Original Meaning
THE DESPAIR AND apparent hopelessness of chapter 1 are “interrupted” by the report that a child is born to a Levite household. Just what relevance this child’s birth has to the oppression of his countrymen is not indicated at this point. All we are told is that he is born, hidden, abandoned, found by Pharaoh’s daughter, and adopted, as it were, as her own son. This Levite has become an Egyptian; for what purpose remains to be seen.
These ten verses must be seen against the backdrop of chapter 1. The menace and vile poison of Pharaoh’s attempt at genocide yields to the story of the birth of an innocent child. This story is also the story of one more frustration of Pharaoh’s plan. His previous two attempts have been neutralized. The readers are now poised to see how—or perhaps if—this last plan is to be thwarted; and it is. One child, one very special child, is spared.
As we have already glimpsed in chapter 1, the author is not concerned to provide many of the details one might expect. Although the names of this child’s parents are mentioned in 6:20 (Amram and Jochebed), in 2:1 it seems sufficient simply to tell us of their lineage: They are of the “house of Levi.”1 Specifying the child’s tribal lineage, which appears of greater importance than giving other details, such as his parents’ names, likely indicates the author’s concern to promote the child’s priestly pedigree, the importance of which will be seen later in the book as well as the rest of the Pentateuch. Suffice it to say now that Moses will later play the ultimate priestly role by being the one through whom God’s law is given to the people. Further genealogical ambiguities involve the child’s older sister, who simply appears on the scene suddenly (v. 4), as does Aaron later (4:14). Their stories are ancillary to that of the child who proves so central to the unfolding story. Our attention is driven to the birth of this child.2
The manner in which the writer of Exodus presents Moses’ birth has often been compared to the ubiquitous “child exposure” motif in ancient Near Eastern literature. Anyone familiar with Old Testament scholarship knows only too well how the discoveries of ancient Near Eastern texts over the past hundred years have presented challenges to one’s understanding of the uniqueness and historicity of certain biblical narratives. Well known, perhaps, are the Babylonian version of creation and the ubiquity of flood stories found throughout the world.3 The presence of these extrabiblical parallels have led to a virtual scholarly consensus that the ancient Near Eastern texts and their biblical counterparts are on the same plane, so to speak; they are “stories,” which imply to these scholars the questionable historical value not only of the ancient Near Eastern material but the Bible as well.
No one can doubt that Moses’ birth bears similarities to other stories of the ancient Near East. Scholars have thus argued that Exodus 2:1–10 represents a legendary pattern, a motif, of an “exposed infant.” Even a glance at the Sargon legend lends support to this conclusion.4 Donald Redford has provided an exhaustive treatment of the topic, finding no less than thirty-two examples of this motif throughout ancient Near Eastern literature.5 It would seem a tour de force to attempt to understand the historicity of Moses’ birth (and by implication the historicity of Moses himself) in isolation from what on the surface appears to be clear: The story of Moses’ birth participates in some way in this popular motif.
Yet it would be impulsive to conclude that Moses’ birth is entirely, or even essentially, legendary simply because it is presented in such a manner that has so many literary parallels. Although we cannot settle the complex issue of the relationship between “history” and “literature” here in the space of several sentences, a comment or two is in order. For one thing, we should keep in mind what is often forgotten when the discussion turns to the question of historicity for any Old Testament narrative: All biblical narrative has a story-like quality.6
Making this observation is not to say that the Old Testament is without basis in history. This is decidedly not the case.7 What we do have is a presentation of history that is firmly at home in the literary conventions of the ancient world. We must take great care not to allow our modern conventions of what constitutes “history” or “story” to color our understanding of biblical texts. It is not just with these obvious examples (creation, Flood, Moses’ birth) that we see biblical writers following literary conventions of their day; the Old Testament as a whole is a literary production of the ancient world. The story of the birth of Moses is not unique in the ancient Near Eastern world. Rather, it is stories such as this that bring us face-to-face with what is in fact characteristic of the Old Testament as a whole.
To put the matter in a more positive way, would it not be too much to expect a biblical narrative to take on a literary quality that is unique to its historical setting? In fact, if I may touch on the subject here, one might argue that it is the very nature of a revealed, inspired text that it takes on the feel of its historical circumstances. God does not merely speak—he speaks to someone, somewhere, at sometime. In the Old Testament, he is speaking (originally) to ancient Israelites. And when God speaks to someone, he speaks their language. When stated this way, the presence of an ancient Near Eastern literary motif that parallels 2:1–10 should not be seen as a threat to a high view of Scripture. One might even state that it is the very nature of what we mean by “inspiration” that the divine word takes on a human form.
This in no way diminishes the truth of the Word. Rather, the eternal Word becomes “incarnate”; it enters into the very lives of God’s people. Christ himself is the Word of God incarnate (John 1:1–14). In becoming a human being—in identifying with us, in becoming like us—Christ is no less the Creator and Ruler over all (Col. 1:15–20). Let me suggest here that not only Moses’ birth narrative, but much of the Old Testament ought to be understood in terms of this same “incarnational analogy.”8 This approach has the advantage of neither explaining away nor ignoring what seems clearly to be the case here, that Exodus 2:1–10 has many close affinities with the popular ancient Near Eastern motif of the exposed child.9
When Moses’ mother looked at the child after his birth, she saw that he was “fine” or “good” (ṭob, 2:2). Just what is meant by this comment is hardly clear and has exercised commentators since before the time of Christ. The LXX uses asteios (handsome) for the Hebrew ṭob, a Greek word also found in Acts 7:20 and Hebrews 11:23, influenced no doubt by the LXX. This does not solve the problem, however, of what the comment means. Why did the writer feel it necessary to include such an apparently incidental comment in this otherwise terse narrative? Are we really to conclude that Moses’ mother simply saw how good-looking he was? It was, after all, that observation that influenced her to hide the child. Are we to presume that the child’s mother would not have hid him had he been ugly? What mother would not think her newborn son to be handsome?10 Also, why would physical beauty warrant his salvation rather than some other trait? Early rabbis thought, for example, that toḅ indicated that Moses was circumcised at birth. Hence, he was truly special, and this was a justifiable motive for his mother’s actions.11
A more fruitful line of inquiry is to understand ṭob in terms of creation language, something we have already seen in chapter 1. Sarna, for example, argues that the phrase ki ṭop (NIV: “that he was a fine child”) in 2:2 is an echo of the refrain in Genesis 1, where God pronounces “good” what he has created.12 The birth of Moses, in keeping with the re-creation theme in chapter 1, is not merely about the birth of one man, but represents the birth of a people. The savior of God’s people is born, and through him they will receive a new beginning. Their slavery will end and their savior will bring them safely into their rest, the Promised Land.13
The boy is set in an “ark” (tebah) and set afloat on the Nile (v. 3). Like ki ṭob, tebah provides a clear connection to Genesis. In all of the Old Testament, this Hebrew word is found only here and in the Flood story (Gen. 6:14–9:18). The theological connection between these two events is self-evident.14 (1) Both Noah and Moses are specifically selected to forego a tragic, watery fate; (2) both are placed on an “ark” treated with bitumen and are carried to safety on the very body of water that brings destruction to others; and (3) both are the vehicles through whom God “creates” a new people for his own purposes. Furthermore, Moses’ safe passage through the waters of the Nile not only looks backward to the Flood story, but forward to the passage through the sea in Exodus 14 for all of God’s people.
Ironically, this child, once doomed to death by Pharaoh’s decree, will become the very instrument of Pharaoh’s destruction and the means through which all Israel escapes not merely Pharaoh’s decree, but Egypt itself. The child once abandoned in the reeds (suph) along the shore of the Nile (v. 3) will later lead his people in triumph through the Reed Sea (yam suph, cf. 13:18). Moses’ redemption as an infant will be replayed later with respect to Israel at the very infancy of her existence as a nation. We see, then, already in the first two chapters of Exodus, an interweaving of creation and redemption themes that extend from Genesis through Exodus.
Big sister (presumably Miriam, not mentioned by name until 15:20) watches her little brother float along and sees the vessel retrieved by the handmaidens of Pharaoh’s daughter, who, like her father (1:8), is left anonymous (2:4–5). To what was certainly Moses’ sister’s relief, Pharaoh’s daughter has pity on the child rather than helping her father carry out his plan. The sister seizes the moment and offers, somewhat matter-of-factly, that it might be of benefit to all concerned if the child were nursed—at least for the time being—by someone else, say, a Hebrew woman she just happens to know (vv. 7–8). Pharaoh’s daughter agrees to this arrangement and even pays the nurse for her efforts (v. 9).
After an unspecified length of time,15 the boy is returned to Pharaoh’s daughter, whom she then claims as her own and names Mošeh, Moses (v. 10). Some have remarked that the manner in which Moses came to be a son of Pharaoh’s daughter “is almost the identical pattern found in a series of bilingual Sumerian-Akkadian legal texts known as ana ittišu.”16 To what extent this pattern is reproduced in 2:1–10 is a matter of debate.17 What is clear in any case is that Moses did become her son.18
What has received considerably more scholarly attention is the etymology of Moses’ name. We should first observe that it is Pharaoh’s daughter who gives the boy his name. Not only does she name him, but she also offers the rationale for the name itself: “I drew him out of the water” (v. 10). The verb “to draw” is the Hebrew mašah, and from one of its forms we get the name Moses.19 On the surface, this seems to settle the matter of the origin of Moses’ name, yet one ought not overlook the fact that such an etymology would require a daughter of an Egyptian pharaoh to speak Hebrew. Even allowing for this (unlikely) possibility,20 one would have to wonder why she would give this child, the object of her father’s wrath, a Hebrew name that would likely reveal his true identity.
Most scholars are quick to point out that the name Moses is ultimately of Egyptian derivation, not Hebrew. The name is based on the Egyptian verb ms(w), meaning “to bear, give birth to.” “Moses,” then, is probably a shortened form of an originally longer name—something analogous, for example, to the famous Egyptian name “Thutmose,” meaning either “Thoth [a god] is born” or “Born of the god Thoth.”21
What, then, is to be made of the Hebrew etymology in 2:10? Likely this is either an etymology worked out by the biblical writer himself or a traditional, popular etymology that the people held to, which the writer simply records here.22 Some scholars add that the biblical writer could not have known Egyptian, for if he had, he certainly would have supplied the “proper” genealogy.23 Such a view, however, goes beyond the evidence. It is not stretching the point to suggest that the writer could have known Egyptian and still recorded the popular etymology. Whether his readers would have shared that knowledge of Egyptian, however, is another matter. In this respect, the popular etymology serves the writer’s purposes better. We see something similar in how Paul cites the Old Testament. Rather than cite the Hebrew, he uses the LXX for his Greek-speaking audience even though he is an educated Jew, well versed in Hebrew, and there are at times significant textual differences between the Hebrew and Greek texts.
We may take a moment here to draw some implications from the etymology of Moses’ name. First, although there seems to be some tension between the Hebrew etymology in 2:10 and the ultimate Egyptian derivation of the name, at the very least the Egyptian derivation lends strong support to the historicity of Moses. The name “Moses” would have been firmly at home in ancient Egypt.24 Moreover, the popular etymology has decided theological significance. Not only has the boy been “drawn out” of the water, but it is under his leadership (God’s role, of course, notwithstanding!) that all Israel will later be brought through the water of the sea.
It is missing the theological point to ask simply whether the Hebrew or Egyptian etymology is “true,” as if a choice must be made between them. The nature of biblical narrative shows us time and time again that there is a truth that transcends simple issues of historicity. The Hebrew etymology is most definitely true. Moses’ name meant for the Israelites (and therefore for God, whose Spirit inspired the writers) that he was drawn out of water and would draw them out of water. Such an etymology was more “true” and spoke more clearly and pointedly to the ancient Israelites than a distant, isolated appeal to a piece of Egyptian linguistic trivia.
Bridging Contexts
A CHILD IS BORN. We have seen how Moses’ birth continues the creation theme of Exodus 1. The boy is ṭob, and he is set on an “ark” so that he might be delivered from a watery death. This represents not simply the birth and deliverance of one man, but is symbolic of the birth and deliverance of an entire nation. Israel as a nation is “born,” so to speak, at the Exodus. A mass of upstart slaves crosses the sea and emerges as a nation. This theme of deliverance as a new beginning, a new creation, will be seen again in subsequent chapters.
Moses’ birth story is just one example of a common Old Testament theme. At various crucial junctures the birth of a child is instrumental to God’s plan of delivering his people from some dire situation. This theme typically entails a miraculous birth—or at least, as in the case of Moses, a birth that is “against the odds” (think of Pharaoh’s decree). This theme culminates many centuries later in a manger in Bethlehem.
One such example is the birth of Isaac. God promised Abraham25 that he would become a “great nation” (Gen. 12:2) and that his descendants would multiply greatly and receive God’s “reward,” which was the Promised Land (e.g., 15:5, 7). But Abraham and Sarah do not seem able to have children. How, then, will there be any descendants to live in this new land? Perhaps out of frustration or impatience (see 15:1–3), Sarah insists that Abraham sleep with her maidservant, Hagar (16:1–3). Since Hagar is Sarah’s property, all Hagar’s offspring are legally Sarah’s offspring, and hence the promise may be realized through Hagar.26 In this way, God’s promise to Abraham in 15:4, that he will have a son “from your own body,” would be fulfilled.
But Sarah’s plan apparently does not work out. She herself attempts to thwart the plan when she becomes jealous of Hagar and drives her and her newborn son, Ishmael, into the desert (Gen. 16:4–6). Now all seems lost—until God appears to Abraham (ch. 17). In his time, when other efforts have failed, God announces that he will establish his covenant with Abraham, which will result in many descendants (v. 2). First in order are name changes, from Abram to Abraham and from Sarai to Sarah—a new beginning of sorts for the couple God has chosen to bear his covenant promise. God promises Abraham offspring and land and stipulates that he and all his male descendants (including any slave or foreigner in their midst) are to be circumcised as a sign of this covenant; otherwise, they are to be “cut off” from God’s people (vv. 9–14).
The main obstacle to all this is that both Abraham and Sarah are past the age when bearing children usually occurs; he is ninety-nine (or one hundred; cf. vv. 1 and 17) and she is ninety (v. 17). Abraham’s reaction is understandable: He laughs (v. 17). God responds that by this time next year Sarah will give birth to a son and his name will be “Isaac,” which in Hebrew means “he laughs,” perhaps a constant reminder of the miracle, the “against all odds” nature, of the boy’s birth. Isaac is the physical evidence of God’s faithfulness to Abraham. It is through this son that God’s far-reaching covenant with Abraham’s descendants will be realized: “I will establish my covenant with him [Isaac] as an everlasting covenant for his descendants after him” (v. 19). Isaac is God’s unexpected surprise, the one through whom redemption will come for God’s people. When such a thing seems beyond any reasonable expectation, Sarah conceives, but only by God’s direct intervention.
Another example of this theme is the birth of Samson (Judg. 13). Manoah’s wife is sterile and childless, yet God intends to give them a son (vv. 2–3). As with other birth stories, the importance of this event lies beyond the obvious joy experienced by the parents. The child born to them is no ordinary child, but a mighty deliverer, who, although far from an exemplary moral model (e.g., his desire for a foreign wife in ch. 14 and his weakness for Delilah in ch. 16), becomes Israel’s leader to oppose the Philistines. His twenty-year reign (15:20; 16:31) is hardly a standard for others to emulate, but his famous death deals a crippling blow to Israel’s enemies.
The book of Ruth as a whole is concerned with the tragedy of one woman’s childlessness and her subsequent, unexpected deliverance from that state. Ruth, her sister-in-law (Orpah), and her mother-in-law (Naomi) all lose their husbands (Ruth 1:3–5). The great tragedy in this is that Naomi, an Israelite woman, is now both childless and without the means of bearing other children. All she has left is two daughters-in-law, and foreigners at that (from Moab!).27 All is not lost, however. Naomi has a relative in Bethlehem named Boaz. Ruth goes to work in his fields in the hopes of providing food for herself and her aging mother-in-law. Boaz is taken by Ruth’s faithfulness and commitment to Naomi and pronounces a blessing on her (2:11–12).
Naomi, in a manner of speaking, plays the matchmaker.28 She has Ruth dress up and go to Boaz at night to impress on him his obligation as a near relative to marry Ruth (ch. 3).29 They do eventually marry and have a son, Obed (4:13–17). Deliverance through this child is on two levels. (1) This male heir remedies not only Ruth’s childlessness but Naomi’s as well (see esp. 4:14). (2) This child becomes the grandfather of David, the king of Israel (4:17). In other words, once again this birth is the means by which God has chosen to bring deliverance to his people and ensure his presence with them.
A fourth example of this theme is the story of Hannah and the birth of Samuel (1 Sam. 1:1–2:11). Hannah too is childless and suffers much indignation at the hands of her husband’s other wife, Peninnah (1:4–6). The heartbroken woman goes to Shiloh to fast, weep, and above all pray. God hears her prayers and announces through Eli, the priest at Shiloh, that she will be granted her request. She conceives and bears a son whom she calls Samuel, meaning “heard of God” (1:17–20). Hannah gives her son back to the Lord to serve as priest at Shiloh. The significance of Samuel lies in his transitionary role as both the last of the judges of Israel, who were leaders of God’s people before the inauguration of the monarchy, and the first prophet to anoint a king and to chasten Israel’s kings under God’s direction.
Samuel’s birth is not just an isolated, shortsighted response to one woman’s desire to have children. God’s purpose is more far-reaching. Samuel is to be the priest-leader through whom the Lord will bring about the kingdom of Israel, which although ruled by human kings is ultimately God’s kingdom, a lesson the Israelites learn only too late.30
Each of these birth stories has its own distinctive flavor and purpose, with its own particular literary and historical context. Nevertheless, one should not overemphasize the distinctive features at the expense of those elements that serve to bring these stories together under a general theological theme. In seeing how the parts of Scripture work together we begin to discern biblical “patterns of behavior,” which lead us to recognize better the God with whom Scripture as a whole is ultimately concerned.
For Christians, this Old Testament pattern of birth and deliverance comes to its fullest and most moving theological expression in the birth of Christ. There are a number of parallels, both in individual details and theological themes, between the story of Christ’s birth and the Old Testament stories. As with the birth of Samuel, the child is given a special name, in this case by an angel. Mary is to name the boy Jesus (Luke 1:31; cf. Matt. 1:21), a name that is itself the bearer of a theological message.31 Isaac, Samson, and Samuel were all born to mothers who, if things had been left to the normal course of physical events, would have remained childless. So too with Jesus, we have a mother who is a virgin (Matt. 1:23; Luke 1:34–35). In all these cases it takes God’s direct intervention to work contrary to normal childbearing procedure.32
Several important theological themes serve not only to draw a parallel between Jesus and the Old Testament stories but also to highlight the distinctiveness of Christ’s coming. (1) Both Moses and Jesus undergo periods of humiliation followed by exaltation. Moses was born in humble surroundings, abandoned in a basket, and placed on the Nile. Although he came to live in Pharaoh’s house, his temporary rise to power and prestige comes to an abrupt end when he flees Pharaoh’s wrath (Ex. 2:15).
Later, however, his true exaltation, his exaltation in God’s eyes, begins. Yahweh meets him on Mount Horeb, at which time he receives a commission to lead the Israelites out of Egypt. In time, he not only brings God’s people through the sea, but receives the Torah on that very same mountain (chs. 19–24). He receives instructions to build the tabernacle with all its ceremonial furnishings and trappings (chs. 25–40). It is Moses alone who is permitted to see God’s glory (33:12–23) and who brings the Israelites safely through a forty-year desert march to the borders of the Promised Land, though because of one tragic error is himself not permitted to enter (Num. 20:1–13). Finally, he alone of all of the Old Testament saints is worthy of this posthumous description (Deut. 34:10–12):
Since then, no prophet has risen in Israel like Moses, whom the LORD knew face to face, who did all those miraculous signs and wonders the LORD sent him to do in Egypt—to Pharaoh and to all his officials and to his whole land. For no one has ever shown the mighty power or performed the awesome deeds that Moses did in the sight of all Israel.
Jesus, too, suffers humiliation, but on a far grander scale and on different levels. Although God himself, he “made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness” (Phil. 2:7). He not only subjects himself to the humiliation of the limitations of our flesh, but he is born in the most humble of circumstances. Rather than the comfort and privacy of even a simple room, Mary has to settle for a stable and the company of beasts. Jesus lives among his people, yet is not accorded the respect and reverence due him: “He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him” (John 1:11). In time he enters into conflicts with those who oppose him, particularly teachers of Scripture, who, denying the very Christ of Scripture, have him who is free from all sin and wrongdoing condemned to a sickening and humiliating death.
But this humiliation is only temporary. He rises from the grave, having defeated the power of death, the greatest enemy, and ascends on high to sit at the right hand of the Father. Jesus is the church’s Moses (cf. Heb. 3:1–6). His triumphant exaltation leads his people not from Pharaoh’s slavery to a new land, but from the slavery of sin and death to “a better country—a heavenly one” (Heb. 11:16). Christ has risen from the dead, and so his people rise with him to the newness of the Christian life, where their sin is behind them and glory before them (Rom. 6:4).
(2) Like Isaac, Jesus’ birth represents the vehicle through which God fulfills his covenant promises to his people. Their births are not isolated miracles but have a larger purpose; they are primarily for the benefit of others. Isaac was born so that God could establish an “everlasting covenant” with his people (Gen. 17:19). He in time fathered Jacob, whose twelve sons and their offspring became the nation of Israel, the countless numbers God had promised to Abraham in Genesis 15:1–6. Christ’s birth signified the beginning of the “new covenant,” which did not replace the old as much as extend its scope to include not merely national Israelites, but those who are spiritual children of Abraham (Luke 3:8; John 8:31–47).
(3) Moreover, like Obed, Christ’s birth has redemptive significance. Obed’s birth brings deliverance for a barren Naomi and ensures that she will not die childless. The point, of course, is not simply that Naomi can have a child through Ruth, but that the line of her husband, Elimelech, can be perpetuated. In this sense, Obed’s act of redemption has both immediate and distant significance. In a similar vein, Jesus’ birth ensures a continual (eternal) line of spiritual heirs.33
(4) A final theological theme links with how Christ’s earthly and heavenly ministry is described as that of priest (Heb. 8–10). Samuel was dedicated to the service of God at Shiloh and grew to fulfill that task. Jesus’ death on the cross is truly the ultimate priestly sacrifice. As the author of Hebrews tells us, he now has a permanent priesthood, by which “he is able to save completely those who come to God through him, because he always lives to intercede for them” (7:24–25).
We could explore other themes, and those themes that have been mentioned could be peeled further back to reveal many layers of meaning. But it suffices here to say that the birth of Christ is one that signals the fulfillment of many of God’s promises in the Old Testament: “For no matter how many promises God has made, they are ‘Yes’ in Christ. And so through him the ‘Amen’” (2 Cor. 1:20). Birth and deliverance form a common Old Testament theme, and each instance has its own particular flavor and significance. In Christ these many strands are brought together, for in Christ the Father’s plan of deliverance sees its fullest expression.
Unexpected help. Another theme in Exodus 2:1–10 is the surprising and unexpected nature that God’s deliverance sometimes takes. This is in part related to the theme of God’s absence mentioned in connection with Exodus 1: God may seem to be distant from his people, but all along he is working behind the scenes to bring about an unexpected climax. This theme also overlaps with the birth of Moses and others of the Lord’s deliverers in the Old Testament. Their births are either miraculous or against the odds, and therefore “unexpected.”
Since there is some overlap between this theme and the others discussed above, I will not belabor the point here. But one element that works itself out in 2:1–10 needs comment. We should not lose sight of the fact that it is Pharaoh’s decree to kill the firstborn male infants that drove Moses’ parents to take their chances by placing the infant in a basket and setting him afloat on a river. The thought of employing such a strategy on a three-month-old is enough to numb any parent. How ironic that the very plan to rescue the infant from Pharaoh’s decree, to take him as far from Pharaoh’s influence as possible, actually results in his being raised in Pharaoh’s house.
To put it another way, Pharaoh first brings death, then life to Moses. As we see often in Scripture, the Lord shows his strength by meeting his people precisely in the depths of their despair and working those very circumstances for ultimate good. Pharaoh wishes to counter God’s plan by casting infants into the Nile. God saves Moses by casting him onto the Nile and bringing him to Pharaoh’s front door. Truly the power of God is at work in this boy’s life.
The story of Joseph readily comes to mind as another illustration of this point. By his brothers’ treachery he becomes a slave in Egypt to Potiphar, the captain of Pharaoh’s guard (Gen. 37:36). While a slave, he has his famous encounter with Potiphar’s wife (ch. 39). He is falsely accused and lands promptly in jail. The slave has sunk lower; he is now a prisoner. But “the LORD was with him” (Gen. 39:21), and eventually Joseph finds himself with the prestigious position of interpreting Pharaoh’s dreams. The climax of the story is not so much the bettering of Joseph’s condition but that of his entire family. Egypt meant death for Joseph—he could just as well have simply rotted in jail. It also meant death for his father, Jacob, who mourned for his lost son (37:34–35).
But as it turns out, Joseph’s stay in Egypt becomes the very vehicle through which God provides for his people. Joseph’s brothers come down to find food during the famine. What they get is more than simply food; they receive a whole new beginning, for not only does their stay in Egypt provide for them as a family, Egypt is also the bitter cup that Israel has to drink before God makes her a nation in her own right. For both Joseph and the Israelites centuries later, Egypt first poses both a threat to their existence but later turns out to be the means by which God showers blessings on his people.
In this respect, Moses’ infancy, his “death and rebirth” on the Nile, is itself a microcosm of the people’s plight as a whole. As their leader, he experiences what the Israelites will experience later on. This identification of Moses’ and the people’s plight is similar to how Paul describes the effects of Christ’s death and resurrection. By virtue of Christ’s work, the church has been united to him (Rom. 6:5; Phil. 2:1). One way this union works itself out is in the believer’s journey from death to life, from being an enemy of God to being reconciled to him by the blood of Christ. Becoming a Christian means in a real (but imperfect) sense going through what Christ went through. In Romans 6:1–6, Paul teaches us that being a Christian means dying and being raised from the dead. Note verse 4:
We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life.
Paul is not simply speaking here of future realities but of the present experience of those who are in Christ. Being a Christian means experiencing now in a proleptic but real way the resurrection from the dead. Since we have been raised from the dead, Paul can also add that God has “seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus” (Eph. 2:6; cf. Col. 3:1). Not only this, but we are co-heirs with Christ (Rom. 8:17), to whom God has given all power and authority.
We see, then, that it is precisely in Christ’s death that he brings life to his people. As with Joseph and Moses, the Father turns the tables on his enemies. Death itself has been defeated, and out of death comes life, not only for Christ but for all those who believe: “And having disarmed the powers and authorities, he made a public spectacle of them, triumphing over them by the cross” (Col. 2:15).
Contemporary Significance
“IN ALL THINGS God works for . . . good” (Rom. 8:28). Anyone who has been a Christian for more than five minutes knows full well that being a Christian does not in any way guarantee immunity from daily trials and challenges that beset the rest of humanity. The mark of a Christian life is not in what happens to us. I know too many people, both those inside God’s kingdom and those standing outside the gates, who think that being a Christian means that bad things won’t happen to you. In fact, I remember once in high school sharing the gospel with a friend who said, “I can’t become a Christian. Do you expect me to believe that God is going to keep me from getting cancer?” Such an expectation is a standard that not only the New Testament saints, but Christ himself could not emulate.
Being a Christian does not mean that everyday circumstances that affect us all are somehow suspended by the Lord. Our focus in living the Christian life is not on the outside pressing in but on the inner strength of those who have been called by God to participate in his kingdom and how that inner strength determines how a person perceives one’s circumstances.
We should be reminded here of Romans 8:28: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” Paul does not say that nothing bad will happen to Christians. Rather, he writes that whatever does happen will somehow, eventually, work out for good. This may call for temporary suffering on the part of the believer, or at the very least the exercise of Christian patience, for we know that all will work for the good. We may see this good now or later, though we may never see it in this lifetime; but that does not nullify God’s promise of his care for his people and his directing their paths. This is not an encouraging pat on the back that Paul gives us here, nor is it a naive, Pollyanna view of life. It is nothing less than the benefits of Christ’s death and resurrection bestowed on his brothers and sisters, on those who are in Christ and who therefore participate in what Christ has done.
Too frequently passages such as Romans 8:28 are thought to mean that God works against our everyday trials to bring some good out of it. Although it is true that God can and does at times deliver his people from such circumstances, most Christians would agree that it is more common for the Lord to work through our circumstances; indeed, he puts us in certain difficult situations precisely because he plans to work some good in our lives. And that “good” is not a temporary shot in the arm but nothing less than God’s conforming us ever more to the image of his Son. The point, then, is that God works not so much despite our circumstances as in them, through them, with them.
Look back now at Exodus 2:1–10. God did not oversee Moses’ birth despite Pharaoh’s edict to kill all newborn males. It was not as if the Lord “reacted” to the decree and thought, “What am I going to do now?” Rather, it is precisely by means of this decree that God brings deliverance to his people. God is in full control both of Moses’ birth and of the external circumstances that threaten to undo it. God does not remove Moses from the situation, nor does he strike down Pharaoh who dares to oppose him, both of which he certainly could have done. Instead, God places Moses in the same Nile that Pharaoh intends for the boy’s harm, brings the boy right to Pharaoh’s doorstep, and has him raised in Pharaoh’s house. Why? To defeat the enemy decisively at his own game, at the very heart of his strength. Now the savior of Israel can grow up safe and secure, free not only from Pharaoh’s wrath but from the debilitating effects of slavery. It is also from his “Egyptian” vantage point that Moses can see more clearly the cruelty with which the Egyptians are treating the Israelites (Ex. 2:11–12).
We should think of the resurrection of Christ in the same way. Christ worked salvation for his people not despite his death but precisely in his death. It is because he died and rose again that those who believe in him are also raised to a new life. To put it another way, Christ triumphed over death because he first endured death. He defeated death because he participated in it. He suffered the ultimate ignominy to bring the greatest glory to himself and therefore to those whom he calls his brothers and sisters. This is why Scripture encourages the Christian to look on his or her circumstances, however horrible they may be, not stoically but joyously, with anticipation, because the heavenly Father is sure to have some great blessing waiting on the other side. This is why Paul can say in Romans 5:2–5:
And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.
Paul is not encouraging his readers to ignore their circumstances and rejoice anyway, to keep a stiff upper lip. Rather, we are to rejoice because we suffer, for we know that the end product is hope that “does not disappoint.” James expresses the same view in James 1:2–4:
Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.
Perhaps we begin to see in these passages the “good” that Paul refers to in Romans 8:28. The ultimate reason for enduring harsh circumstances is to promote Christian maturity (cf. James 2:4). What is always on the Christian’s horizon is the hope that God has confirmed by virtue of Christ’s death and resurrection. This same resurrection power that raised Christ from the dead is also at work in the lives of those who are called according to God’s purpose in Christ. In the same way that God’s resurrection power brought Christ victory through death, so too does this resurrection power bring us through all our trials and challenges, and, like Christ, ultimately through the greatest challenge, death itself.
Most Christians can readily give testimony to God’s faithfulness in their lives. The individual circumstances are as varied as the testimonies. Some reading this have no doubt their own story to tell of real, deep pain felt right now. It is a great comfort to know that the Lord is so mighty that he actually uses these circumstances for our good—what a mystery this is! He does not always “do battle” with them and defeat them. As Moses’ birth and Christ’s resurrection show, he sometimes actually converts those same debilitating circumstances into some benefit for his saints.
In one sense, it is easy to talk this way in a commentary or from a pulpit, but no one is suggesting that this is a simple solution to make all of life run without a hitch. We should not forget that involved in this process may be a period of intense suffering, longing, questioning, and doubt. Nevertheless, God has shown himself faithful in the past and will complete a good work in his people. “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?” Paul asks (Rom. 8:35). Any trouble or danger? “No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us” (v. 37).
“I am going to do something in your days that you would not believe” (Hab. 1:5). This is how the Lord begins his answer to Habakkuk’s first complaint. Habakkuk is concerned about rampant injustice in Judah, and God responds by telling him that help is on the way—albeit from an unlikely source. To punish the unlawful people of Judah, the Lord is “raising up the Babylonians, that ruthless and impetuous people” (v. 6) to exact punishment. For Habakkuk, this is not only an unexpected move on the Lord’s part, but disconcerting as well. How can God possibly call upon a pagan, unclean, godless nation to punish his own people?
Habakkuk’s complaint surely represents the sentiments of any Israelite who worshiped a holy God. Yet we see in Scripture time and time again how God works through anyone he pleases. We see it in the Lord’s choice of Cyrus, the Persian king, at whose hands the Babylonians were defeated. The Lord even calls him “my shepherd” (Isa. 44:28) and “[my] anointed” (45:1). The Lord will work as he pleases by whatever means he chooses, in accordance with his good pleasure.
The Lord God is Lord over all his creation and over everyone who lives on his earth. He, in some mysterious way that rarely makes perfect sense to us, directs the steps of everyone who treads his earth and breathes his air. And he is not at all hesitant about bringing any part of that creation to bear on his dealings with his people. With Habakkuk and Isaiah we see this playing out on a grand scale: God will direct the national superpowers of the day to serve his purpose. In the case of Moses’ birth, the situation is somewhat different. Although in one sense the focus of God’s activity is to deliver Moses from the threat of another superpower, Egypt, the narrative itself focuses on the compassion of Pharaoh’s daughter.
Before I left seminary to begin doctoral work in Old Testament in a large secular university, I was given some advice by one of my professors: “Unbelievers are some of the nicest people you’ll ever meet.” This is not to say, of course, that believers are not cordial (although sometimes you have to wonder!). His point was that living in that intense academic environment can quickly make it difficult to foster the “us versus them” mentality: “I am an evangelical, and they are not.” One of the biggest spiritual challenges I had to face was not by those who were antagonistic to the gospel (or anything religious), but by those unbelievers whom I got to know, with whom I spent considerable time, and with whom I sweated over exams. I enjoyed their company and derived much personal benefit from knowing them. They continue to be some of my best friends and hold for me some of my most prized memories of graduate school years.
This, of course, is a challenge. I did not meet the enemy to be conquered. Rather, I got to know some people and left thinking how thankful I was to the Lord for the chance to be a part of their lives and for them to be a part of my life. As a result, through much struggle, my faith in Christ has grown precisely because it is not as parochial as it once was. I would like to think that God put me in that situation, not simply to get a Ph.D., but to change me, and he used unbelievers with good hearts (humanly speaking—I am not forgetting Paul’s words in Rom. 3!) to bring this about. The Lord also used me to bear witness to them about his goodness, but that is another story.
Did Moses grow up hating his new mother because she was not an Israelite? Did he think, “OK, I’ll live in her house, but she’s Egyptian. As soon as I’m able, I’m getting out of here to join my own people”? Or is it more likely that he came to rely on her, look up to her, depend on her—love her? Once again, Exodus does not provide us with the psychological details of Moses’ relationship to Pharaoh’s daughter. Nevertheless, what is clear is that God could have chosen any way to deliver his people, yet he chose to work through a non-Israelite, an Egyptian, an enemy. One cannot help but conjecture what effect this close association with Pharaoh’s house had on Israel’s redeemer. One can say, however, that this was not a random act of God but a purposeful one.
What is our proper posture toward an unbeliever? There is more than one biblical model. The model of “opposition” is certainly well known and has ample biblical precedent. This model, however, is not deserving of universal application. We share with others the love of Christ, who was a friend to sinners. In doing so, we bring the good news to them in many different ways, which is something that God’s people are called to do. But do not be surprised if in the process the Lord uses these same people to change you. Our neighbors, coworkers, and relatives are not so much projects to be won, notches on our salvation belt, but people who are created in God’s image and whose lives are in God’s hands. They, too, may be his instruments for purposes we cannot fathom. It is his will to employ many facets of his creation for his sake and for his glory.