The Tenth Sunday After Pentecost

This week’s Old Testament reading brings us to the second book of the Bible, the book of Exodus.  The first book, Genesis, left off when Joseph died.  Joseph (you may recall) was the last of the patriarchs who was sold into slavery by his brothers but then went on to become the manager of Pharaoh’s household and eventually brought his whole family from Canaan to Egypt where they could live a better life.  And the book of Exodus follows that family as they grow into a whole nation (the nation of Israel), become slaves of Egypt, and are eventually liberated by Moses.

Our passage for today takes place probably about four centuries after Joseph and his brothers died, and it begins with this wonderful line that should only ever be said in the King James version: “And Pharoah knew not Joseph.”  Meaning that this new Pharaoh had no loyalties to the descendents of Joseph, whom he now used as slaves.

You know, you could wring several sermons from that line alone: “And Pharaoh knew not Joseph.”  It reminds us how quickly fortunes can change, or how large-scale political decisions are often influenced by ordinary human relationships, with their loyalties, vendettas, loves, and so on.  These many years later, there was no Joseph to drink a glass of wine of an evening with Pharaoh, so Pharaoh ceased to care about Joseph’s people and made them his slaves.

But back to our story.  We learn in it that the Israelites are reproducing prodigiously, and Pharaoh wants to put a stop to this so they don’t get so powerful they can revolt.  So first, he summons the Israelites’ midwives, and tells them to kill all the sons that they help deliver (to which I want to say, whatever political advisor came up with that idea should have been fired!).  Of course, the midwives don’t do what Pharaoh asks, because – as they claim – the Israelite women are so hearty they give birth before the midwives can reach them.  Even as a kid I remember thinking this Pharaoh was pretty dumb for buying that line.

So then he concocts another plan: if the midwives won’t kill the Israelites’ infant sons, then he’ll give that job to his own people – again, probably not the smartest plan.  But this doesn’t seem to go anywhere, either.

Meanwhile, an Israelite woman gives birth to a son whom she manages to hide for three months. (Now, this to me is proof that the Egyptians couldn’t be trying too hard to follow Pharaoh’s orders to kill the Israelites’ infant sons, because I can tell you first hand that you CAN’T hide a newborn very easily.)  But, after three months of hiding him, his mother puts the baby in the Nile in a basket, and prays for the best.  

Soon, none other than Pharaoh’s own daughter finds the baby.  So she draws him out of the water (the name “Moses” means to “draw out” as the story tells us), finds a Hebrew midwife to finish nursing him, and then raises him as an Egyptian prince.

It’s such a horrific and wonderful story - both at the same time. On one level, you have this terrible, bloodthirsty leader trying to exterminate a people in the worst possible way, by killing their infant sons.   On another level, though, you have ordinary people who seem to be paying barely any attention to him.  Some of them just ignore him. Others, like his very own daughter, go further, actually rescuing and rearing the Israelites’ sons.

To me, this is a story about the goodness of ordinary people, even when their leaders have turned corrupt.  Our political leaders aren’t exactly Pharaohs, but sometimes today my faith in humanity comes from the fact that most of us tune them out a lot of the time.

Taking a few more liberties with the story, it could also be about how ordinary, face-to-face interactions can transcend the differences that might otherwise come between us, like ethnic, religious, or political differences.

A couple of weeks ago I was listening to an interview on the program “Speaking of Faith,” which was part of this “Civil Conversations Project” they’re doing.  Krista Tippet was interviewing the Ghanian-British-American philosopher Anthony Appiah, and a point he kept returning to is that huge ethnic or religious differences that divide us and fuel so much evil in the world look a whole lot different when we actually get to know the people who hold them.  One thing he said struck me:

“Sometimes [he said] people think that the only way to deal with these big differences between religions around moral questions is to kind of face up to the difference directly, but I think often sidling up to it is better.  And sidling up can be done by not facing Islam, but facing Layla, and Achmed and Mohammed, with whom you don’t talk about religion most of the time; you talk about soccer.  You talk about rock music.”

As I imagine it, by the time Pharaoh came along with his terrible plan, most of those Israelites and Egyptians had too much in common – soccer, music, or, in the case of Pharaoh's daughter, the common experience of mothering a beautiful baby – to take his orders seriously. 

I guess, to close, I come back to that line I like so much: “And Pharaoh knew not Joseph,” and am reminded that it’s about putting a face on the enemy.  And once we do that, suddenly they’re no longer an enemy, but a friend.   May God give us the strength to understand our enemies, and make them our friends.