Laughter at the Tent Door: Genesis 18:1-15

The LORD appeared to Abraham near the great trees of Mamre while he was sitting at the entrance to his tent in the heat of the day.

Midday in the desert. The sun hammered down. No one traveled at this hour. Abraham sat in the shade of his tent flap, drowsy perhaps, waiting out the worst of the heat.

Abraham looked up and saw three men standing nearby.

Three men. Appearing suddenly, as if they had materialized from the shimmering air. How long had they been standing there?

When he saw them, he hurried from the entrance of his tent to meet them and bowed low to the ground.

Ninety-nine years old, and he hurried. The hospitality of the ancient Near East demanded it—strangers in the desert must be fed and sheltered. Abraham did not yet know who these visitors were.

"If I have found favor in your eyes, my lord, do not pass your servant by. Let a little water be brought, and then you may all wash your feet and rest under this tree. Let me get you something to eat, so you can be refreshed and then go on your way—now that you have come to your servant."

"Very well," they answered, "do as you say."

So Abraham hurried into the tent to Sarah. "Quick," he said, "get three seahs of the finest flour and knead it and bake some bread."

Then he ran to the herd and selected a choice, tender calf and gave it to a servant, who hurried to prepare it.

Hurried. Ran. Quick. The pace was frantic—a three-course meal being prepared for unexpected guests. Twenty quarts of flour for bread. A calf slaughtered and roasted. Curds and milk to drink. This was not a little snack but a feast.

He then brought some curds and milk and the calf that had been prepared, and set these before them. While they ate, he stood near them under a tree.

Abraham served while they ate. The host standing, the guests reclining, food that must have taken hours to prepare consumed in the shade of terebinth trees.

"Where is your wife Sarah?" they asked him.

They knew her name. Visitors who should have been strangers knew the name of his wife.

"There, in the tent," he said.

Then one of them said, "I will surely return to you about this time next year, and Sarah your wife will have a son."

Now Sarah was listening at the entrance to the tent, which was behind him.

Listening. Eavesdropping on men's conversation, her ear pressed to the tent fabric, catching every word.

Abraham and Sarah were already very old, and Sarah was past the age of childbearing. So Sarah laughed to herself as she thought, "After I am worn out and my lord is old, will I now have this pleasure?"

Laughter. Not joy but disbelief. Bitter, silent, private laughter. Her body had failed decades ago. She was ninety years old, dried up, worn out. The promise was absurd.

Then the LORD said to Abraham, "Why did Sarah laugh and say, 'Will I really have a child, now that I am old?' Is anything too hard for the LORD? I will return to you at the appointed time next year, and Sarah will have a son."

The LORD. The text reveals what Abraham may now have realized—these were not ordinary visitors. The one speaking was God himself.

Sarah was afraid, so she lied and said, "I did not laugh."

But he said, "Yes, you did laugh."

No escape. No hiding. The laugh that had been private was heard. The doubt that had been silent was exposed.

Is anything too hard for the LORD?

The question hung in the air, under the trees, in the heat of the day. A ninety-year-old woman had laughed at the impossible. Within a year, she would name her son "Laughter"—but it would be a different kind of laugh.

Nothing is too hard for the LORD.