Exodus 1:8 - 2:10 "Babies, Baskets, and Bulrushes"

         We read it as a child’s story really – a baby, a basket, a princess, and a happy ending.  We illustrate it so antiseptically too – a smiling crooning infant, a floating cradle, a dark-haired wide-eyed daughter of a king, and a happy ending.   And we completely miss the context from which this deceptively delightful vignette arises.

         You see, generations before, the Israelites had settled in Egypt.  They had escaped the continuously on again-off again famine in Canaan and had migrated out of desperation to the Fertile Crescent on the banks of the Nile, to the shores of the river of life where flooding each year brought fresh and lush sediment for planting and subsequently abundant harvests.  Egypt was a land of generosity, where precious surplus grain was stored and shared with starving immigrants seeking asylum – and bread - at the borders.

         The Israelites had been welcomed in Egypt.  Joseph had been the one to welcome them: Joseph, the brother who had owned the infamous cloak of many colors, the Technicolor dream coat of which his brothers had been so envious, so jealous that they had once beaten him silly, thrown him in a ditch, and left him for dead. 

          But Joseph had not died.  He had been rescued as God rescues all people who need rescuing.  And so Joseph ended up in Egypt, worked his way up through the ranks, and, consequently, was in a position to welcome his starving extended family.  For many years to come, the Israelites (or Hebrews) would turn out to be good stewards of the land and dependable political allies.

         However, as luck would have it, on a dime, everything changed.  A new pharaoh (or king) assumed power.  Apparently this one had slept through his Egyptian history class because he did not know the story of the Israelites in Egypt.  He did not know that they had a history of being good caretakers and dependable compatriots. 

         Under this Pharaoh’s rule, immigration policies became stricter.  Perhaps the Pharaoh feared these undocumented aliens.  Perhaps he saw them overrunning the country.  Perhaps he really did need brick makers and hard workers to do the tasks his own people felt were beneath them, so that he could build the mighty pyramids tradition says that he left as his legacy. 

         At any rate, the Pharaoh pressed the Hebrews into labor, enslaving them for all intents and purposes. And so the years passed, one after another, the pharaoh growing ever stronger and the Israelites ever more oppressed.  It was a very difficult time for them, a time when their God seemed very far away, if their God even still existed at all.  If the Israelites had ever needed a divine intervention, surely it would be now.  But God, it seemed, was off-duty. 

         I mean, come to think of it, what had God done for the Hebrew people lately?  As Reformed pastor Scott Hoezee writes, “From the looks of things, they didn't have any God worth bragging about,…As time went on, God became the stuff of legend, of old memories, of long-lost hopes. Whatever God was, he was not an active presence in Egypt. “

         At the very least, the Hebrews might have supposed, God was just looking the other way because all they had to hold on to was a rumor, an unlikely rumor too – and not a well-publicized one at that.  You see, amidst the Pharaoh’s astrologers and seers, a story was going around that a child would be born among the Hebrews, a boy who would become their leader.

         It certainly was hard to believe since the Hebrews had not had a leader of any consequence since Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob – and even they had their considerable flaws and shortcomings.   Not that the Pharaoh knew (or cared) anything about the Hebrews except that they had turned out to be excellent brick makers.  Still, even an off-handed prophecy that might turn the tables on the breadth and depth of his power was enough to make the Pharaoh sit up and take notice. 

         And so – feeling himself to be quite clever – he called for two midwives (and surprisingly - because it does not happen very often with women in our Bible - we know that their names were Shiphrah and Puah).  The Pharaoh commanded them:  At every birth they attended, they were to kill any male child born to a Hebrew woman. 

         But Shiphrah and Puah did not do it. They did not do it.  They defied the Pharaoh because, we are told, they were God-fearing, more in awe of the love of their God than they were in the power of their king.  Such courage!  Such a leap of faith!

         And later on when the Pharaoh asked them why the population of Hebrew babies was not dramatically declining, they were one step ahead of him.  “Oh” they replied innocently.  “The Hebrew women are so strong that their babies just pop out of them. We can not get there in time to attend to the births.”

         The Pharaoh apparently bought their bogus explanation hook, line, and sinker – and went back to the drawing board.  How to keep these prolific Hebrews in check and under his thumb?  After all, they were breeding like rabbits.  How to ensure that his political power base remained strong and untouchable? 

         He gave these issues considerable thought and finally came up with a final solution:  Genocide - It was the only way to purge the population.  And so the Pharaoh decreed to everyone – to all Egyptians:  Drown every Hebrew baby boy you see in the Nile River.

         And so it was that a Hebrew mother hid her baby for three long months until she could hide him no more.  Then, putting all her trust in God – such a leap of faith – she put the infant into a watertight basket and set him afloat on the Nile, on the waters that had once been the river of life and abundant harvest and now for all intents and purposes was the river of death and the certain demise of the Hebrew people. 

         But such was not to be: Out of death, once again came life. You see, the daughter of the Pharaoh found the baby, took a hankering to him, convinced her father that he was just so adorable – and came with a wet nurse to boot – and how much difference could one little helpless Hebrew make in the great scheme of things, and how could a father turn down the single wish of his dark haired, wide-eyed princess of a daughter – and so the baby was snatched from the jaws of death and adopted by the princess herself.  She called him Moses, which in Egyptian most likely meant “son”, and in Hebrew happens to mean “delivered” or “pulled from”, as in “delivered” from death or “pulled from” the Nile. 

         It is a wonderful story, this tale of the birth of Moses.  However, it is hardly a child’s story.  It is a story of oppression, of genocide, of the interplay between power and violence.  It is a story of the courage and faith of women – from Shiphrah and Puah, the two midwives, to Miriam, Moses’ big sister, who, to a large extent, orchestrated the rescue of her kid brother, to Moses’ mother, who still believed in the faithfulness of a God who seemed so far away, still believed in the power of that God’s love, still believed that such holy love could and would save her only son. 

         It is also a story that does not stand alone with its happy ending but rather begins the sweeping saga of the Hebrew people as God’s chosen ones – from the pivotal event of the Exodus to the decades of wandering in the wilderness before crossing into their promised land.  It is a saga that spirals down through the ages, where centuries later it remained at the very heart of who Jesus was, of what he knew to be true about the love and faithfulness of God, and of, from our Christian perspective, what lies at the origin of the Last Supper.  It is a saga that has continued to wend its way through the millennia to us, even us.  This is no child’s story.  It is the very beginning of our story.

         And so, in light of its importance, what might we take from this tale of babies, baskets, and bulrushes?  What might be the essence of this narrative that surely lies at the very core of who God has called us to be?

         First and foremost, this story illustrates for us that God says no to the powers of death.  God says no to oppression and to power assumed at the expense of others.  We will find in the weeks to come that God says no to the Pharaoh in more ways than you can shake a stick at until the blustering, bullying, power-hungry king finally gets it.  However (and this is important), God’s saving work only begins when we too say no to the powers of death. 

         Had it not been for the courage of Shiphrah and Puah to stand up for their convictions and openly defy the Pharaoh in the name of their faith, Moses would have never made it into the floating basket to begin with.  Had it not been for the trust that Moses’ mother had that her God was a God of love and the faith that her God would not crumble in the face of the Pharaoh’s power of death, Moses never would have floated down the Nile River. 

         Had it not been for Miriam, the kid sister, who put her own life in danger for her belief that everyone – even her baby brother – deserved a lifetime, Moses would have been left to die in the reeds and bulrushes.  Never let it be said that women – nameless though most of them are – did not do their fair share of orchestrating God’s saving work by saying no to the powers of death itself.  May we be as courageous, as loving, as faithful!

         Second, just as these courageous women found it within themselves to resist the Pharaoh, each of them taking a leap of faith, so we are challenged to do the same. Otto Kroeger, the father and guru of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI), when describing a particular personality preference that seems to get all caught up in analyzing options and possibilities, gives this succinct advice:  “Start somewhere.  Do something.” 

         Sitting around talking about our faith is not enough – even if it’s sitting in these hard, but holy, pews on a Sunday morning.  Shiphrah, Puah, Miriam, and Moses’ mother:  They all trusted in their God.  They all stood firm in their convictions, even in the face of death.  And, most importantly, they all did something. 

         As Episcopal priest William Dols reminds us, “The ultimate challenge to us, however, as it was for those who accompanied Moses to the sea, may be finally to step into the deep water and brave the darkness in search of that person we are waiting to become rather than cursing the shadows and clinging sadly to what was.”  We are not meant to be people of the past, living in broken dreams and the death of the visions of yesterday.  We are meant to be people of faith, people of future possibilities, people of life.  Do something.

         Third, when you get to thinking that whatever you might do does not really amount to a hill of beans, think again.  Time after time, God works through the little people. Time after time, God resists resorting first to the flashy – the pillars of fire, burning bushes, parting waters.   Instead, God works through women no less and through babies and maybe, just maybe, even through us. 

         I am sure you have heard that saying that when you throw a rock into a pond, you never know how far the ripples will travel.  That is certainly true, but the other truism is that there are always ripples.  Doing something makes a difference. 

         You will change the world this week.  When you leave this place, you will change the world for good or for ill.  As Lutheran pastor David Lose challenges us, “The things we do this week -- our actions, decision, choices -- will, in fact, ripple out with consequences foreseen and unforeseen, for good or for ill, for the health or damage of the world. (The) question isn't whether, but what...what will we do this week to make a difference in the world. Some of these actions may be big, bold, and courageous. Others may be small, hardly noticeable. And yet they all have the potential to ripple out, affecting countless lives.”

         Babies, baskets, and bulrushes?  It was never meant to be a children’s story.  It was meant to be our story – a call to faith, a call to courage, and, above all, a call to action.

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church, U.C.C., Raymond, Maine