Judaism, Christianity, and Islam are commonly perceived as systems of divine law imposed by God the Father, with men as the mediators of that authority. We picture patriarchs leading households, issuing commands, and binding entire clans and nations to covenants.
Yet when we read closely, the stories themselves tell a more ironic tale. Beneath the surface, it is women who steer the drama, securing power through rivalry, shame, and their control of fertility. Let us begin with the story of Abraham himself.
The Nomad and His Princess
Abraham, the great patriarch from whom Jews, Christians, and Muslims are all said to descend, was not always Abraham. His name was originally Abram, meaning “exalted father.” A grand title for a man with no children: only a wife, Sarai, whose name rather embarrassingly means “my princess.”
Abram and Sarai lived as nomads, wealthy in cattle and silver but lacking the one thing that mattered most in their world: children. It is perhaps no wonder that an “exalted father” and his “princess” had trouble conceiving. Yet what stands out most is their hubris. By the time the story unfolds, they were already far beyond childbearing years — the text makes them nearly a hundred years old, old enough to be great-grandparents.
Out of desperation, Sarai offered Abram her Egyptian servant, Hagar, as a surrogate. Abram, of course, agreed, and Hagar bore Ishmael, his first son. However, the moment Hagar conceived, she looked down on Sarai, and Sarai burned with humiliation and jealousy. Abram, curiously passive, distanced himself, leaving the conflict to his women: “Your maid is in your hand; do with her as it pleases you.” (Genesis 16:6)
Here we already glimpse the pattern: the patriarch is less a master of events than their pawn. The women — mistress and servant, mother and rival — drive the conflict.
The Covenant of Blood
It is then that a third figure enters decisively. Sometimes he is called El Shaddai, sometimes YHWH, sometimes simply “the LORD.” The naming is unstable, shifting like a mask. And “Lord” is not only God’s title but Abraham’s too — the word used in those days for a husband. The overlap blurs the line between husband, father, and deity, as though the mask concealed an unknown lover who ensures Sarah’s fertility where Abraham could not.
At this point this unnameable figure renames Abram as Abraham, meaning “Father of Many Nations,” and Sarai as Sarah, “Princess” in her own right. The promise is grand: Sarah herself will bear a son. And this covenant is sealed in blood through circumcision.
But why circumcision? If the covenant marks Abraham as nothing less than the Father of Nations, why is the sign cut into the very organ of generation? I think the meaning is clear. Circumcision declares: this organ belongs to Sarah. By bearing Isaac, she proves that Abraham’s potency counts only through her, and the cut inscribes that truth onto his body. Where she was once his little princess, Abraham has become her little prince. No rival — not Hagar, not any other woman — can claim his penis. His fatherhood is hers to authorise, sealed under the implicit threat of castration — and of punishment by a superior Father.
The Last Laugh
When God announces that Sarah will bear a child in her old age, both Abraham and Sarah laugh, but their laughter carries opposite meanings.
Abraham laughs first, and openly: “Shall a child be born to a man who is a hundred years old? Shall Sarah, who is ninety years old, bear a child?” By this point he already has Ishmael through Hagar, so he must know he can father children. His laugh is aimed less at himself than at Sarah. Is God mocking him by raising the possibility that his wife — long infertile, long associated with failure — will suddenly conceive?
Sarah’s laughter is more revealing. She laughs privately, behind the curtain of the tent, and when confronted, denies it. The text almost shields her, as though her sly, ironic laughter had to be hidden from Abraham to protect his pride. Indeed, she laughs because the promise implies not only that she will bear a son, but that she will once again have pleasure (Genesis 18:12: “After I am waxed old shall I have pleasure, my lord being old also?”). This mockery cuts at Abraham’s dignity: if she has not conceived all these years, perhaps it is he, not she, who is inadequate. And if she is to conceive now, it will be because her other Lord has “visited” her: “… and the Lord did unto Sarah as he had spoken.” (Genesis 21:1)
The child is named Isaac, which means “he laughs.” But whose laughter does the name carry? Abraham’s incredulous laugh? Or Sarah’s hidden, mocking laugh — the laugh of regained pleasure, of triumph over her rival, and of the final twist: that God, not Abraham, is her true Lord? Every time Abraham calls his son’s name, he repeats the doubt of his own fatherhood. Every time Sarah hears it, she hears her vindication — and her pleasure.
The Binding of Isaac
The story reaches its most disturbing point when God commands Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. On the surface, this is the ultimate test of obedience. Yet there is another irony: Abraham shows little emotion. When Ishmael was to be cast out, he was distressed. When Isaac is to be killed, he rises early and goes. Why? Perhaps because Ishmael was the son he knew was his, while Isaac — born after Sarah’s long barrenness, amidst divine promises and royal intrigues — was always less certain.
At the last moment, Isaac is spared, replaced by a ram. God has tested Abraham, but Sarah has the last laugh. Isaac lives, not because Abraham resists, but because the story ensures that her son cannot be erased.
If we look at these stories through the usual lens, we see a patriarch and a God-Father ruling over all. But shift the frame, and another picture appears. Sarah secures her power not merely by regaining fertility, but by enslaving Abraham’s to her own. He wavers, obeys, and is marked — castrated so that his fatherhood will never again belong solely to him. And God, far from being a neutral figure, acts as Sarah’s accomplice, stripping the title of lord from the husband and reserving it for Himself.
We see this more clearly in the religious development we call Christianity: the supposed patriarchal religion encodes a matriarchal logic. Women’s power over fertility is what drives the story. Men cut themselves, obey commands, and sacrifice sons, while women laugh.
