Imaginary interview with Moses
by Charactorium · Moses · Spirituality · 5 min read
It is at the foot of Sinai, in the encampment still marked by the evening fires, that Jethro finds his son-in-law. The smell of flocks and warm ash hovers among the tents; in the distance, the murmur of the elders of Israel is heard. The priest of Midian has journeyed from his pastures to see again the one who once tended his sheep — and whom he has just advised on the organization of justice. He sits down beside him, not to judge the public man, but to listen to the one he knew as silent and fugitive.
—My son, you were tending my sheep toward Mount Horeb on the day you changed. What did you see there that made you a different man?
You remember, Jethro, how I came back late that evening, my gaze elsewhere. I was leading your flock beyond the desert, toward the mountain, when I saw a bush that burned without being consumed. The flame devoured, yet the branches remained green. I approached, and from that fire a voice called me by my name. I took off my sandals, for the ground was holy. You who welcomed me as a stranger, understand this: that day, I was no longer the shepherd of your sheep, but the servant of a mission I had not chosen. I was afraid, I sought a thousand excuses. But one does not argue long with a fire that does not go out.
One does not argue long with a fire that does not go out.
—You came home that evening murmuring a Name you dared not repeat. What Name had been entrusted to you, my child?
I kept it to myself for days, Jethro, even before your daughter. When I asked that voice who it was, what name I should give to the people, the answer overwhelmed me: I am who I am. It was neither Aton nor any of the idols I had seen in Egypt, nor one of your Midianite deities — forgive me for saying so. It was Being itself, without image, without statue. A God who cannot be carved or enclosed in a temple. I understood then that everything I had been taught in Pharaoh's palace was worth nothing before that. And that this Name would be both my burden and my strength.
A God who cannot be carved or enclosed in a temple.
—Word has reached even Midian that the sea parted before you. With that staff I saw in your hand, what happened that day?
Pharaoh's chariots pressed us against the water, Jethro, and the people cried that it would have been better to die slaves in Egypt. That staff — the very one with which I led your sheep — I raised it on divine command, and the east wind blew all night. The waters split, and we passed on dry ground between two liquid walls. When the Egyptians plunged in after us, the waters closed over them. I did nothing by my own strength, understand this: my hand was only a sign. After the ten plagues that had struck Egypt, this was the crossing from servitude to freedom.
—And on the other shore, they say, you sang. What did you sing when you turned back toward the sea?
It is true, and I wish you had heard it. On the other shore, men and women, we sang a victory hymn — the one already called the Song of the Sea. Miriam, my sister, took her tambourine and all the women followed her dancing. We sang to Him who had hurled horse and rider into the sea. It was not a song of pride, Jethro, but of grateful awe: we, this people of slaves, were alive and free. In the desert that awaited us, I would often recall that morning, when doubt would seize me. A people who have sung together once never quite forget why they march.
A people who have sung together once never quite forget why they march.
—You disappeared for forty days on that mountain, up there. The camp thought you lost. What did you experience in that silence?
Forty days and forty nights, Jethro, without bread or water — I cannot tell you how I endured, except that the presence nourished me. Up there, in the cloud, I received the words engraved on two stone tablets: ten commandments, no more, to hold an entire people upright. Honor the One, do not kill, do not steal, do not bear false witness against your neighbor. It seems simple, yet it is the most difficult thing of all. Meanwhile, down below, I did not know what was brewing. When one receives a law for men, one sometimes forgets that men do not wait in silence like the mountain.
—It is also whispered that you broke those tablets on your way down. You, the patient man I knew — what threw you into such anger?
It was the worst day, Jethro, harder than standing up to Pharaoh. As I descended, I heard shouts that were not those of battle but of a feast. The people, weary of waiting for me, had melted down a golden calf and were dancing before it, like the Egyptians before their idols. In my hand, I held the tablets written by God himself. Anger seized me: I threw them to the ground, and they shattered at the foot of the mountain. You know me, I am not a hot-tempered man — but to see the covenant received in fire betrayed in a single day was beyond my strength. I had to go back up, and plead, so that new tablets might be given.
To see the covenant received in fire betrayed in a single day was beyond my strength.
—When I arrived at the camp, I saw you judging the people from morning to evening, alone. Do you remember what I said to you that day?
How could I forget, Jethro? You stayed by my side for a whole day and watched me settle disputes, from dawn until night, standing, exhausted. In the evening, you spoke to me bluntly, like a father: this task is too heavy, you said, you will wear yourself out and the people with you. You advised me to choose capable and upright men, to entrust them with minor matters and keep only the great ones for myself. I followed your advice, and it was wisdom. A leader who tries to carry everything alone ends up being useful to no one. You, priest of Midian, taught me this better than all the sages of Egypt.
A leader who tries to carry everything alone ends up being useful to no one.
—Beyond the Ten Words, you now give the people laws for fields, debts, the foreigner. Why descend into these details of life?
Because a people does not live by great principles alone, Jethro — it lives by harvests, livestock, neighbors, and quarrels. The Covenant Code I transmit regulates all this: how to treat the servant, repair the wrong done to another's field, not oppress the foreigner — for we ourselves were foreigners in Egypt, and I never forget it. Justice does not descend from heaven ready-made; it is built in the details of daily life. You, who have your own knowledge of things in Midian, know that a law that does not touch everyday life holds no one. I write these laws so that after me, the people may know how to walk straight even when my voice has fallen silent.
—You told me one evening, by the fire, the story of your birth. Where does the name you bear come from, my son?
I was born, Jethro, in a time of mourning: Pharaoh had ordered all newborn Hebrew boys to be thrown into the river. My mother hid me for three months, then, unable to do so any longer, she laid me in a papyrus basket coated with bitumen and set it on the Nile. It was Pharaoh's daughter who found me among the reeds and took me in. She named me thus because she had drawn me out of the water. Consider the strangeness of my life: saved from the waters of the river as a child, and it was through the waters of an open sea that I saved my people. Nothing in my story truly belongs to me — I have always been drawn, led, sent.
Saved from the waters of the river as a child, it was through the waters of an open sea that I saved my people.
—You are old now, and the journey is still long toward the promised land. What do you hope for, yourself, at the end of this road?
I have already seen many years, Jethro, and the road to Canaan lies before us, uncertain. I hope to lead this people there, to see them finally free on a land of their own, delivered from tents and desert. But I do not know, in truth, whether my feet will enter it. A leader often sows what another reaps; perhaps my task is to lead to the threshold, without crossing the door. If that is so, I accept it. The important thing is not that I arrive, but that the people arrive, and that they keep the covenant. You who return to Midian and your own pastures, pray for us — a man's path matters less than the promise that surpasses him.
A man's path matters less than the promise that surpasses him.
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This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Moses's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.