Ginzberg, in Legends of the Jews, paints a vivid picture of the internal struggles within the Israelite community itself. It wasn’t all unity and resistance. There were figures like Dathan and Abiram, officers who, instead of showing compassion, "spake these stinging words" and repeatedly "inflicted an injury upon Moses." They become almost a counterpoint to Moses's leadership, a constant source of friction.
Then, there were the other Israelite officers. These were different. These were the ones who embodied quiet heroism. Rather than force their fellow Israelites to work harder under the Egyptians’ brutal regime, "they permitted themselves to be beaten by the taskmasters." Think about that for a moment. They chose to endure physical pain themselves, to protect their own people. It's a powerful image of solidarity and sacrifice.
But the suffering… oh, the suffering. Moses, witnessing the immense cruelty inflicted upon his people, turns to God with a plea that’s tinged with anguish and a hint of challenge. "I have read the book of Genesis through," he cries out, according to Legends of the Jews, "and I found the doom in it pronounced upon the generation of the deluge… the punishments decreed against the generation of the confusion of tongues, and against the inhabitants of Sodom. These, too, were just."
He's saying, "I understand justice. I understand consequences." But then comes the heart of his question: "But what hath this nation of Israel done unto Thee, that it is oppressed more than any other nation in history?"
It's a raw, honest question, born from deep pain. Moses even throws back God's own words, reminding Him of the prophecy given to Abraham: "'Know of a surety that thy seed shall be a stranger in a land that is not theirs'?" (Genesis 15:13). If the descendants of Abraham were destined for hardship, why only Israel? Why not the descendants of Esau and Ishmael?
And there’s a layer of frustration there, too. "Why didst Thou send me hither as Thy messenger?" he asks. According to Ginzberg, Moses points out that despite the power of God’s name, Pharaoh remains defiant. He concludes, almost resignedly, that God will redeem Israel in His own time, even if the present situation is unbearable, even if "they are now immuring living Israelites in these buildings."
The Midrash Rabbah and the Zohar, those rich collections of Jewish interpretations and mystical teachings, often grapple with these kinds of questions – questions of suffering, of divine justice, of the seeming contradictions in God's plan. They remind us that faith isn’t about easy answers. It’s about wrestling with the difficult questions, about holding onto hope even in the face of despair, and about finding meaning even in the midst of suffering.
Isn’t it a powerful reminder that even the greatest leaders, like Moses, experience moments of doubt and vulnerability? And that even in the darkest of times, acts of kindness and resistance – like those of the Israelite officers – can shine a light of hope?