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Moses Killed the Father of the Man Who Cursed God

A taskmaster's adultery in Egypt set off a chain two generations long. When a man cursed God before all Israel, the rabbis traced it back to that morning.

Curated by Arthur · Told by Maggid ·
Table of Contents
  1. The Taskmaster Who Came Too Early
  2. Moses Saw What He Should Not Have Seen
  3. Who Was the Egyptian That Moses Killed
  4. What Rabbi Levi Added

The Taskmaster Who Came Too Early

The Egyptian taskmaster arrived at the foreman's house before the husband had left for the fields. He had noticed the wife. He had calculated the timing. The Book of Jubilees places this in the years when Pharaoh, gripped by fear of the growing Israelite population, was working the Hebrews to exhaustion, organizing them under Egyptian overseers who supervised Israelite foremen and drove them through the labor quotas. The taskmaster belonged to that machinery.

He waited behind a ladder. When the husband left, the Egyptian entered and committed adultery. The foreman came back and found him. The rabbis of Vayikra Rabbah, the great midrash on Leviticus compiled in fifth-century Palestine, did not see this as a private crime. They saw it as the first link in a chain that would not close for two generations.

Moses Saw What He Should Not Have Seen

Some years later, Moses went out to his people and saw their suffering. He saw an Egyptian man striking a Hebrew, one of his brothers (Exodus 2:11). He looked this way and that. He saw no one. He struck the Egyptian and hid the body in the sand.

Shemot Rabbah, the midrash on Exodus, records that this killing was not simple self-defense or a righteous intervention. Moses used the hidden divine name to kill the taskmaster. His anger was righteous but his act was complete. The Egyptian died. The Israelite foreman was saved in the moment.

Then the foreman went and told. When Moses intervened in a quarrel between two Hebrews the next day, one of them threw the killing in his face: do you plan to kill me as you killed the Egyptian? (Exodus 2:14). The foreman had talked. Moses had to flee.

Who Was the Egyptian That Moses Killed

Vayikra Rabbah carries the chain forward to its third link. In Leviticus 24:10, a man goes out among the Israelites in the wilderness and blasphemes the name of God. The Torah introduces him with an unusual detail: he was the son of an Egyptian man. The rabbis of the Midrash Rabbah tradition treat every word of scripture as containing a compressed world. When the Torah says "Egyptian man," it is naming someone specific. Who?

The taskmaster. The man Moses killed in Egypt. The man who had committed adultery with the foreman's wife. His son grew up in the Israelite camp, born of an Israelite woman and an Egyptian father, and the inherited wound and the inherited status fused into a man without a clean place to stand. He went out and cursed God.

What Rabbi Levi Added

Rabbi Levi, preserved in Vayikra Rabbah, takes the argument to its sharpest edge. The question was whether the blasphemer was technically a mamzer, a child born from a forbidden union. The technical legal analysis was disputed: some argued that since the father was a gentile rather than a married Israelite, the full legal category did not apply. Rabbi Levi disagreed. A union of this kind, between a gentile man and a married Israelite woman, produces a child with a compromised status regardless of the technical definitions.

But the midrash is not interested in legal precision for its own sake. It is interested in consequences. A man committed a crime in the dark hours before dawn in Egypt. Moses saw the aftermath and killed him. The son of that Egyptian grew up in the camp of Israel and stood before all the people and cursed the name that had taken his father's life. Three generations. One adultery. One killing. One curse shouted in public.

The crimes compound themselves. This is what Vayikra Rabbah was built to show.

MosesProphecyEgyptDivine Names
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From the tradition

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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.

Book of Jubilees 46:24Book of Jubilees

It comes from the Book of Jubilees, specifically chapter 46.

The Book of Jubilees, for those who aren't familiar, is an ancient Jewish text that retells the stories of Genesis and Exodus, but with a unique perspective and extra details. It fills in gaps, offers interpretations, and sometimes, well, it gets So, what’s chapter 46 all about? It plunges us right into the heart of the Egyptian enslavement of the Israelites. But it doesn't just say, "Pharaoh enslaved them." Oh no. It digs into the why.

This teaching paints a picture of Pharaoh, gripped by fear. A fear of the Israelites growing too numerous, too powerful. The passage reads, "Come and let us deal wisely with them before they become too many, and let us afflict them with slavery before war come upon us and before they too fight against us; else they will join themselves unto our enemies and get them up out of our land, for their hearts and faces are towards the land of Canaan."

Can you feel the paranoia oozing from those words? Pharaoh isn't just being cruel; he's acting out of what he perceives as self-preservation. He believes that if he doesn’t control the Israelites, they will rise up, ally with his enemies, and drive the Egyptians out. Their hearts, the text says, are set on Canaan.

This fear, according to Jubilees, leads to a brutal crackdown. "And he set over them taskmasters to afflict them with slavery; and they built strong cities for Pharaoh, Pithom and Raamses, and they built all the walls and all the fortifications which had fallen in the cities of Egypt. And they made them serve with rigour."

We see the Israelites forced into hard labor, building cities and fortifications for their oppressors. This detail, the construction of Pithom and Raamses, lines up with what we find in (Exodus 1:11). It’s a stark reminder of the physical and emotional toll of slavery.

Now, what’s interesting here is the motivation ascribed to Pharaoh. It's not just about economic gain, although that was surely a factor. Jubilees emphasizes the fear of the "other," the anxiety of losing control. It's a theme that resonates throughout history, doesn’t it? How often have we seen fear used to justify oppression?

This passage from Jubilees 46 is more than just a historical account. It's a cautionary tale. A tale about the dangers of fear-mongering, the seductive power of prejudice, and the devastating consequences of dehumanizing an entire group of people.: Pharaoh's fear, his desperate attempt to maintain control, ultimately led to the Exodus, to the very thing he was trying to prevent. Sometimes, the very act of trying to suppress a people only strengthens their resolve, solidifies their identity, and fuels their desire for freedom.

So, as we reflect on this ancient text, let's ask ourselves: what fears are driving our actions today? Are we building walls – literal or metaphorical – out of fear, rather than building bridges of understanding? And what will the long-term consequences of those choices be? The story of Pharaoh and the Israelites reminds us that fear can be a powerful motivator, but it's rarely a wise guide.

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Shemot Rabbah 1:30Shemot Rabbah

The story goes that Moses, having slain an Egyptian taskmaster, intervenes in a quarrel between two Hebrews. And what does he get for his trouble? A stinging rebuke: "Who appointed you a ruler and judge over us? Do you propose to kill me as you killed the Egyptian?" (Exodus 2:14). Ouch.

There's so much more to this brief exchange than meets the eye. The ancient Rabbis, in their commentary on the Torah called Shemot Rabbah, unpack this moment with layers of meaning. They saw in it not just a simple rejection of Moses' authority, but a glimpse into the very character of the Israelites and the challenges they faced.

So, what's behind this accusation? The text says, "Who appointed you a ruler [and judge [ish sar veshofet] over us?]" Shemot Rabbah offers several intriguing interpretations of this question. Rabbi Yehuda weighs in, suggesting Moses was only twenty years old at the time. The implication? He wasn't old enough! "You are not yet eligible to be a ruler and a judge over us, because [only] one who is forty years old has understanding," he says, citing Avot 5:25. Rabbi Nehemya, however, claims Moses was forty. Perhaps the issue wasn't age, but something else entirely.

The Rabbis offer another possibility: "Aren’t you the son of Yokheved? How do they call you son of Batya? You seek to be a ruler and a judge over us? We will inform about you, what you did to the Egyptian." This hints at a deeper suspicion, questioning Moses' very identity and motives. Was he truly one of them? Was his past disqualifying?

And then there's the most intriguing interpretation of all, centered on the phrase, "Do you propose [omer] to kill me?" The text emphasizes that it doesn't say "Do you seek to kill me," but rather, "Do you omer [literally, say]." The Rabbis pounce on this nuance. "From here you learn," Shemot Rabbah explains, "that he had invoked the ineffable name against the Egyptian, and killed him." The ineffable name, of course, refers to the most holy and unpronounceable name of God. Did Moses use divine power to strike down the Egyptian? The very idea is both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

When Moses heard this, he was frightened. As Rabbi Yehuda bar Rabbi Shalom said in the name of Rabbi Ḥanina the Great, and our Rabbis said in the name of Rabbi Alexandri: Moshe was pondering in his heart and saying: What sin did Israel commit that caused them, more than all the nations, to be enslaved? When he heard his response, he said: ‘There is slander in their midst, how can they be deserving of redemption?’ Therefore he said: “Indeed the matter is known” – now I know the reason for their enslavement."

The implication is staggering. Moses realizes that the Israelites' own internal conflicts, their willingness to suspect and accuse one another, are a barrier to their liberation. He understands that their fractured community, riddled with lashon hara – evil speech or slander – is holding them back.: Moses, destined to be their leader, is met with distrust and accusations. He realizes that before they can be freed from external oppression, they must first confront their own internal divisions. Redemption, it seems, requires more than just a powerful leader; it demands a transformation of the heart and a commitment to unity.

This passage from Shemot Rabbah invites us to reflect on our own communities. How often do we allow suspicion and division to undermine our collective goals? Are we willing to extend grace and understanding, or are we quick to judge and accuse? Perhaps, like the ancient Israelites, our own liberation depends on confronting the "slander in our midst" and building a more unified and compassionate world.

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Vayikra Rabbah 32:4Vayikra Rabbah

Vayikra Rabbah turns to Levi and the Lawgiver of Egyptian.

The Rabbis suggest that even though technically, this man wasn't a mamzer – because his father wasn't Jewish – he was considered one "in the eyes of the people." Rabbi Levi, however, takes it a step further, arguing that he was a full-fledged mamzer. Rabbi Levi, maintains that if the man who had relations with the married Jewish woman was a gentile, the offspring is still a mamzer.

How did this union between the Israelite woman and the Egyptian man come about? The Midrash (rabbinic interpretive commentary) paints a vivid picture: Egyptian taskmasters overseeing Israelite foremen, who in turn oversaw groups of laborers. One day, an Egyptian taskmaster visited a foreman early in the morning. The foreman’s wife flirted with the taskmaster. The taskmaster, thinking to himself that he would be able to seduce her, hid behind a ladder. When her husband left, he sinned with her. The husband saw the taskmaster emerging from his house.

Can you imagine the scene? The betrayal, the anger, the injustice! The taskmaster, knowing he'd been seen, then began to beat the foreman, effectively demoting him to a common laborer. The Egyptian official intended to kill the former foreman.

This is the context for Moses' intervention. "He turned this way and that" (Exodus 2:12). What did Moses see? The Midrash explains that Moses saw what the taskmaster had done both in the house and in the field. He realized the man wasn't just guilty of adultery but was now seeking to murder the husband.

"He saw that there was no man" (Exodus 2:12). This phrase, too, is ripe for interpretation. Rabbi Yehuda says it means Moses saw no one willing to stand up and be zealous for God's name by killing the Egyptian. Rabbi Nechemya suggests Moses saw no one to invoke God's name to kill him. But the Rabbis offer a third, chilling explanation: Moses saw that no good would ever come from this man's lineage, "from his sons, and from the descendants of his sons until the end of all the generations."

So, what did Moses do? "He smote the Egyptian" (Exodus 2:12). Rabbi Yitzchak says he killed him with a fist, referencing (Isaiah 58:4) ("To smite wickedness with a fist"). Rabbi Levi offers a more mystical interpretation: Moses killed him "with the secret of Israel," perhaps by reciting God's name. According to another interpretation, Moses relied on the Israelites to keep what happened a secret.

The Midrash connects this story back to the blasphemer in (Leviticus 24:10), asserting that the Egyptian killed by Moses was, in fact, the father of the blasphemer.

What does this all mean? It's a interplay of power, morality, and divine intervention. It reminds us that even in the grand narratives of the Torah, there are personal stories, hidden injustices, and moments where individuals are forced to make impossible choices. It invites us to consider the consequences of our actions, the weight of our decisions, and the potential for both good and evil to ripple through generations. And perhaps most importantly, it asks us: what would we do in such a situation?

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Vayikra Rabbah 32:1Vayikra Rabbah

Vayikra Rabbah turns Shelomit's name into a clue for reading one of Leviticus's most charged episodes.

The passage in (Leviticus 24:10-11) sets the stage: "The son of an Israelite woman, and he was the son of an Egyptian man, went out among the children of Israel; and the son of the Israelite woman and an Israelite man fought in the camp. The son of the Israelite woman blasphemed the Name and cursed; they brought him to Moses. And the name of his mother was Shelomit, daughter of Divri, of the tribe of Dan."

Right away, we've got a story brewing. A mixed-heritage individual gets into a fight and then…blasphemes. Big stuff. His mother's name, Shelomit, but pointedly emphasizes his Egyptian father. Why?

That's where the Rabbis, in Vayikra Rabbah, start to unpack things. Two prominent sages, Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Neḥemya, offer differing interpretations of the phrase "the son of an Israelite woman…went out.” Their debate revolves around a verse from Psalms (12:9): “Around the wicked will walk.” But who is walking around whom?

Rabbi Yehuda sees it as the righteous circling the wicked. He paints a vivid picture: When the righteous emerge from the Garden of Eden and witness the judgment of the wicked in Gehenna (hell), their souls are filled with joy. (Yep, a little harsh, I know!) He connects this to (Isaiah 66:24), “They will emerge and see the corpses of the people who betray Me.” The righteous, according to Rabbi Yehuda, then praise God for the suffering they endured in this world, because it paved their way to eternal reward. He even quotes (Isaiah 12:1): "I thank You, Lord, that You were angry with me; Your wrath has turned against… the nations of the world, and You comfort me through them.” The idea is that earthly suffering, especially at the hands of the wicked, ultimately leads to divine comfort.

But Rabbi Neḥemya isn't buying it. “Until when are you going to distort the Bible for us?” he asks, which, let's be honest, is a pretty great line. He flips the script, arguing that the wicked are the ones circling the righteous. When the wicked ascend from Gehenna and see the righteous chilling in the Garden of Eden, their souls are crushed. He cites (Psalms 112:10): “The wicked one sees and is angered.” Ouch.

So, who’s. Well, that's the beauty of rabbinic discourse – it's not always about finding a single "correct" answer, but about exploring different perspectives.

Rabbi Nehemya then gets to the heart of why the mamzer (illegitimate child) went out: "When is 'as lowliness is lifted up' – when the Holy One blessed be He will exalt the mitzvot (commandments) that are treated with contempt." In other words, it's about honoring those who uphold Jewish law even when it's unpopular or dangerous. He gives a series of examples: “Why are you going out to be stoned?” “Because I circumcised my son.” “Why are you going out to be burned?” “Because I observed Shabbat (the Sabbath).” He connects these sacrifices to (Zechariah 13:6), “One will say to him: What are those wounds?” The answer: “These wounds caused me to be beloved to my Father in Heaven.” It’s a powerful statement about the value of upholding Jewish tradition, even in the face of persecution.

Finally, the text offers another interpretation: "When is 'as lowliness is lifted up' – when the Holy One blessed be He will publicize the origin of the mamzerim." In this context, "lifted up" means separated from the rest of the congregation. The mamzer's lineage was already revealed by Moses when he commanded, “Take out the blasphemer” (Leviticus 24:14). According to this reading, the blasphemer was of illegitimate birth, and his removal from the community was a form of purification.

So, what can we take away from this ancient debate? Perhaps it's a reminder that judging others based on their background or perceived status is a dangerous game. The story also emphasizes the importance of upholding our values, even when it's difficult. And, maybe most profoundly, it shows how even seemingly simple verses can contain layers of meaning, sparking conversations that resonate across centuries.

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Legends of the Jews 4:44Legends of the Jews

Consider the story of the division of the people into tribes, when they were setting up camp in the wilderness. Picture it: thousands upon thousands of people, meticulously organized. And amidst all this, only one man couldn't find his place.

Who was this lone soul? He was the son of Shelomith, a woman from the tribe of Dan. And his father? An Egyptian.

The story of how Shelomith came to be with child by an Egyptian is a dark one, steeped in violence and betrayal. It's a tale that actually involves a young Moses, long before he received the Torah on Mount Sinai.

In Ginzberg's retelling in, Legends of the Jews, when Moses was just eighteen, he visited his family in Goshen. There, he witnessed a horrific scene: an Egyptian man striking an Israelite. The Israelite, knowing Moses' standing in Pharaoh's court, pleaded for help. "O, my lord," he cried, "this Egyptian forced his way into my house at night, bound me, and violated my wife in front of me! Now he wants to kill me too!"

Outraged by this heinous act, Moses took matters into his own hands. He slew the Egyptian, allowing the tormented Israelite to return home. It was this act, by the way, that forced Moses to flee Egypt in the first place.

But the story doesn't end there. When the Israelite husband reached his house, he told Shelomith that he intended to divorce her. He believed it was improper for a member of the house of Jacob to live with a woman who had been defiled in such a way.

Imagine the shame and humiliation. When Shelomith told her brothers of her husband's intentions, they were so enraged that they wanted to kill their brother-in-law! He only escaped with his life by fleeing.

So, back to the division of the tribes. This son of Shelomith, a man caught between two worlds, became a symbol of impurity. He was a living reminder of the violence and transgression that could disrupt the carefully constructed order of Israelite society. He couldn't attach himself to any of the groups because his lineage was compromised. He was, in a way, an outsider within.

It makes you wonder, doesn't it? What does it truly mean to belong? And how do we confront the complexities of lineage, purity, and the consequences of violence across generations? It's a question that continues to resonate, even today.

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