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God promises Abraham a son through Sarah—and Abraham laughs. He falls on his face and laughs. “Shall a child be born to a man who is a hundred years old? Shall Sarah, who is ninety years old, bear a child?” This isn’t the laughter of joy. It’s the laughter of impossibility. Abraham’s faith is real, but so is his humanity. And God doesn’t rebuke the laughter. He names the impossibility: “You shall call his name Isaac”—Yitzhak, “he laughs.” The child’s very name will be a reminder that what God promised seemed laughable. Every time they call his name, they’ll remember: God has the last laugh.
By Michael WhitworthGod promises Abraham a son through Sarah—and Abraham laughs. He falls on his face and laughs. “Shall a child be born to a man who is a hundred years old? Shall Sarah, who is ninety years old, bear a child?” This isn’t the laughter of joy. It’s the laughter of impossibility. Abraham’s faith is real, but so is his humanity. And God doesn’t rebuke the laughter. He names the impossibility: “You shall call his name Isaac”—Yitzhak, “he laughs.” The child’s very name will be a reminder that what God promised seemed laughable. Every time they call his name, they’ll remember: God has the last laugh.