He was trying to save the Israelites from destruction, and the story goes something like this…

God, seeing the Israelites’ transgressions, essentially challenges Moses. "Find me ten righteous people," God says. "Just ten! And I won't eliminate them." This echoes the earlier story of Sodom and Abraham, where God was willing to spare Sodom if even ten righteous people could be found (Genesis 18:32). The pressure is on.

Rabbi Avin, a sage whose teachings are recorded throughout the Talmud and Midrash, illuminates this scene. God, in effect, is saying to Moses, “I'm only asking for what I asked for from Sodom – ten righteous souls.”

Moses, ever the advocate, steps up. "Master of the Universe," he says, "I'll provide them for You." He starts rattling off names: "There's me, Aaron, Eleazar, Ithamar, Phinehas, Joshua, and Caleb…" A pretty impressive list. These are some serious heavy hitters in the righteousness department.

But God is counting. “These are seven," He points out, "but where are the other three?"

Can you feel Moses's anxiety in that moment? He's so close, yet so far. He’s scrambling, trying to find a loophole, a way to reach that crucial number.

Then, inspiration strikes. Or perhaps, it's a moment of profound faith. Moses asks God a question: "Master of the Universe, will the dead live?" God answers, "Yes."

And here’s where the story takes a powerful turn. Moses declares, "If the dead will live, remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel (Jacob) – that is ten!"

Boom.

That’s why, Shemot Rabbah tells us, Moses specifically mentions the three patriarchs in this plea. He’s not just invoking their memory; he’s counting on their merit, their zechut, to tip the scales. He's appealing to the promise of resurrection, weaving past, present, and future together in a desperate attempt to save his people.

What's so striking about this Midrash is how human it makes Moses. He's not just a flawless prophet; he’s a negotiator, a bargainer, a quick thinker under immense pressure. He’s willing to use every tool at his disposal – even the promise of resurrection – to plead for his people.

And it makes you wonder: What "righteous people" would we name? Who would we count on, living or passed on, to advocate for us? What promises would we invoke? And what does it mean to find righteousness not just in individuals, but in the collective memory of a people?

It’s a reminder that even in the face of divine judgment, there's always room for appeal, for faith, and for the enduring power of memory.