This week's parsha begins the narrative of the Exodus. Here we have the birth of Moshe and his journey to leadership, to the point where he could stand before Paraoh and demand him to "Let my people go.'' While the midrash tells us that Moshe was born special, born to be the one to lead Bnei Yisrael, there were many steps on his journey to leadership. Most often we hear about his compassion as a shepherd, his willingness to stand up to the abusive taskmaster, or his reluctance to be placed in power, but if one reads the text carefully one finds other traits, such as the skill of learning from critique.
The morning after Moshe kills the taskmaster who was beating an Israelite slave, he is confronted by two Israelites who saw his actions. When Moshe steps between a fight they are having with one another, one of the men turns to him and says belligerently: "Who appointed you a man, a prince or a judge over us? Are you threatening to kill me as you killed the Egyptian?" (Shemos 2:14). Moshe reacts with fear and flees, but the words of this rash man were actually potent on a different level. He questioned Moshe's right to act as an eesh, meaning a man of leadership, as a sar, a prince, and as a shofet, a judge. Quite a few commentators state that the use of the word eesh implies that Moshe was very young, that he was just barely, if at all, a man. They were exentuating his inexperience. Questioning him as a prince has other implications. It highlights the illogical title for one now suddenly "identifying" with the Israelite slave. It also undermines the authority he believed he grew up with. Finally they question his right to act as a judge, for he quite obviously already saw himself as being guilty of a crime.
The words of this man are also interesting in the fact that they talk about appointment, about being named over. In the future, when Moshe was the eesh, the man in charge, so to speak, it would be his job to oversee the princes and to appoint the judges. Indeed, he would be the one who would act as a sar and a shofet, even if he did not hold these titles.
In this moment, however, these words cast a particularly hard punch. Moshe was, after all, at a crossroads in his life. Having been raised in the palace of Paraoh, having grown up believing he was a member of the Royal Egyptian family, he has suddenly become aware of his actual heritage as in Israelite. He now identifies with his brethren, who he sees enlaved all around him. Moshe is at an identity crisis where he must decide who he wants to be and what he wants to do. When this man, in the text, questions him and asks who appointed him a man and a prince and a judge, Moshe might have been struck deeply by the idea that he must determine if that is the person that he wishes to become. And this too could have been the fear that drove him to flee, for in Egypt he could never have an opportunity to understand his identity. It was clear that so long as he stayed in Egypt, he would be drawn in both directions
This is not, of course, to say that Moshe was aware of the impact of these words at that time. But words have power, and their impact can effect a person for years. The words said to Moshe were a threat, and he reacted to them. Those words, however, resonated in his brain. As he found himself forced to determine his future and his identity, those words built the foundation of who he was to become.
When we speak to others, let us try to be aware of the powerful impact our words can have.
Dedicated Lilui neshama of Dovid Chaim ben Shmuel Yosef HaCohen.
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