God, The Great "Sadistic" Storyteller

(Or, how our lives are much like Sarah's)

It dawned on me that God is a great storyteller. By that, I mean, he certainly has the ability to spare us all the setbacks and suspense we normally experience as humans. He could just hand out to us whatever he has in mind in a blink of the eye. Didn’t he once simply utter: “Let there be…” and lo, there they were, the heaven and the earth and all that is in between. 

So, any delay in the deliverance of his promise is obviously not a matter of competency. Could it be one of discretion then? Perhaps he could have refrained from stirring our heart with a vision or dream from him just before its immediate fulfillment, in case the Enemy who is diligently “patrolling the earth” would surely try to undermine the little faith we humans do have.

No sacrilege is attempted but as my walk with God prolongs, I couldn’t help noticing and being alarmed that he seems to "sadistically" enjoy the emotional havoc that the waiting process wreaks in the fickle human heart...and body, too. Or, to say the very least, he's perhaps, well, just stoically indifferent to our suffering.

What's his purpose in behaving this way? If he cares anything about his own reputation or record as an “almighty and merciful” God, probably he should have opted a more efficient manner of co-working with humans, that is, if he had an engineer's mindset.

But alas, unfortunately in our way of thinking, God is by no means an engineer seeking efficiency.

Instead, he has a story teller's mind set, to whom the process is just as relevant and significant as the end. And, maybe, an engineer is not that different. After all, the end product contains the whole process and is a statement of the art of manufacturing or construction—which usually takes a while and can appear confusing if not chaotic before it is done.

Just as a story in which nothing bad happens to the hero would not only be unreal but also uninteresting, God has not chosen for us a life in which nothing happens but the good. Instead what is promised is that he would bring everything together to make it for the good for those who love him. As a great story teller, God routinely incorporates the Enemy's sabotage and the corporal faults of humans in the plots to achieve his divine purpose. For instance, why did God allow an evil character like Haman to rise so high up in the court of Ahasuerus and to have come within a hair’s breadth to wiping the Jewish people out? I would say it served two purposes. One, it further proves his elect's faultlessness in such situations beyond any reasonable doubt; and two, it exposes the foolishness and wickedness of those with evil intent beyond any excuse. I have to say, as much as I am relieved by the first purpose, I do enjoy the second a lot more! And maybe God does too.

 In engineering, any delays, roundabouts, or setbacks in the manufacturing or construction process are to be avoided and eliminated as much as is humanly possible. But in the manuscript of any great story, delays, roundabouts, and setbacks are necessary and, in their conquest, the real meaning of the story is revealed. I have to confess that as a writer, I love layering in the struggles of my characters because of the depth of meaning those elements give to the story.

I always said, in the ultimate story we call history, God is a trinity of Writer-Producer-Director (and Editor). I'm beginning to see this character of God at a higher resolution. No wonder the Bible is full of stories and parables.

In China, as a young college student and seeker of the Truth, I felt inferior when told by both my teacher and classmates that loving fictional stories was a sign of intellectual underdevelopment, compared to reading non-fiction. I was also told that the Bible with all the stories about localized and finite individuals is a lesser source of enlightenment compared with Buddhist literatures that are only concerned with abstract knowledge and universal rules.

Now, as a Christian, I am vindicated—I see that my natural passion for stories and susceptibility to emotional contagion is actually divinely programmed.

The other day, listening to Jordan Peterson's Bible lecture on The Call to Abraham (for I-don't-know-how-many-times), I was struck by the psychological struggle Sarah might have gone through. I wrote the following in my prayer diary—essentially, it's a dialogue with God and myself.

Yes, Father, even Abraham and Sarah, had to wait for nearly a century, going through misunderstandings, mistakes and misfortunes, before they finally received what you had specifically promised and planned for them.

I wonder, in the process, what Sarah had to learn and actually learned.

First of all, it was not explicit that she was part of the plan. After all, it was Abram alone that you talked to. When you promised Abram, it was not clear that your plan covered Sarai. Naturally, the couple must have assumed that when you told Abram, the husband, that he was going to have a son, it meant that you were going to open the womb of his then wife.

But, as time went by, Sarai, if she was anything like me, with little faith and way too much rationalizing, quickly pinpointed the root of the problem – she was unable to have a child and it was God who had prevented her from having children. Shame, disillusion, despair and now and then bitterness towards you.

What is the hope of a woman with God’s face turned from her? How could she not have questioned your love for her?

Once that very foundation of a person’s being is open to question, a whole hell opens up.

For example, when her otherwise perfectly valiant and selfless husband, offered her up to the Pharaoh in Egypt, what was she supposed to make of it? Had he stopped loving her altogether and even might want to be rid of her? After all, since she was proven to be “fruitless” and useless to carry on the blood line, who cared about her honor and even more disgustingly, who would know if she had been contaminated? Perhaps her husband was counting on her cooperative silence of the episode. Perhaps she didn’t deserve him after all? Could it be God’s will for her to be passed on another man, a pagan King, in exchange for the chosen man’s safety and success? If she was not instrumental in the continuation of the linage as a mother, she could at least be used to protect the future father of all nations? Maybe that was her purpose in the great story? After all, in the absence of children it was easier to tell others that you were only a sister not the wife.

Why hadn’t her husband said anything so far? Was it just out of pity for his wife and also half-sister or fear of his God, or simply dullness of mind that her husband didn’t come up with an active solution? How could she blame him? He had been kind and generous and even gentle with her, so far.

Was that disappointment of her she detected in the secret and suppressed sighs of her husband? In his embrace was it more pity or love for her that she felt? And didn’t his eyes stay a little longer on Hagar the other day when she gave the Egyptian maid some of her old clothes? That girl had indeed grown into such a fine-looking young woman, very healthy and strong at that.

If God had promised her husband a son, then a son he would have. Maybe her husband as well as God was waiting for her to take action.

Sarai rose to the situation. She wouldn’t stand in the way of God or be the cause of her husband’s regret. She removed herself from her husband’s side. Perhaps the greatest virtue of a woman is to know when and where she is not needed anymore.

 It must have been out of deep sorrow and utter despair along with fierce self-sacrifice and resolution that Sarai had conceived the strategy—telling her husband: “Go and sleep with my servant.” Immediately, however, she must have regretted enormously her decision for she couldn’t help noticing that the husband didn’t object. And then, much to her dismay God seemed supportive, for soon the servant gave birth to a boy. Now there could be no doubt that she, the mistress, was indeed the cause of the barrenness in the household and not her husband.

And then, as if things weren't confusing enough Hagar, who was once Sarai's maid and Sarai's gift to her husband, tried to usurp Sarai's position as the mistress of the household. But then a surprise—Abraham proved his loyalty by letting Sarai get rid of her rival. But then the plot thickens—and God again acts in an ambiguous way—returning Hagar and reinstating her in the household. Didn’t that seem to be an indisputable sign from the Lord that the biological mother of the then only son of her husband has an irreplaceable standing and even perhaps superior one than Sarai's?

Then came the change of life. It ceased to be with her after the manner of women. Technically she was not a woman any more. There was no need of trying or point of waiting. It was a relief to stop the tenuous hoping and dreaming and lamenting.

Life was tolerable after all. She could raise the son her husband had with another woman and pretended that she was content and her prayer had been answered and her heart’s desire fulfilled.

Until one day, three strangers passed by their tent.

It was a hot summer day. There was something unusual about the three. No, not their great appetite; that was common among travelers. They seemed to have come from nowhere and although total strangers, there was an unusual ease and comfort with which they enjoyed the meals, and her husband waited on them as if it was his great honor.

Indeed, even in her there was a strangeness. When she stirred up to prepare for the bread at the hottest time of the day, there was such a lightness in her 90-year-old limbs that she was positively surprised. It had been a long time since she was asked to prepare a feast. There had not been much to celebrate. There was the annual birthday for her husband’s son of course, but on that day, she was always acutely aware that she had never felt the pain and joy of giving birth to a baby.

But now the presence of the three men brought such life to the entire household. Her husband was running around like a young man and even the servants were eager to be given some errands to do. She had almost forgotten how fine and soft the white flour felt. The dough moved obediently through her fingers. And the smell of the freshly baked bread reminded her of her younger and happier days. After having done her duty, she retired to her corner in the tent, dosing off.

Suddenly, she woke up. Did she hear her name mentioned? The strange men were asking her husband about her.

How did they learn her name, that is, her new name, Sarah, which was given to her by God through her husband, as always. Sometimes she wondered how God, her maker, would deign to address her directly; would it be Sarai or Sarah?

What was that? Did she hear right? Yes, they called her by her new name, but that was not what caught her by surprise. They're delusional, she thought. The sun has gotten to them. Or perhaps the wine. They promised to her husband that she, his wife, Sarah, would have a son!

Obviously, they also knew she had not been a mother in her life. They must have learned this about her from the gossiping locals. Why didn’t they leave her alone? Hadn’t she done what was in her power to furnish her husband with a son already? Ishmael was his name. Did they feel indebted after the feast that they wanted to offer something in return, like a compliment or some comfort? But did the locals forget to mention how old she already was? Did the strangers know also that her husband, even older than she was, had stopped coming to her during the night? Sarai or Sarah, she was the same old barren wife.

Was this a joke, at the cost of a poor woman?

At that moment, a voice asked her husband why his wife laughed!

She gasped and her hands turned cold in the heat of the hot summer afternoon.

Oh, Sarah, why did you laugh? Until now she had difficulty associating herself with this new name. Was it Sarah or Sarai who laughed? Was it really laughter? If indeed she laughed, she was laughing at no one else but herself. All those years Sarai had learned that laughter is better medicine to treat heartaches than tears. If they heard her silent laugh, did they also see her unshed tears for the children she never gave birth to?

Don’t. Don’t try to fool a woman who had had it all, whose womb and heart had long been shut.

No, she didn’t laugh. She protested trembling.

“Yes, you did.”

That was the first and final word to her, Sarah, directly from the Lord.

Exactly a year later, Sarah gives birth to Isaac.

On that day Sarah laughed. Now she got it all. She remembered how God delivered her twice from the shame of sexual slavery. Her own husband didn't value her chastity, not as much as he valued his own skin. But God. God did. He came through for her each time she was at the brink of forever being lost and excluded from the promise.

Now it was made explicit that the promise made to Abram not only covered her, it hinged on her, to some extent. Any other women could have given her husband children and some did. But the promised one was meant to come through her, Sarah. The miracle really is about Sarah. Abraham didn’t need God’s special grace to be a father. She needed it to be a mother. If she had been a regular fertile woman, the power of God’s promise wouldn’t have been so magnified. In my weakness, your strength is perfected. “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.”

So, what is the Great Storyteller trying to tell us after all? When you find yourself in the delays, roundabouts, and setbacks of life (James call them trials and tribulations), perhaps we should remember that from God's perspective, they are probably all necessary. For we are the protagonist, the main character, the hero of our own story, which God is telling. And it is through the telling, with all its plot twists, that we learn and grow and become more like our Lord. Maybe he is indeed an engineer but his end product is a living being that must learn to endure immortality and to the greatest extent possible, know and resemble Him, the Creator.