5 min read

Moses Had All the Miracles and Still Had to Argue Every Day

Moses parted the sea, drew water from rock, and fed a nation on bread from the sky. The people ran out of faith again within days of each miracle.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Faith That Would Not Hold
  2. The Mouth God Made
  3. Ten Plagues and What They Did Not Produce
  4. Why the Miracles Taught Nothing

The Faith That Would Not Hold

The water ran out, and the people turned on Moses. This was not the first time. It would not be the last. A few weeks earlier they had been standing on the far bank of the sea, watching Pharaoh's army sink, singing a song about God's triumph. Now they were thirsty and the song was gone and their complaint was exactly the same as it had been in Egypt: you brought us here to die.

Moses had done the ten plagues. He had split the Red Sea. He had drawn water from a rock once already. The people had eaten bread from the sky every morning since Sinai. The Legends of the Jews captures Moses's response to this pattern with precision. He was not surprised by any particular complaint. He was stunned by the structure of it: faith did not accumulate. Every miracle zeroed out at some point, and doubt reset to its original position as if nothing had happened. The people were not being deliberately ungrateful. They were, apparently, built this way.

The Mouth God Made

It had started at the burning bush. God told Moses he had been chosen to liberate Israel from Egypt. Moses's first response was to explain that he was not a good speaker. He had a slow mouth, a heavy tongue, a reluctance that was either genuine disability or something more complicated. God's reply, recorded in Shemot Rabbah, is blunt to the point of being funny: Who made your mouth? Who makes a person mute or speaking, blind or seeing? I did. Now go.

The argument did not resolve Moses's speech problem. It resolved the question of whether the speech problem was an obstacle. God was not interested in finding a more qualified candidate. He was informing Moses that the qualifications Moses thought he lacked were beside the point. Moses would speak, and Aaron would help him speak, and the plagues would come anyway, because the plagues were not Moses's production. Moses was a conduit.

Ten Plagues and What They Did Not Produce

The ten plagues worked. Egypt released Israel. The sea parted. The bread fell. The pillar of cloud led by day and the pillar of fire by night, so that a nation of six hundred thousand people moving through a wilderness could navigate in the dark. The Midrash on Exodus catalogs all of this and then keeps going, because the tradition is not interested in stopping where the miracles look clean. It keeps tracking the people who had witnessed every sign and were nonetheless ready to elect a new leader and return to Egypt at the first report of difficulty in Canaan.

Moses witnessed a specific miracle that the Midrash preserves as an emblem of his position. It is not a plague or a parting. It is the moment he understood that the face God had given him, the luminous face that frightened the Israelites after Sinai, was both his authority and his isolation. The people needed a veil between themselves and what Moses had become when God spoke through him.

Why the Miracles Taught Nothing

The tradition's Moses is not a triumphant figure. He is a man who carries the weight of forty years of failed pedagogy. He performed the greatest demonstrations of divine power in Israelite history, and the people continued to be who they were. Faith, the Midrash concluded, is not something that can be installed through evidence. If it could be, the wilderness generation would have been the most believing people in history. They had more evidence than anyone before or since, and they spent a significant portion of it complaining about the menu.

Moses prayed for them anyway. Every time they failed, every time they threatened to stone him, every time they built an idol or demanded a king who was not God, Moses turned back to God and argued on their behalf. Not because they deserved it. Because that was his job, and he understood it better than anyone in the camp.

MosesMiraclesExodusWildernessFaithIsrael
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From the tradition

Sources

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The texts this telling draws on, in full. Open a card to read inline, or expand it for a wider, quieter read.

Legends of the Jews 1:86Legends of the Jews

Here he was, fresh from witnessing the most incredible miracles, leading his people out of slavery, and what did he get in return? Gripes, complaints, and a profound lack of faith.

The texts tell us that despite the people's constant accusations, Moses wasn't so much angry about their words, but disappointed by their fickleness. After witnessing the plagues in Egypt, the parting of the Red Sea, shouldn't they have had a little more faith?

A reader can understand Moses' frustration. They had seen undeniable proof of divine intervention, tangible evidence of his reliability. But instead of trusting him, they expected only the "natural and probable."

Then again, perhaps we can understand the Israelites too.

The weight of their situation, the uncertainty of the desert, the sheer improbability of their freedom – it must have been overwhelming. And Moses, ever the compassionate leader, understood this. The texts relate that when Moses considered their distress, he forgave them.

He knew that a multitude, a large group of people, is by nature fickle. Easily swayed by the moment. Today's miracle is tomorrow's forgotten memory, replaced by despair and uncertainty. Imagine the constant weight of that leadership.

It’s a powerful reminder, isn't it? How easily we forget the good times, how quickly fear can eclipse faith. And how important it is to extend compassion, even when we feel most let down. Perhaps especially then.

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Shemot Rabbah 3:15Shemot Rabbah

Shemot Rabbah turns to Moses Says He Cannot Speak and God Replies Who Made Your Mouth.

In Shemot Rabbah, the great collection of Midrashim (rabbinic interpretive commentary) (interpretive stories) on the Book of Exodus, we find a fascinating take on Moses's famous reluctance. You remember the scene: God appears in the burning bush, tells Moses he's been chosen to redeem the Israelites, and Moses basically says, "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not a good speaker." (Exodus 4:10)

So, what does God say to that? According to Shemot Rabbah, God essentially replies, "Who do you think made mouths in the first place?" God reminds Moses, "If you are not a man of words do not be concerned; haven’t I created all the mouths in the world, and I rendered mute whomever I wished, and [likewise determined who is] deaf and blind, and sighted and hearing? Had I wished for you to be a man of words, so would you be. Rather, I wish to perform a miracle with you. When you speak, your words will be exact, as I will be with your mouth.” It's a pretty powerful statement. It speaks to the idea that our perceived weaknesses can actually be strengths in disguise, especially when we're acting on behalf of something greater than ourselves.

God wasn't just dismissing Moses's concerns. He was offering a solution, a partnership. “And I will be with your mouth," God promises. This isn't just about giving Moses the ability to speak eloquently. It's about divine assistance, about God's presence being manifest in Moses's words.

But it gets even more interesting when we explore the interpretations of the phrase "and teach you [vehoreitikha]." Rabbi Abbahu offers a striking image: "I will shoot [moreh] My words into your mouth like an arrow." Whoa! Imagine the force, the precision, the divine intention behind each word. It's not just about speaking; it's about conveying a message with unwavering accuracy and power, like an arrow hitting its target. The reference here is to (Exodus 19:13), "Or will be shot [yaro yiyareh]," further emphasizing the idea of divine propulsion.

Then, Rabbi Simon offers another compelling interpretation: "I will create you into a new being." He links vehoreitikha to the Hebrew word vatahar, meaning "the woman conceived," from (Exodus 2:2). This suggests a transformation, a rebirth. It's not just about improving Moses's speaking ability; it's about remaking him, reshaping him into the leader he needs to be. It’s about Moses becoming something entirely new. God wasn't just offering Moses elocution lessons. He was offering to rewrite his very being, to imbue him with divine power and purpose.

So, what does this all mean for us? Maybe it's a reminder that our limitations don't define us. Maybe it's an invitation to trust in a power greater than ourselves, to believe that even when we feel inadequate, we can be instruments of something extraordinary. Maybe, just maybe, the things we perceive as weaknesses are actually the places where divine strength can shine through the brightest.

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Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer 48:12Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer

That's kind of what went down between Moses and the Egyptian magicians, according to Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer, a fascinating early medieval text that explores biblical narratives. readers often think about the ten plagues as a direct demonstration of God's power, a smackdown against Pharaoh. But Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer chapter 48 gives us a slightly different angle.

Think about this iconic scene: Moses, standing before Pharaoh, performs a miracle. He puts his hand into his bosom, and when he brings it forth, it's leprous, white as snow. A shocking display. Well, the magicians weren't exactly slouches. They could do the same thing! They "also put their hands in their bosoms, and brought them forth leprous like snow."

So, what’s the difference? Why does Moses get remembered as the ultimate miracle worker, and these guys are just… footnotes?

Here's the kicker: their leprosy wasn't healed. Moses's sign was temporary, a demonstration of divine power with a built-in reset button. The magicians? Stuck with the consequences until their dying day. Ouch.

The narrative in Pirkei DeRabbi Eliezer continues, highlighting the escalating battle of plagues. Each time God, "the Holy One, blessed be He," unleashed a new horror on Egypt, the magicians were right there trying to mimic it. They were like the ultimate copycats. Imagine the scene! Frogs, locusts, darkness… the magicians were determined to keep up.

But their charade couldn't last forever.

Finally, we get to the plague of boils. This is where the magicians’ act falls apart. As it says in (Exodus 9:11), "And the magicians could not stand before Moses because of the boils." They couldn't even stand, let alone replicate the plague! It seems there were limits to their abilities – and to their pain threshold.

So, what's the takeaway here? Is it just a story about magical one-upmanship?

Maybe it’s about the difference between genuine divine power and mere imitation. The magicians could mimic the effects, but they couldn't control the source, or the consequences. Moses's miracles were a conduit, a temporary display of God's will. The magicians were just. well, playing with fire, and eventually, they got burned.

It also begs the question: What are we trying to imitate in our own lives? Are we chasing superficial displays of power, or are we seeking a deeper, more authentic connection to something greater than ourselves? And are we prepared to deal with the consequences of our actions? Just some food for thought.

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Legends of the Jews 5:80Legends of the Jews

After decades wandering in the wilderness, the Israelites finally reached the border of the Promised Land. The anticipation was immense, the collective relief palpable.

Here's the twist. The king of Edom refuses them passage. Just like that, their dream is deferred. As we read in Legends of the Jews by Ginzberg, because of this refusal, they had to detour around the entire land of Edom. Can you imagine their frustration?

The people, already worn down by years of wandering, started to grumble. "We thought we were there!" they cried. "Now we have to turn around again? It's just like our fathers, who were so close, only to wander for another thirty-eight years! Is that our fate too?"

Their disappointment morphed into resentment, directed at both God and Moses. Ginzberg notes that the people treated "master and servant being to them as one."

And then came the complaints about the manna. You remember the manna. That miraculous, heavenly food that sustained them in the desert. But even miracles can get old, apparently.

Now, here's where it gets a little darker. The text hints that some of these complainers were destined not to enter the Promised Land. According to Ginzberg's retelling, God had already vowed that they wouldn't see the land He'd sworn to give their ancestors.

Why? Well, perhaps their hearts weren't truly in it. The story tells us these folks couldn't even bear to look at the fruits of the land of Israel. Merchants brought in produce from Palestine – the very food they were supposed to inherit – but these particular Israelites couldn't partake. They were stuck with the manna, a constant reminder of their desert existence.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it? What does it mean to truly desire something? Is it enough to physically reach a goal, or do you need to be ready, in your heart and soul, to embrace it? Maybe those Israelites weren't just hungry for different food. Maybe they were hungry for a different perspective, a different way of seeing the journey – and the destination – ahead.

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Shemot Rabbah 18:7Shemot Rabbah

The Book of Exodus tells us that the Israelites were instructed to mark their doorposts with blood so that God would "pass over" their homes during the tenth plague, sparing their firstborn sons (Exodus 12:23). But have you ever stopped to ask why? If God was all-powerful, didn’t He already know who was inside each house? Why the need for a sign?

That’s the question that Shemot Rabbah, a classic collection of rabbinic interpretations on the Book of Exodus, wrestles with. It quotes the verse "And the Lord will pass over the door" (Exodus 12:23) and then adds an incredible detail: "at that moment, as it were, He stood at the entrance." God, standing right there, at the doorway.

So, if God Himself was present, why the blood? Shemot Rabbah offers a fascinating analogy: Imagine a slaughterer marking the sheep he intends to slaughter with red paint. This helps him distinguish between those destined for slaughter and those to be spared. Similarly, the text suggests, God "will see the blood" (Exodus 12:23). But not to learn who to save. Instead, it’s "as it were, He stood at the entrance and repelled the destroyer so that it would not smite Israel."

The blood, then, wasn't a signal to God, but a shield. A shield against the mashchit, the destroyer. God's presence, coupled with the sign of the blood, actively held back the forces of destruction. It's a powerful image, isn't it? God not just allowing salvation, but actively intervening.

And the story doesn't end there. God tells the Israelites, "You shall observe this matter as an ordinance for you and for your sons forever" (Exodus 12:24). This isn't just a one-time event, but a pattern for all time. As Shemot Rabbah continues, God promises: "Just as I did for you now, so I am destined to do for you in the future."

The text then connects this promise to the words of the prophet Malachi (3:19), who speaks of a future day that "burns as a furnace," a time of intense judgment. Yet, even in that fiery future, God promises, "I will have mercy on them, as a man has mercy on his son" (Malachi 3:17).

So, what does it all mean? It suggests that the Exodus wasn't just a historical event, but a template for God's ongoing relationship with us. Just as God stood at the door in Egypt, protecting the Israelites, so too will He stand with us in the future, offering mercy and protection even in the face of destruction. The idea is that even in moments when the world feels chaotic and overwhelming, that protective presence remains, a constant source of hope and reassurance.

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