“Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.”
God does not tell Abram where he is going, which may be one of the most honest things the Bible says about faith.
Abram is given a command, but not a map. A promise, but not an itinerary. He is asked to leave what he knows and begin moving toward something he cannot yet see. And he goes.
I have been thinking about Abram since last week because of someone I have encountered during my radiation treatments for cancer. Her name is Sarai. Something about that name has stayed with me.
In Genesis, Sarai is the woman who sets out with Abram. She is already on the journey before her name is changed to Sarah. Her story reminds me that sometimes we encounter people not at the end of their story, but in the middle of their becoming.
That seems especially significant to me during my cancer treatment. Radiation has a peculiar way of making life feel measured. One treatment. Then another. Then another. Each day becomes a small movement toward something that cannot yet be seen. There is a schedule, but there is also uncertainty. There is treatment, but there is no immediate visible proof of what the treatment is accomplishing.
You simply keep going. One day. One appointment. One step. One more morning. And perhaps that is part of what Abram teaches us. We don't have to know exactly where the journey will end to take the next faithful step.
Sarai's name has come to represent something to me: transformation that is still unfolding. Becoming. Not arriving. Not having everything resolved.
Becoming. There is tremendous hope in that word. We sometimes imagine hope as certainty about the future: I know everything will turn out exactly as I want. But biblical hope can be something quieter. Hope can mean: I don't know what comes next, but I will take the next step. Or I cannot see the destination, but I will keep walking.
Or I cannot control the outcome, but I can remain open to what is becoming. That is Abram's faith. He goes. And when he arrives at Shechem, God says, “To your offspring I will give this land.” Abram responds by building an altar.
I love that image. He has barely begun the journey, and already he stops to acknowledge God's presence. Perhaps we need those altars along our own journeys. Not necessarily monuments of stone. Sometimes an altar is a person whose name we remember.
A conversation that unexpectedly gives us courage. A hand held at the right moment. A card tucked away and reread. A friend who calls. A nurse or receptionist who speaks kindly. A stranger encountered in a treatment center whose name suddenly becomes meaningful. These moments tell us that even when we are traveling through uncertainty, we are not traveling through it alone.
And then Abram moves again, which is important. He does not build the altar and stay there forever. He worships and then he goes. The invitation of Genesis 12 for us may be: notice the holy moments, receive the promise, and keep moving.
I don't know what Sarai's journey looks like beyond the moments in which our paths have crossed each morning. But her name has given me a way of thinking about my own. I am still becoming. We all are.
The diagnosis does not get to be the final word about who we are or the uncertainty. Neither does what we can no longer do in exactly the way we once did it. There is still a road. There are still people to meet, conversations to have, and things to notice. There is still beauty to encounter and still love to give and receive.
There is still becoming. And so perhaps the question God asks is not, “Do you know where this is going? Perhaps the question is simpler: “Will you go?” Will you take the next step while remaining open? Will you look for the places where grace appears unexpectedly? Will you recognize that even in a season of treatment, waiting, limitation, and change, you are still being formed?
Sarai. A name that makes me think of becoming. A person encountered on a road I never expected to travel. A reminder that none of us knows the whole story while we are living it.
Abram goes because God calls. Sarai goes with him. And somewhere along the way, a promise begins to take shape. A covenant. Is that is what hope really is? Not knowing exactly what we are becoming, but trusting that becoming is still possible.
So I keep walking. And building little altars of gratitude along the way. While I cannot see very far ahead, I remember Abram and Sarai, who have the simple courage of taking the next step.
"Go" God says. Not because the road is certain, but because I am with you on the road. For today, that is enough. Perhaps it is more than enough.
Perhaps it is hope to hold onto.
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