Voice of Moses

Prose Poem

Dominic Rover, O.P.

Editor’s Note:

This is the second and last of the dramatic monologues that Fr. Dominic Rover wrote characterizing Biblical  figures, each speaking in his own voice.  Illness forestalled this priest's  plans to do more of them, most regretably given their

exceptional quality.

See The Voice of Abraham in Logos Review Seven (here).

Author’s Introduction

This is written in the form of a dramatic monologue. My intention is to honor three distinct values: one, fidelity to the scriptural message; two, an authentic feeling for the scriptural character who is speaking; and three, a contemporary feel for setting.  Not contemporary in time and place, but in mood and language and human concern. I will be happy if I can harmonize these values in a work that reflects the ageless attractions of the word of God. I will be happier still if the word seems to come alive in these little pieces, inspiring and nourishing a faith which we do not always experience as a living thing.

PEOPLE OF YAHWEH, my people, we are one week now into our perilous desert journey and I would like to open my mind to you, especially to my brother Aaron who has been with me from the beginning. I want to give an account of my life and my leadership up to this point so our people will know what Moses thought and what Moses said and what Moses did at the time—the time just before and after our flight from Egypt on the night of Passover. Especially what Moses thought, because that’s the hardest thing to get at, and it’s the thing that I want to talk about the most. If I am to be honored and followed as a hero by the Hebrew people, they should know what Moses thinks of Moses, and they should be given an account of the work entrusted to him by Yahweh. 

    That is the first thing I want them to know—that it was a work given to me by Yahweh. I did not seek it on my own. I did not ask for it. It was a work entrusted to me by Yahweh. I still remember the story about my father Amram and the sayings he was famous for. Remember Aaron? Rules of life, he called them. And this was one of them: Do not volunteer for anything. And Amram really lived that way. He worked in the brick piles of Egypt for thirty years; he was foreman five times and assistant to the overseer seven times. He never asked for either position and never complained when he was changed or reduced in any way. He had a simple formula for longevity—work hard, be slow to judge, and slow to speak. 

    That’s where Reuben made his great mistake—he talked too much with the Egyptian overseer about the plans for a midnight flight into the desert. The overseer got involved and had to kill Reuben to protect himself. And I had to kill the overseer to keep the order of justice, and to discourage that kind of loose talk in the labor camps. 

    That’s when my name began to emerge as leader and hero. And while I did not cultivate the role, it was clear even to my enemies that Yahweh had spoken—which means that I was chosen. And knowing that I was chosen, I knew that I could not refuse the summons of Yahweh. I possessed some credentials of my own also that may have been useful. I have a strong body, a quick temper, a plaguing sense of justice, and a love for my people that I do not feel obliged to defend or to explain to anyone.

    It was this affection, this fervor, rather than any gifts of mind or tongue that accounts for the sudden change in Moses. I turned overnight from a rough-cut, angry worker to the heroic savior of the Hebrews. The whole affair looked at first like a typical ethnic quarrel. An immigrant worker in an alien land struck down an Egyptian who had struck down a fellow Hebrew, apparently without cause. But the cause was always there with the groans of Hebrew slaves and the snarling whips of Egyptian slave drivers. But now that blood was shed, the groans became cries, the cries of mourners and of murderers. This is the way history begins, not with facts and causes and reasons, not even with victories and defeats. History begins with deeds of blood.

    My father knew that in his own way, and I have learned it in mine. History begins with deeds of blood, passionate, mindless, inevitable—blood that cries out for vengeance, and new deeds of blood to keep alive the endless cycle of bloodshed. And that’s the way it is with heroes. They do not deal with facts friendly or unfriendly; they deal with blood. And it’s strange.  Blood is always unforgivable. 

    There was blood in my calling every step of the way, beginning with my own deed of blood. There was the blood of the fallen workers, the blood of the first plague. All the waters of Egypt turned into blood. During that holy and darkened night of Passover, there was blood on the doorposts and lintels warning the Angel of Death, shielding the first-born of the Hebrews from the bloody vengeance of Yahweh. Oh, who will break this cycle of bloodshed? Who will unleash at last the Angel, the Angel of Forgiveness? Who will free Yahweh Himself from these ignoble rituals of vengeance?

    Still, as I remember it, there was neither blood nor vengeance that drew me to Pharaoh to plead the cause of my people. It was freedom and the hopes of freedom—freedom from uncalled for suffering which was our life in Egypt; freedom from servitude, from slavery; freedom from this land, this alien land in which we were still held captive. What we cried out for was a land of our own where we could be prosperous and free—a land of our own. And it was Yahweh who kept this vision alive by sending me to Pharaoh over and over again with the same insistent demands: “Let my people go!  Let my people go!  Let my people go!”

    Each morning Pharaoh would awaken with a groan, knowing that the young Hebrew workman would be at his door again, pleading for his people. And that was true. I would be there. But no one knew what moved me to be there. No one knew what moved me to persevere in that single-minded purpose. It was Yahweh who sent me; Yahweh who bore me up on eagle’s wings. He was my patience and my perseverance. 

    I was not free of fear. Fear followed me everywhere: the fear of Pharaoh; the fear of my people who distrusted my authority; the fear of my own infirmities, a man sluggish in speech, trying to bring hope and courage to a people who questioned the spirit. And in the valley of those fears, a Voice would always be heard: “Do not fear. I will be with you.” And still I thought to myself: Does it know me? 

    If He knew me, He would respect my infirmities. He would listen to my doubts about myself. After all, who am I to stand alone on holy ground enraptured by the vision of the Burning Bush? Who am I to perform marvels and miracles such as only Yahweh could perform? Who am I to know Yahweh’s secret Name and to use that Name in human colloquy for the first time? Who am I to speak to others in Yahweh’s name, to overcome all fears and infirmities and speak decisively in His Name? Who am I to be party to that holy conversation which henceforth will define my relationship with Yahweh. He will speak with me and I will speak with Him. Who am I to be welcomed into Yahweh’s secret plans and to welcome Him into my secret hopes and desires for my people? 

    In the end, there was only one answer to these questions and the doubts they spoke for. The plan was Yahweh’s plan and Yahweh stood behind it. In proof of this a voice sounded in me at every step of the way. “Do not be afraid.  I will be with you.” On that night, as you remember, Yahweh’s plans began to take shape. 

    As we recall those events, brothers and sisters of the desert journey, they become not just a history but a prayer, a liturgy of remembrance, a prayer that makes the events come alive again to be the center of our life of faith and worship. On that night, on that blessed night, with the doorposts and lintels sprinkled with blood, with the lamb killed and roasted, with the unleavened bread prepared, with the paschal meal eaten with seemly haste, Yahweh’s people moved out onto the desert. Not a home for us, but not a foreign land, a place of passage for the people of God. Without clamor or murmuring and in the prayerful silence of a departure blessed by Yahweh, my people moved out behind me, their hopes linked to mine, with my hopes rooted in the promises. My task is not to know the rights of passage in advance in order to protect you from the desert.  My task is to lead you forth in faith to teach you to live in the desert so you will not be surprised at the marvels and terrors to come or discouraged at the trials that wait for us, by day and by night. 

    Our life in the desert will be like the shadow of a broken toy on a sand pile. Yahweh will find us and fix us over and over again and point us in the right direction toward the land of promise. But what will set the toy in motion again and its shadow? The steepness of the sand pile, the tilt of the earth, and the momentum of our promises and dreams. Promises have been given to us again and again. They have been given. The dreams we invent to keep the promises alive and fresh with hope. 

    Sleep now, my brothers and sisters of the desert journey. We will awaken early and be on our way, before the sun has risen to make the circle of sand around us another fierce, clouded sun. Our enemies will rise early, too, so we cannot linger in the camps, talking and bickering and digging for scraps of food as we did in Egypt. Our prayers must rouse Yahweh long before the sun and He will pray with us as He has promised. As we move out of our camp, He will stay behind to protect us from our enemies, from our pursuers. And He will go ahead of us to prepare the little miracles we need to survive each day.

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