By Rabbi Hazzan Gabrielle Pescador
Each Rosh Hashanah, we chant the story of Sarah and Hagar.
Two matriarchs of the Abrahamic lines—Israelite and Yishmaelite. At odds. Wounding one another.
Last year, I leaned hard on Sarah—on her harsh treatment of Hagar, her overreaction to Ishmael’s behavior. I painted her as jealous, reactive, cruel. And although that interpretation is legitimate, it is just a fragment – only part of a larger story.
We are living in a time when people are focusing on fragments, polarized fragments, partial truths, and it is not getting us anywhere. We are living in a time that demands broadening our perspective. We are living in a time of over-reactivity – and we all know that over-reactivity rarely comes from nowhere.
Heaven knows I have overreacted in my own life. To criticism. To insult. To being dismissed. To the ache of feeling unseen.
And I know I’m not alone.
Add “power to the mix”—add differentials of power to that mix—and the impact – the pain deepens.
Those of us who value democracy, fairness, justice—we’re sensitive to power imbalances. Such imbalances stir deep responses within us, and I daresay that over-reactivity is one of them.
Sarah was not without power – she had the power of position—she was wife number one. Hagar also had power—she carried what Sarah wanted most: a son. Hagar also had the power of voice, and she used that power to taunt Sarah, to make her feel small, less than. Sarah used her power of privilege to influence Abraham to banish Hagar – she used her power to punish, to be vindicative. Both women wielded what they had. And it wasn’t pretty.
And yet, despite their reactivity, despite their cruelty toward one another – neither was abandoned by God. Sarah was graced with a child. And Hagar—exiled, desperate—was met by God – whom she named El Ro’i: The God Who Sees Me. She did not name God as All-Knowing or All-Powerful—but as The God Who Sees. The One who promises that even in exile, even in despair, our stories continue.
That name, El Ro’i, has stayed with me. Because being seen—and truly seeing—are two of the more sacred powers we have.
The Midrash tells us that Sarah felt diminished when Hagar conceived – Sarah felt unseen. Hagar also felt unseen when she fled. It took exile, pain, surrender before either woman could feel God’s gaze. Both women—flawed, reactive, human—were still beloved. Still seen by God. Still worthy of blessing. Still worthy of love. Still worthy of redemption.
And this story is not just about biblical matriarchs. The pain of being unseen, of feeling overshadowed and dismissed is ubiquitous. Overreaction to that pain is everywhere—in our families, our communities, our country. In Israel, in Gaza. Across the world. In our own hearts.
Deep pain triggers harsh responses. It drives oversimplification, dehumanization of “the other.”
Hurt people hurt people. Hurt communities hurt communities. Hurt nations hurt nations
When hurt people, communities and nations—fail to SEE the pain that drives their behavior, reconciliation becomes impossible.
So, on Rosh Hashanah, we begin here (hand on heart). With teshuvah. With the power of seeing, inwardly and outwardly. That is the power of El Ro’i. The God who sees us.
This year, I ask myself—and I invite you to ask yourselves with me:
- Who have we mis-seen?
- Who have we dismissed because we only knew part of their story?
- What within ourselves have we turned away from or diminished?
- And what do we learn from seeing – How does our ability to see, understand and recognize transform us?
If I make may speak personally – I’d like to share a story about one of my family matriarchs. Because let’s face it – if we don’t get real, if we don’t get personal about this stuff, it becomes too abstract, and it’s harder to learn the lessons that we need to learn.
My Bubbe Sarah—my father’s mother—was sharp-tongued and very quick to overreact. She was also capable of deep love. She adored my father and my uncle. I also felt loved by my Bubbe—she taught me how to pray, she made clothes for my dolls, she played with me, and let me play with her hair and experiment with crazy hair styles, which didn’t seem to faze her. And she loved my interest in Judaism. She would affectionately call me the Rebbetzin—the rabbi’s wife – I wonder what she’d think of me now.
Even though my Bubbe Sarah and I got along well, I recognized the pain that her sharp tongue caused others. And as I got older, I grew less tolerant of it and even began to keep an emotional distance from her.
As the years have passed, I have gained some perspective and realized that my Bubbe Sarah lived a very hard life: she was the eldest of eight children, an immigrant, widowed young, poor, with the burden of raising two sons on her own. Two sons who became doctors. She was SO proud of that, she was SO proud of them.
My bubbe Sarah was tough, intelligent, quick-witted and devout. And she ached to be seen—for her sacrifices, for her mind, for her experience— for her beauty that faded with age. And when she felt the pain of being dismissed or unseen, she lashed out. And I found that lashing out deeply unpleasant and even embarrassing.
So as a young person, I knew I didn’t want to be like her. I wanted to be gentler, more accommodating, more diplomatic, more of a peacemaker. And I overdid it, I overcompensated. You could say that I over-reacted. When I felt threatened or hurt, I did not lash out, but instead, I bit my tongue and made nice. It took many years of life experience and self-examination to realize that biting my tongue and making nice – as a reflex reaction – was causing harm to myself.
I realized that like my Bubbe Sarah, I also needed to be seen and be heard just as much as I need to see and hear others. In seeing my Bubbe Sarah more fully over the years, in seeing my over-reactions to her over-reactions, I see myself differently today.
I see more possible ways of responding and I have stepped into some of them – I have experimented. You could say that I forgive her – but that’s not really accurate – I see her and how she affected me – and as a result, I have opened to new ways, to hopefully healthier ways of relating. I see her in me, not brushing against me. She was a mixed bag just like I am a mixed bag, trying to do the best I can. So maybe I forgive her for lashing out or forgive myself for not speaking up or maybe forgiveness isn’t even the point. Maybe what matters is recognizing that I have space to move, to grow because I can SEE now.
I wish my Bubbe Sarah could have had the chance to see. Who knows, maybe she does now, on the other side, as an incarnate soul. I love to imagine that possibility.
This intergenerational lesson of seeing can ripple outwards. It is my hope that when we witness people speaking or acting in ways that don’t land well –individuals, communities, or even nations—let’s open our eyes wider.
I really believe that widening our perspective helps – it does not erase wrong-doing – but it does help us to understand the reasons behind it – and helps us learn how to meet the other with more awareness, more compassion – because on some level, we get it. If we allow ourselves to see, we’ll get it.
Over-reactivity doesn’t come from nowhere.
Seeing and being seen – softens tension, softens pain. It eases the way for transformation, for healing and repair. And that begins here [touch the heart] – with rippling effects moving inward and outward.
That is how I imagine El Ro’i saw Hagar. And how the messengers of God saw Sarah—not finished, not discarded, but still vital to the story, still unfolding, learning, growing, blooming.
We all deserve a second look—with eyes more compassionate, more curious. This year let’s commit to seeing ourselves and one another more fully.
May we see.
May we be seen.
May we believe that repair is possible—
even in the mess and the ugliness.
Shanah tovah.
