Still, the Egyptians (Exodus 14:19-31)

 

That long ago day is as clear in my mind as yesterday, even though it was thousands of years ago, and should be lost in the mists of time . . . we’d gotten caught up in redemption fever, salvation’s rush.  Moses had bested the Egyptian magicians, laying ten plagues upon them, and the last plague, the darkest one, many of us didn’t even like to think about.  A spirit trickled out over the streets, and crept through the air, and when it was gone, Egyptian children were dead, and that pushed Pharaoh over the edge, and so he told us to go, to take everyone, every man, woman and child, and our livestock too, and we plundered the Egyptians as we left.  There were six hundred thousand of us, not counting the children.  And the Lord led us in a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire that lit up the night, and we could see the Lord in front of us whatever time it was, we could see God leading us onward, and we knew that God was with us.

We walked by the light of the sun by day and the great pillar of fire by night, and we were exhausted.  But we went on, content in trusting God, content to go where Moses led us, even though the dust clogged our throats and the sweat gummed our eyes, and our legs felt leaden and tired.  We were content because we knew that our God was a mighty God; we could actually see God’s pillar, leading us forward by day and by night.

Then one day the voice of the Lord spoke out of the cloud to Moses, and we could all hear it, booming over the multitude, but it sounded like only the rushing of wind to us, or the slamming of mighty rocks to the ground, but Moses understood, because when it was over, he immediately pulled us around, and we camped near Baal-zephon and Pi-hahiroth and Migdol, with our backs to the sea.

And it was there that the Egyptians came upon us, chariot upon chariot, horse upon horse, with Pharaoh’s banner leading the way, and when we saw them coming we cried out to Moses “Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us here to die in the wilderness?  Did we not say to you ‘leave us here to serve the Egyptians, for it is better to be enslaved than to die a horrible death?’”  And I myself was bitter, I was hungry and exhausted, my wife and children were hungry and exhausted, and there we were, with our backs to the sea, caught between death by drowning and death by the slash of a sword.

But God spoke to Moses again in that great, incomprehensible voice, and the pillar of the Lord moved so that it was between Egyptians and us, and it glowed fiery red, lighting the night, keeping the Pharaoh at bay.  And Moses lifted his arms, swept them over the sea, and Behold!  A great wind came up out of the east and it blew across the waters for hours and hours, into the night, and I tell you that I was as afraid of that wind as I was of the Egyptians, but I was more afraid of that pillar of fire . . . even though it meant safety, even though it meant that God was with us, you couldn’t pay me to go near it.  And if I was this afraid, I could only imagine how the Egyptians felt.  I mean, the Lord was our god, there for our comfort and aid . . . the Pharaoh’s men had no such assurances, no such comfort.  They were on the bad side of a divine pillar of fire, and they just had to know that it wasn’t going to end well.

And over the years, I’ve wondered about that, about what would make men persist in riding to their doom.  Were they mindless machines, did their officers—with Pharaoh at the top—pull their strings?  Were they like modern armies, so well trained that they obeyed orders automatically, without question, no matter what?  Or were they convinced by the powers that be, by the Pharaoh and all the politicians under him, that this was essential to the survival if their way if life, essential to the survival of their wives and children?  Because make no mistake: the Egyptian charioteers had families, too, just like mine, just like those of my fellow Israelites.  They had wives who loved them, children who depended on them, and yet here they were, willing to give their all so that we might not escape.

Maybe it was fear, maybe their commanders instilled in them so much fear that they didn’t dare turn tail, they didn’t dare retreat.  If that were so, it must have been some kind if fear, to override their terror of being burned to a crisp by an angry god.

 And the wind from the East blew all night, but we didn’t stay where we were very long.  Moses urged us forward toward the sea, toward the waters where we surely would drown, and a terror arose in my belly, an ancient fear of the sea, with all it’s roiling chaos, all it's dark, unplumbed depths.  But as we got to the shore, rank upon rank, we saw that the east wind, the wind from God, had separated the waters from the waters—just like at creation!—and we entered the sea on dry land, between two towering walls of water.  There was a rushing sound, a dire roaring all around, made by the water and the wind that kept it at bay, and we all looked in wonder, because the sea floor was not squishy a bit, it was completely dry, as if there had never been water there.

And by the light of the pillar of fire—which had moved to the fore once again—we could see that the Egyptian army had followed us into the sea, or into where the sea used to be, and once again I feared being speared or skewered or sliced, but all of a sudden, there came a ferocious clatter, and looking back, I could see that the wheels of the chariots were bogged down, where just minutes ago it was completely dry.  Horses screamed in terror, chariots overturned, and those in the rear smashed into those in front.  No doubt there were some who died right then and there, in the terrible crush of man and horse and metal.

And all through the night, we rushed over the dry land, and heard the sounds of confusion behind us, all the while illuminated by the red glare of the pillar of fire.  And then, as morning dawned and the last of us scrambled up the banks of the shore, once again the voice of God was heard, booming over the multitude, over the cacophony of wind and water, and once again, we could not understand it, and once again it was clear that Moses did, for he turned has face to the sea and raised his hands.

And at first, nothing happened.  Nothing we could see, anyway.  The roar of water and wind continued a unabated as the first of the chariots, freed from morass and clattering ruin, were almost at our shore, when suddenly, the sound changed in timbre, it turned into a banshee shriek, and we could see the waters, crashing back together, coming from the direction we had just come, getting closer and closer.  As the Egyptians saw it, their panic increased, and they scrambled frantically forward, trying to escape the water, but they couldn’t.

And as I watched, unable to turn away, I saw the last of them disappear under the waves and the rift in the sea was healed.  The elemental roaring that had accompanied us all the way across was cut off, the waves ceased, and the waters became as calm and unruffled as the pool of Siloam.  There was no sign of Pharaoh’s army, not at first, anyway, then bits and pieces of gear started to appear, bobbing in the surf, and soon enough, the bodies of Egyptian soldiers littered the shore.

And we were grateful to God, for God had saved us, and brought us out of slavery, and in recognition of this, we lived in the fear of the Lord, at least for a time.  And on the shoreline that day, God’s people celebrated, singing a song of praise that was led by Moses, and then the women took up tambourines and danced, singing “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; horse and rider he has thrown into the sea.”

Still, the Egyptian dead littered the shore.

I do not know why or how I have lived so I long.  I didn’t know at first that I was:  there was no voice from heaven saying “you, my son, will live forever,” no hint that I would last even longer than Methuselah, it just happened.  Gradually, I noticed that more and more of my friends were dying, then my wife and children—a parent shouldn’t have to watch his children die—and as the centuries passed, I just . . . persisted.  And I thought a lot about that day on the Sea of Reeds.  Was it really necessary that innocent people died so that we might go free?  People with families like me, children who wouldn’t see their fathers, wives who wouldn’t see their husbands?  Couldn’t God have gotten them lost, or built a big wall or something, like that one over in China?

I don’t know, and I don’t think anyone else does, either.  I know that when faced with questions like that, many lose their faith . . . a lot of my fellow Jews did, after the Holocaust.  But maybe I’m stubborn, or just not too bright, because I hunker down in my faith, in my persistence in trusting God.

But though I don’t know why God does what God does, what I do know is that we never should have sung a victory song about it.  How could we rejoice when the Egyptians lay dead, right in front of us, on the banks of the sea?  It reminds me of that New Orleans hurricane—Katrina—when bodies once again littered the shore, and not a few people pronounced it God’s judgement upon the evil of the city, even though the dead were primarily from the poorest parts of town.  I even heard one politician say that God had finally cleaned up the housing projects in New Orleans.  Not all that different from the Israelite victory song.

Still, I am grateful to The Lord for saving my people on that day.  I cannot think we deserved it any more than our captors, I know we didn’t do anything to deserve God’s grace and favor, and I am eternally grateful for that.  God saved us, liberated us, from our bondage to evil, and there was nothing to indicate that we were special, apart from God pronouncing us God’s people.  And I wonder: will God ever do that again?  Amen.