Finding Peace: Sh'mot

Finding Peace

D’var Torah for Parashat Sh’mot, Exodus 1:1—6:1

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

It was Moses’s misfortune to not belong.

Born an Israelite, he was torn from his family and community.  Discovered floating by the banks of the Nile, he was adopted and raised as an Egyptian by Pharaoh’s daughter.  Undoubtedly, growing up he was steeped in Egyptian culture.  Yet, he was also nursed (and presumably, culturally nurtured as well) by his biological mother, too.  The lullabies she sang and the bedtime stories she told him probably were filled with rich allusions to his ancient heritage.  He learned to hide this tradition behind Egyptian cloaks and ways.  But deep inside him, a spark was lit, one that refused to be extinguished.

Deeply conflicted, one day Moses gave in to his frustration when he saw an Egyptian taskmaster cruelly beating a Hebrew slave.  In anger, he slew the Egyptian.

Yet, the next day, when he realized that there were Hebrew witnesses to his act, he fled to the desert.  What was he afraid of?  Was it of Pharaoh’s retribution?  But Moses was a prince and could easily have gotten away with as little as a gentle reprimand. Was it his conscience that was troubling him?  If so, then why did he not come clean?  Why did he flee instead of turning himself in?  Did he not realize that by running away he actually sealed his own fate?  What was he running from?

Perhaps he was afraid of being “outed” by his own people, the Hebrews he both loathed and loved, afraid of being forced to choose sides and make decisions he was not prepared for.

A fugitive in the Sinai Wilderness, near a water well, Moses rescues a group of damsels in distress, and immediately is offered the hand of one of them as a wife.  He accepts and almost overnight assumes yet another identity, that of son-in-law of the high priest of Midian!  Dressed in Midianite garb, his skin darkened by exposure to the sun and wind, who could possibly recognize him here?  After all, he was deep in the desert, far from the scene of conflict, far from the cries of the afflicted slaves and the merry, insolent laughter of their oppressors.  It was the perfect disguise, the perfect hiding place.  Schooled in assimilation, Moses could easily blend in here and disappear forever.

Only his soul knew no peace.

Tending to his father-in-law’s herd of sheep, Moses would wander far into the desert, trying either to escape or to understand the fire that was in his soul, the turmoil that was so upsetting to his idyllic existence.  Tirelessly he explored the barren mountains, peering into dark crevices, climbing to the edge of the precipice before carefully retracing his steps back to the night encampment for yet another restless night of convoluted dreams.

At times he would give voice to his anguish, but all he would hear in return was an echo carried by the wind.

Until that one day that he heard a voice he had never heard before.

The sun plays tricks on you in the Sinai Mountains.  Its light turns from gold at sunrise to a blinding white glare at midday.  Towards evening, the red glow makes it seem as though the mountain itself were on fire.  But what Moses saw that day was totally different.  It was a scruffy bush from whose branches intense, bright light emanated. Moses recognized it as the mirror for his own soul and the fiery torment it was going through.

The Torah says that it was at that moment that God chose to speak to Moses.  Not for following the stray lamb—as an early Rabbinic midrash sweetly relates—but because Moses had turned aside to see this great vision. 

Sometimes, in our search for meaning, we lose our path.  We get distracted, as I often do when I go to the store and realize I left the shopping list at home.   So much to look at!  So many products and varieties, so many temptations to try!  I often have to call Sally and ask her to read me the list just so I can get the few items I came for in the first place!

Was the bush always there, tantalizingly close yet hidden from sight because of all the distractions of life?  Was Moses looking in all the wrong places, or was he simply not ready to see it until that moment?

It was now, and only now, when Moses turned from his usual path and looked beyond himself and his own conflicted heart, that he could perceive the miracle.  He was finally ready to hear and accept responsibility. 

Well—almost ready.

Moses still fought, still argued, whined, complained.  “Why me?” he cries out.

What Moses began to comprehend was that he never really had much of a choice.  It was this truth that he was running from.  It was this truth that he came to discover when he turned aside to gaze at the marvel of the burning bush, when he obeyed a call only he could hear, a voice so small that it could only be heard in the stillness of his own heart.  At that moment he attached himself to the eternal truth that would never take “no” for an answer.  He knew what he would have to do, and though he fought, he also knew it was a losing fight.  God could be very persuasive.

Having accepted his historic mission, Moses returns to Egypt—to the place he once called home but never would again.  He rejoins his real family, the people who had made his mission possible and the tradition that made his role inevitable.  At least for a while he would “belong” to them.  But the truth is that people like Moses belong to no time and no one in particular.  They are ageless, eternal, at home wherever they are welcomed.

Understanding this, at least for now, Moses was at peace with himself.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman