The murder in Egypt is as if it were not. It is done with, no word of consequence. The Egyptian was no brother, he was an enemy, an oppressor of the helpless. Good riddance!
¶
The god descends in a fiery epiphany. Moses must put aside his sandals. Unshod, he is cleansed in the flame, a new being.
On reflection, the sequence marks an extraordinary reversal; the logical ordering of crucial matters is reversed.
The first matter at hand is the task, the vocation. Then the self-revelation, the self-naming of the God. A voice, as yet unidentified, speaks. We have read of it before, recounted in the third person, that “hearing” from above (Exod 2:24–25).
The passage trails off, incomplete:
He
heard
their groaning
and was mindful
of his covenant
with Abraham,
Isaac
and Jacob.
He saw
the Israelites
and
knew . . .
Knew what? What the god knew, one concludes, the author in all probability knew. And like the god, preferred to keep the secret.
Now, direct, piercing, the voice is heard; authoritative, loud and clear;
I
have heard
the plaints
of my people . . .
It is
you
who
are appointed
to
lead
them
forth. (Exod 3:7, 10)
The charge is onerous, overwhelming. And for the first time, the ineffable “I” announces an identity.
Who might this “I” be? By what authority is Moses “sent”? Various traditions coalesce here, we are told. (One almost thought; various special interests collide!)
¶
The pivot of what follows is a question; who speaks for the deity, who names the unnamable? Shall it be the priests? (We recall that the father-in-law Jethro is a priest, a nice detail dropped gently in the text.)
According to the priests, Abram was favored with knowledge of the Name, “El-Shaddai, God the Almighty.” But the Yahwists hold fast to another name, hearkening back to a time before the deluge; simply, “the Lord” (Gen 4:26).
And now (to the Elohists and their witness Moses), in the unconsumed flame yet another name is spoken—“Yahweh.” And an unimpeachable credential is adduced:
. . . the God
of Abraham,
of Isaac
and Jacob . . .
This
is the Name
I shall bear
forever,
in which
all
generations
shall
name
Me. (Exod 3:15)
¶
Access and distance both, the mystery. And controversy unending. Is the god here naming the god, is the god refusing to name the god?
A circle opens, a circle closes. Consent, one thinks, and refusal. In Exodus we undergo the first of a multitude of shocking surprises, issuing from the great Surpriser, the primal Shocker. This—you shall know Me, and in effect you shall know nothing of Me.
¶
Those who claim a definitive naming here, a scene of close access (verging on control?)—let them beware. If they think to hold in possession the “medicine” of the god, to bend this one to their will, presumption will lead to great suffering. This God is no idol to be turned and turned about, disempowered, in service of custom or self-interest.
And likewise, let those beware who claim a refusal to name. They too will pay, in ignorance and confusion of mind. The evidence is plain, and hardly in their favor; the midrash, the underscored import of the Name, as though signed, sealed and delivered into the keeping of Moses—these stand against them:
This
is the Name
I
will
bear
forever. (Exod 3:15)
¶
One matter stands beyond doubt—Moses is entrusted with a message, and a mandate as well. Will he also bear new news, an ineffable Name? The uncertainty will hoist generations on a petard; a dilemma, an “either-or,” a “yes” and a “no.”
We are to keep pronouncing, invoking the Name—and we know so little of the One who bears the Name. The God is in the world, and apart from the world. The God dwells in the fiery bush—and the God is neither fire nor bush. The Name rests on the tongue of Moses—and the One so named seals the mouth of the one who would speak it—reduces him to a stammer, a groan, tears.
¶
It is all here in embryo—choice and consequence. And the timing is everything. Long after the revelation, the story is set down; the vast panorama of grandeur and shame and risk, the exodus, the story of the powerless who arise, arise—first like a spasm of Samson in chains, then in a mighty convergence of power assumed. Yes, we go from here!
It is written down centuries later, the luster and fame. Inevitably the tale has been colored, altered, tinged and tendentious with ideology. The memory is owned, the story told, by the rulers of imperial Jerusalem.
¶
Shibboleths prevail. One after another, the awful kings of the chosen tribe mount the throne, seize on the God for their own, lay claim to an improbable ancestry of valor and virtue in Saul and David and Solomon.
Then the prophets appear and speak. Shakers of thrones, doubters, naysayers, they lay a corrective hand on the scroll. But for them, it would have only this to record; the exodus as seen centuries later by the kings of Judah and Jerusalem.
Which is to say, the era of beginnings is set down in an era of pretension, economic enslavement, war—of social, economic, yes religious systems, akin to those of imperial Egypt or Babylon.
¶
Of crucial note, this—the author of Genesis and Exodus wrote toward the last years of Solomon, whose reign ended around 922 CE. And one wonders—does our literary genius stand in a kind of shamed collusion with the assimilationists, the kings of Israel?
After the aborted revolution of the Maccabees, three generations of clan wars achieved only this—creation of an apish imperium.
After that debacle, our text takes its final form.
¶
If that were all, why open the scroll? Or why indeed compose it?
One ventures—by way of warning and sane prospect, both. In hope of other, better things to come. Other, far different consequences. Almost one thinks, a different species of humans walking our tormented world. The great prophets.
Who will salvage—something.