It’s a moment of raw honesty from Moses himself.

The story begins after Moses relays God's message to Pharaoh – the one demanding freedom for the Israelites. Instead of freedom, Pharaoh doubles down on the oppression. The people are forced to make the same amount of bricks, but with less straw. Understandably, morale plummeted. And that’s when Moses turns to God with a question – or rather, a heartfelt, slightly exasperated, challenge.

"Lord, why have You harmed this people, why is it that You sent me?" (Exodus 5:22).

Now, imagine saying that to the Almighty! We, mere mortals, might hesitate before questioning someone in authority, let alone the Creator of the Universe. But Moses, in this moment, embodies the role of advocate for his people. Shemot Rabbah highlights the sheer audacity of Moses' plea. He's essentially asking, "What gives?"

The text probes deeper: "Why have You harmed…"? What does that even mean coming from Moses? Shemot Rabbah frames it as an argument. Moses, in his own way, is presenting a case before the Divine Court. He's saying, "I’ve studied the history, God! I've read the 'book of Genesis'!" He points out the fates of the generation of the Flood, the Tower of Babel builders, the people of Sodom - all judged justly, according to their deeds. The operative word here is Mishpat: justice.

So, Moses continues, "What did this generation do to deserve more suffering than all those others? Why are they enslaved even more harshly?" He even brings up the prophecy to Abraham (Genesis 15:8-13) about his descendants being strangers in a land and being afflicted. But if that’s the reason, Moses argues, why single out the Israelites of this generation? Why not enslave the descendants of Esau or Ishmael too? And even if that decree must be fulfilled, why this generation, instead of those of Isaac or Jacob? It's a powerful, direct challenge.

And then comes the zinger: "If You say why do I care – if so, why is it that You sent me?" Ouch. It’s the ultimate question of purpose. If his mission is only making things worse, what was the point?

The text continues, “‘Since I came to Pharaoh to speak in Your name, he has harmed this people; and You did not rescue Your people’ (Exodus 5:23)." Rabbi Pinḥas HaKohen ben Ḥama adds another layer, saying that Moses essentially tells God, "Your name is mighty, and even the wicked Pharaoh heard it… and still sinned willfully!" The nerve!

Rabbi Yishmael and Rabbi Akiva offer contrasting interpretations of the phrase "You did not rescue." Rabbi Yishmael sees it as a statement that God will certainly not rescue them at this time. Rabbi Akiva, however, offers a more nuanced view: "I know that You are destined to rescue them, but You do not care about those who are under the building." He is saying that God is focused on the big picture, but not on the individual suffering of those who are caught in the middle. (This is a powerful idea echoed in many Jewish texts and commentaries.)

The midrash concludes with a fascinating detail: At that moment, the attribute of justice (middat ha-din) sought to harm Moses. But because Moses was arguing on behalf of Israel, he was protected. This is more than just a story about Moses's chutzpah. It's a story about advocacy, about standing up for what's right, even when it means questioning the Divine. It's about the tension between justice and mercy, between the grand plan and the individual pain.

What does this all mean for us? Perhaps it's a reminder that even when things seem bleak, even when our efforts seem to backfire, we have a right – maybe even a responsibility – to question, to advocate, and to demand better. It reminds us that faith isn't about blind obedience, but about a relationship, a dialogue, even a wrestling match with the Divine. And sometimes, that wrestling is precisely what's needed to bring about change.