Lech Lecha: Sarah's Tests
## Sarah’s Trials: What Eve Broke, Sarah Began to Mend
*Parshat Lech Lecha*
While the Torah’s narrative often centers on Avraham and his ten trials, Sarah too faced enormous, soul-defining tests. In this week’s parsha, we find two of them:
1. She is taken by Pharaoh—against her will, to be a sex-slave in his harem.
2. She gives her maidservant Hagar to Avraham—opening the door to rivalry, disrespect, and emotional pain. This second trial is of her own making.
### Sarah and Pharaoh
What did Sarah want more than anything? A child. And yet, when Pharaoh—who might have fulfilled that desire—took her, she saw it as an abomination. She would not be touched by anyone but Avraham.
Why? Because the bond between them was not merely emotional or romantic—it was cosmic. The *Maharal* teaches that Avraham and Sarah, together, repaired the primordial rift between man and woman that began in Eden:
> "Your desire will be for your husband, yet he will rule over you."
> This curse—this sickness—twisted the natural equality between the sexes into a power imbalance that has caused untold suffering ever since. But Avraham and Sarah were different. They were equals. And sometimes, she was even the greater.
Next week, in *Parshat Vayera*, God Himself tells Avraham:
> “Whatever Sarah tells you—listen to her voice.”
> The Sages say this wasn’t just about one moment. Sarah surpassed him in prophecy, and at least with regards to the future of their family, God gave her authority. If it had not been for Sarah's unwavering adherence to discipline, as well as her "mother lion" instinct to protect her cub—in other words, had God not intervened and Avraham allowed Yishmael to remain as part of the eventual Jewish People—we would have been, spiritually, and thereby genetically and culturally, very different than we are today. Perhaps this is why, even into eternity, Sarah still has to keep an eye on Avraham. He is kind... very, very kind. But sometimes, too much kindness is a dangerous thing. Sometimes it leads the taker-types to break down the barrier between what is rightfully 'mine' and 'yours,' fostering a culture where, as it is said of Yishmael, 'his hand will be in everyone’s possessions...'
Rabbi Bena’a, in the Talmud (Bava Batra 58a), glimpsed this equality in the afterlife. When mapping burial caves, he found Avraham lying in the arms of Sarah, and she was inspecting his head—as though their love, their unity, and their intellectual partnership continued even beyond the grave. Heaven has no *yetzer hara*, after all.
We’ll explore that mystery more next week. But for now, we must look backward—into Eden.
---
## What Broke Adam and Eve?
Communication, or the lack of it.
They say the greatest cause of divorce is poor communication. And it’s true. A couple that can fight and still stay close—like *chavrusas*—is stronger than one that’s always polite but emotionally dead. That’s “good fighting.”
Sarah knew how to fight well. When her newborn Yitzchak was threatened by teenage Yishmael—who, according to the Midrash, tried to kill him—she stood her ground and demanded they be cast out. That kind of righteous fury saved her son’s life—and Israel’s future.
But now, let's return to Eve. The snake, clever and cunning, seduced her—not with touch, but with words. The *Nachash* is the archetype of the *yetzer hara*. He didn’t just tempt—he infiltrated.
---
## The Snake’s Real Seduction
Before we go deeper, we must remember that Adam and Eve didn’t begin as two separate individuals, but as a **unified soul**—what Kabbalah and Chassidut often call the *Primordial Adam*. This was not only a male-female soul but a collective consciousness, the spiritual root of all human souls to come. What Carl Jung might call the *collective unconscious*, the Torah calls *Adam Kadmon*—a cosmic being composed of all potential life.
The Ramban (Nachmanides) teaches that when God said, *“Let us make man,”* He was speaking with the **Earth itself**. *Adam* is from the *Adamah*—a being shaped from all aspects of creation: animal, mineral, plant, mountain, ocean. That’s why Adam could name the animals—he recognized them as **part of himself**. And that’s why standing by the sea, or atop a mountain, something in us stirs—because **we are made of that same Earth**, and it is made of us.
But when they ate from the Tree of Knowledge, that unified cosmic being shattered. Their bodies, once *or* (אור) — light — became *or* (עור) — skin. And their singular soul fragmented.
Not just into **man and woman**, with all the subsequent imbalance and struggle for equality—but into the **individual ego**. That I-ness, the self-awareness that separates us from one another, was born that day.
How many fragments?
Exactly as many as there would be **original human souls**. A finite number, according to Jewish mysticism, each one a spark from that first cosmic being. That fragmentation birthed all human conflict—social injustice, egoism, environmental ruin. Every system that pits person against person stems from that shattering. Because before that moment, **there was no "I"—only "we."**
And so, from that moment forward, the world became a place of repair—of *tikkun*. And the human mission became the regathering of those sparks.
Eve had a choice:
* Remain with Adam, the humble human.
* Or “upgrade"—mate with the Archangelic Serpent, a being of higher knowledge and power.
The snake's pitch? Divine rebellion.
He wanted to rule. To father a race of godlings. He tempted Eve with the very same vision offered later in Genesis 6, when celestial beings came down and took human women.
But the true penetration wasn’t sexual. It was spiritual. The bite was the seed. When she ate the fruit, she allowed the Satan’s consciousness into hers. That energy became Cain—jealous, violent, a reflection of his “spiritual father.”
That’s why Seth is the first offspring described as “in the image of Adam” (Gen. 5:3). This verse has puzzled many readers, and while the mainstream commentaries such as Rashi, Ramban, Sforno, and Ibn Ezra understand it simply—that Adam and Eve had separated for 130 years after the sin, and now returned to union to produce Seth—some midrashic and mystical traditions suggest more. According to Genesis Rabbah 24:2 and Pirkei De-Rabbi Eliezer 22, there is an idea that Seth was the first offspring to truly reflect Adam’s divine image and likeness.
This has led some thinkers to propose a more esoteric reading: that there may have been other offspring in between—beings who were biologically human but spiritually incomplete. Not fully in the image of Adam, not fully infused with divine consciousness. What I think of, poetically, as humanoid rather than human. Perhaps Neanderthal-like. And perhaps, though this is a dangerous idea, some of that distorted energy still lingers in the world. Some associate it with Amalek, the eternal spiritual enemy. This is not the standard view—but it’s a provocative thought. The in-between offspring were hybrids—caught between heaven and earth, soul and shadow. What I think of as humanoid, not fully human. Perhaps Neanderthal-like. It’s speculative, and not supported by most commentaries—but it lingers in certain corners of midrashic imagination.—caught between heaven and earth, soul and shadow. What I think of as humanoid, not fully human. I believe there still might be some of them around... I believe these are the people the Torah refers to as Amalek. Perhaps that is a dangerous thought.
---
## Whose Fault Was It?
Shockingly, the fault lies with Adam.
God had said: “Don’t eat from the Tree.”
Adam added: “Don’t even touch it.”
A noble intention—but a critical failure in transparency. When Eve told the snake they weren’t allowed to “touch” it, and that they might die—\*"lest we die"—\*the snake knew he had her. Doubt had entered. One taste. One lie. One failure in communication. That’s all it took.
---
## Eve’s Dialogue With the Snake (Midrash Expanded)
> “Come now, my dear,” said the snake, brushing back his celestial curls. “Try it. I did—and I’m fine. This is food of the *Elohim*. You won’t die. You’ll become like us—like me. You’ll know what the angels know. You’ll create. Destroy. Do what thou wilt.
> You don’t have to be a slave to God... you can be your own god, like me, and create a world of your own design. You will command—with deep knowing—the forces of good (creation) and evil (destruction).
> God only tells you not to eat it so He can control you.
> Eat the fruit... Free your mind.”
And with that, he convinced her.
And they did die that day. Their epidermis metamorphosed; their bodies, once translucent and eternal (*or* – light), became mortal flesh (*’or* – skin). The light within them—their near-angelic soul state—was lost.
They would now learn through suffering, not joy. They traded prophecy for pain, truth for cleverness, holy unity for ego.
But the curse can—and must—be reversed.
This is what *Tikkun Olam* really means. Social justice? Environmental activism? Conflict resolution? All noble. But none of it matters if our inner world remains twisted by the self-centered marinade of the Tree of Knowing Evil.
---
## Sarah and Hagar
Is it a coincidence that Sarah’s own *tikkun*—her spiritual repair—revolves around the one thing she cannot do? To bear a child—the ultimate expression of her union with Avraham. With all her greatness, all her spiritual power, with the Shekhinah above her tent, she is denied the power that even the simplest woman holds: the ability to carry and deliver a new human soul.
Why?
Rav Moshe Tzvi Weinberg points out a stunning nuance. When God changes Avram’s name to Avraham and Sarai’s to Sarah, He uses different grammar. Avraham is told: *"Your name shall no longer be Avram…"* in the future tense. But when referring to Sarai, the verse says: *"Ki Sarah shmah"*—"for Sarah is her name" (Genesis 17:15)—in the present, or even past-perfect, as though her transformation had already occurred.
Why? Because it wasn't two name changes. The same letter **hey** was added to both their names—but it was a **shared** letter. It was the **hey of binyan**—the power to build something new. To build the first Jewish child. The first soul of Am Yisrael.
So why then is she denied the very fruit of that union?
The answer begins to take shape when we recognize that her entire journey—including giving Hagar to Avraham, enduring humiliation, standing up to Yishmael, laughing when the angels say she will give birth—all of it is designed to break, refine, and elevate her. To build her vessel. To prepare her soul. Just like Hannah, whose rival Penina provoked her to tears so she would pray deeply enough to bring Shmuel into the world.
It is our **struggles** that shape us. Just as every caterpillar must strain to become a butterfly. Just as the **land of Israel** is only acquired through suffering, because that struggle builds spiritual muscle—urgency, innovation, rootedness, and faith.
So too Sarah. She is tested, stretched, humiliated, exalted. And in doing so, she becomes the archetype not just of Jewish motherhood, but of the **Shekhinah herself**.
---
## Sarah’s Tent: The First Dwelling for God
When the angels visit Avraham in *Parshat Vayera*, they ask, “Where is Sarah your wife?” He answers, “Behold, she is in the tent.” That was no small detail. That tent was filled with prophecy.
Rashi explains that a **cloud hovered over Sarah’s tent**—a cloud that represented the **Shekhinah**, the Divine Presence. This was no metaphor. It was a dwelling place for God on earth.
In Chassidut and throughout Torah thought, we’re taught that the purpose of creation is to make a *dirah b’tachtonim*—a dwelling for God in the lowest realms. The Mishkan, the Temple, the cloud over the Tabernacle—all of these were built to house God’s name in the world. *“L’shachayn sh’mo sham”*—"to cause His name to dwell there."
So who was the first human to accomplish this?
**Sarah.**
It wasn’t Avraham alone. We know this because when Sarah died, the Divine cloud vanished. It did not return until **Rivka** entered Sarah’s tent as Yitzchak’s wife. Then—and only then—did the Shekhinah return.
This isn’t to say men are incapable. But they are incomplete. As are women, when alone. It is the **union**—the male and female in harmony—that invites the Divine. Like the **two cherubim** atop the Holy Ark, male and female facing one another, creating the space where God's voice is heard.
And that sacred space—the cloud, the voice, the presence—is also what allows for the birth of new souls.
---
## Final Thought
The real sin of Eden wasn’t desire. It was the failure to speak clearly, to trust fully, and to love honestly.
Avraham and Sarah rebuilt what Adam and Eve had shattered.
And so can we—through holy relationships, courageous truth-telling, and the willingness to fight *for* each other, not *with* each other.
Even when we’re being doofuses.
*Parshat Lech Lecha*
While the Torah’s narrative often centers on Avraham and his ten trials, Sarah too faced enormous, soul-defining tests. In this week’s parsha, we find two of them:
1. She is taken by Pharaoh—against her will, to be a sex-slave in his harem.
2. She gives her maidservant Hagar to Avraham—opening the door to rivalry, disrespect, and emotional pain. This second trial is of her own making.
### Sarah and Pharaoh
What did Sarah want more than anything? A child. And yet, when Pharaoh—who might have fulfilled that desire—took her, she saw it as an abomination. She would not be touched by anyone but Avraham.
Why? Because the bond between them was not merely emotional or romantic—it was cosmic. The *Maharal* teaches that Avraham and Sarah, together, repaired the primordial rift between man and woman that began in Eden:
> "Your desire will be for your husband, yet he will rule over you."
> This curse—this sickness—twisted the natural equality between the sexes into a power imbalance that has caused untold suffering ever since. But Avraham and Sarah were different. They were equals. And sometimes, she was even the greater.
Next week, in *Parshat Vayera*, God Himself tells Avraham:
> “Whatever Sarah tells you—listen to her voice.”
> The Sages say this wasn’t just about one moment. Sarah surpassed him in prophecy, and at least with regards to the future of their family, God gave her authority. If it had not been for Sarah's unwavering adherence to discipline, as well as her "mother lion" instinct to protect her cub—in other words, had God not intervened and Avraham allowed Yishmael to remain as part of the eventual Jewish People—we would have been, spiritually, and thereby genetically and culturally, very different than we are today. Perhaps this is why, even into eternity, Sarah still has to keep an eye on Avraham. He is kind... very, very kind. But sometimes, too much kindness is a dangerous thing. Sometimes it leads the taker-types to break down the barrier between what is rightfully 'mine' and 'yours,' fostering a culture where, as it is said of Yishmael, 'his hand will be in everyone’s possessions...'
Rabbi Bena’a, in the Talmud (Bava Batra 58a), glimpsed this equality in the afterlife. When mapping burial caves, he found Avraham lying in the arms of Sarah, and she was inspecting his head—as though their love, their unity, and their intellectual partnership continued even beyond the grave. Heaven has no *yetzer hara*, after all.
We’ll explore that mystery more next week. But for now, we must look backward—into Eden.
---
## What Broke Adam and Eve?
Communication, or the lack of it.
They say the greatest cause of divorce is poor communication. And it’s true. A couple that can fight and still stay close—like *chavrusas*—is stronger than one that’s always polite but emotionally dead. That’s “good fighting.”
Sarah knew how to fight well. When her newborn Yitzchak was threatened by teenage Yishmael—who, according to the Midrash, tried to kill him—she stood her ground and demanded they be cast out. That kind of righteous fury saved her son’s life—and Israel’s future.
But now, let's return to Eve. The snake, clever and cunning, seduced her—not with touch, but with words. The *Nachash* is the archetype of the *yetzer hara*. He didn’t just tempt—he infiltrated.
---
## The Snake’s Real Seduction
Before we go deeper, we must remember that Adam and Eve didn’t begin as two separate individuals, but as a **unified soul**—what Kabbalah and Chassidut often call the *Primordial Adam*. This was not only a male-female soul but a collective consciousness, the spiritual root of all human souls to come. What Carl Jung might call the *collective unconscious*, the Torah calls *Adam Kadmon*—a cosmic being composed of all potential life.
The Ramban (Nachmanides) teaches that when God said, *“Let us make man,”* He was speaking with the **Earth itself**. *Adam* is from the *Adamah*—a being shaped from all aspects of creation: animal, mineral, plant, mountain, ocean. That’s why Adam could name the animals—he recognized them as **part of himself**. And that’s why standing by the sea, or atop a mountain, something in us stirs—because **we are made of that same Earth**, and it is made of us.
But when they ate from the Tree of Knowledge, that unified cosmic being shattered. Their bodies, once *or* (אור) — light — became *or* (עור) — skin. And their singular soul fragmented.
Not just into **man and woman**, with all the subsequent imbalance and struggle for equality—but into the **individual ego**. That I-ness, the self-awareness that separates us from one another, was born that day.
How many fragments?
Exactly as many as there would be **original human souls**. A finite number, according to Jewish mysticism, each one a spark from that first cosmic being. That fragmentation birthed all human conflict—social injustice, egoism, environmental ruin. Every system that pits person against person stems from that shattering. Because before that moment, **there was no "I"—only "we."**
And so, from that moment forward, the world became a place of repair—of *tikkun*. And the human mission became the regathering of those sparks.
Eve had a choice:
* Remain with Adam, the humble human.
* Or “upgrade"—mate with the Archangelic Serpent, a being of higher knowledge and power.
The snake's pitch? Divine rebellion.
He wanted to rule. To father a race of godlings. He tempted Eve with the very same vision offered later in Genesis 6, when celestial beings came down and took human women.
But the true penetration wasn’t sexual. It was spiritual. The bite was the seed. When she ate the fruit, she allowed the Satan’s consciousness into hers. That energy became Cain—jealous, violent, a reflection of his “spiritual father.”
That’s why Seth is the first offspring described as “in the image of Adam” (Gen. 5:3). This verse has puzzled many readers, and while the mainstream commentaries such as Rashi, Ramban, Sforno, and Ibn Ezra understand it simply—that Adam and Eve had separated for 130 years after the sin, and now returned to union to produce Seth—some midrashic and mystical traditions suggest more. According to Genesis Rabbah 24:2 and Pirkei De-Rabbi Eliezer 22, there is an idea that Seth was the first offspring to truly reflect Adam’s divine image and likeness.
This has led some thinkers to propose a more esoteric reading: that there may have been other offspring in between—beings who were biologically human but spiritually incomplete. Not fully in the image of Adam, not fully infused with divine consciousness. What I think of, poetically, as humanoid rather than human. Perhaps Neanderthal-like. And perhaps, though this is a dangerous idea, some of that distorted energy still lingers in the world. Some associate it with Amalek, the eternal spiritual enemy. This is not the standard view—but it’s a provocative thought. The in-between offspring were hybrids—caught between heaven and earth, soul and shadow. What I think of as humanoid, not fully human. Perhaps Neanderthal-like. It’s speculative, and not supported by most commentaries—but it lingers in certain corners of midrashic imagination.—caught between heaven and earth, soul and shadow. What I think of as humanoid, not fully human. I believe there still might be some of them around... I believe these are the people the Torah refers to as Amalek. Perhaps that is a dangerous thought.
---
## Whose Fault Was It?
Shockingly, the fault lies with Adam.
God had said: “Don’t eat from the Tree.”
Adam added: “Don’t even touch it.”
A noble intention—but a critical failure in transparency. When Eve told the snake they weren’t allowed to “touch” it, and that they might die—\*"lest we die"—\*the snake knew he had her. Doubt had entered. One taste. One lie. One failure in communication. That’s all it took.
---
## Eve’s Dialogue With the Snake (Midrash Expanded)
> “Come now, my dear,” said the snake, brushing back his celestial curls. “Try it. I did—and I’m fine. This is food of the *Elohim*. You won’t die. You’ll become like us—like me. You’ll know what the angels know. You’ll create. Destroy. Do what thou wilt.
> You don’t have to be a slave to God... you can be your own god, like me, and create a world of your own design. You will command—with deep knowing—the forces of good (creation) and evil (destruction).
> God only tells you not to eat it so He can control you.
> Eat the fruit... Free your mind.”
And with that, he convinced her.
And they did die that day. Their epidermis metamorphosed; their bodies, once translucent and eternal (*or* – light), became mortal flesh (*’or* – skin). The light within them—their near-angelic soul state—was lost.
They would now learn through suffering, not joy. They traded prophecy for pain, truth for cleverness, holy unity for ego.
But the curse can—and must—be reversed.
This is what *Tikkun Olam* really means. Social justice? Environmental activism? Conflict resolution? All noble. But none of it matters if our inner world remains twisted by the self-centered marinade of the Tree of Knowing Evil.
---
## Sarah and Hagar
Is it a coincidence that Sarah’s own *tikkun*—her spiritual repair—revolves around the one thing she cannot do? To bear a child—the ultimate expression of her union with Avraham. With all her greatness, all her spiritual power, with the Shekhinah above her tent, she is denied the power that even the simplest woman holds: the ability to carry and deliver a new human soul.
Why?
Rav Moshe Tzvi Weinberg points out a stunning nuance. When God changes Avram’s name to Avraham and Sarai’s to Sarah, He uses different grammar. Avraham is told: *"Your name shall no longer be Avram…"* in the future tense. But when referring to Sarai, the verse says: *"Ki Sarah shmah"*—"for Sarah is her name" (Genesis 17:15)—in the present, or even past-perfect, as though her transformation had already occurred.
Why? Because it wasn't two name changes. The same letter **hey** was added to both their names—but it was a **shared** letter. It was the **hey of binyan**—the power to build something new. To build the first Jewish child. The first soul of Am Yisrael.
So why then is she denied the very fruit of that union?
The answer begins to take shape when we recognize that her entire journey—including giving Hagar to Avraham, enduring humiliation, standing up to Yishmael, laughing when the angels say she will give birth—all of it is designed to break, refine, and elevate her. To build her vessel. To prepare her soul. Just like Hannah, whose rival Penina provoked her to tears so she would pray deeply enough to bring Shmuel into the world.
It is our **struggles** that shape us. Just as every caterpillar must strain to become a butterfly. Just as the **land of Israel** is only acquired through suffering, because that struggle builds spiritual muscle—urgency, innovation, rootedness, and faith.
So too Sarah. She is tested, stretched, humiliated, exalted. And in doing so, she becomes the archetype not just of Jewish motherhood, but of the **Shekhinah herself**.
---
## Sarah’s Tent: The First Dwelling for God
When the angels visit Avraham in *Parshat Vayera*, they ask, “Where is Sarah your wife?” He answers, “Behold, she is in the tent.” That was no small detail. That tent was filled with prophecy.
Rashi explains that a **cloud hovered over Sarah’s tent**—a cloud that represented the **Shekhinah**, the Divine Presence. This was no metaphor. It was a dwelling place for God on earth.
In Chassidut and throughout Torah thought, we’re taught that the purpose of creation is to make a *dirah b’tachtonim*—a dwelling for God in the lowest realms. The Mishkan, the Temple, the cloud over the Tabernacle—all of these were built to house God’s name in the world. *“L’shachayn sh’mo sham”*—"to cause His name to dwell there."
So who was the first human to accomplish this?
**Sarah.**
It wasn’t Avraham alone. We know this because when Sarah died, the Divine cloud vanished. It did not return until **Rivka** entered Sarah’s tent as Yitzchak’s wife. Then—and only then—did the Shekhinah return.
This isn’t to say men are incapable. But they are incomplete. As are women, when alone. It is the **union**—the male and female in harmony—that invites the Divine. Like the **two cherubim** atop the Holy Ark, male and female facing one another, creating the space where God's voice is heard.
And that sacred space—the cloud, the voice, the presence—is also what allows for the birth of new souls.
---
## Final Thought
The real sin of Eden wasn’t desire. It was the failure to speak clearly, to trust fully, and to love honestly.
Avraham and Sarah rebuilt what Adam and Eve had shattered.
And so can we—through holy relationships, courageous truth-telling, and the willingness to fight *for* each other, not *with* each other.
Even when we’re being doofuses.