be alert, available, and generous with strangers. We might never know when we're serving angels. Every stranger we welcome might be bearing heaven, and they are all imagers of God. Trust God's timing. Sarah's journey from a derisive laugh of disbelief to laughter of joy teaches us something essential: God's delays are not denials. When things seem impossible (whether biologically, financially, or circumstantially), we serve the God for whom nothing is too difficult (Genesis 18:14). His Word will show up; maybe not on our time, but always at the appointed time. Stand in the gap. Abraham's intercession shows us that prayer can be bold, even argumentative with God, while remaining deeply reverent. We're invited to stand before HaShem and advocate for others, trusting that God delights in justice and mercy. Recognize grace beyond your boundaries. Hagar and Ishmael teach us that God's compassion extends beyond our religious categories and ethnic boundaries. We need to be careful not to limit God's grace only to those within our tribe (or our congregation or denomination or theological tradition). Let testing refine your faith. The Akedah teaches that God's tests aren't designed to trap us but to reveal and deepen genuine faith. When we're tested to the breaking point, we discover whether we truly believe God can resurrect the dead. (And remember: he is not the God of the dead, but of the living! [Matt. 22:31-32]) See Yeshua in the patterns. Throughout Vayeira, if you're paying attention, you see the shadow of Messiah, over and over again. Training ourselves to read Scripture with Christologically—to recognize the patterns and types pointing to Yeshua throughout—transforms how we understand both Testaments and helps us gain a greater appreciation for both. Messianic believers often need the reminder that “The Gospels are Scripture, too!” just as much as normative Christians need the reminder that the Torah is Scripture, too! The God Who Appears "And Adonai appeared to him"—that's where this portion begins, and it's the heartbeat that pumps through all of it. Adonai appears to Abraham as an honored guest, as a conversation partner in the struggle for justice, as the promise-keeper in Isaac's birth, as the defender of the abandoned in the wilderness, and as the provider of the sacrifice on the mountain. Each appearance tells us something about who God is: his desire for intimate friendship with his people; his commitment to justice tempered by mercy; his absolute fidelity to covenant promises; his compassion that transcends ethnic and religious boundaries; and his willingness to provide the sacrifice that makes relationship with him possible. Vayeira isn't just narrative, it’s also prophecy. The God who appeared to Abraham has appeared definitively in Messiah Yeshua: Immanuel, God with us (Matthew 1:23). As you work through these chapters, you're not just observing Abraham's faith journey from the outside: you're encountering the same God Abraham encountered. A God that invites you into the same posture of trust, intercession, radical hospitality, and friendship. We should remember to be thankful for the God who continues to appear, to speak, to provide, and to fulfill every word of promise spoken to Abraham.
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