Many years later, however, I have come to deeply love Moses and embrace his story as one of identity. Exodus has something to say to all who have wrestled with belonging, and while the truth remains that there are crucial differences between our adoption practices today and Moses’ experience, it is also true that Moses’ is a story for adoptees … just maybe not in the way we’ve heard it told before.

Exodus begins with Israel in the land of Egypt. Pharaoh, nervous about this growing nation, subjects Israel to harsh slavery and sends out an edict for all Hebrew boys to be killed. It’s into this setting that Moses is born. His mother hides him away for three months until she can hide him no longer, then sets him in a basket in the reeds. It’s possible this is a strategic move, as she may know this is where Pharaoh’s daughter bathes, but either way, Moses’ sister Miriam hides and waits to see what happens. When Pharaoh’s daughter does come out, she sees the baby, knowing he’s Hebrew, and Miriam comes to her asking if she’d like her to find a nurse. She agrees, pays her, and Miriam takes Moses back to his mom where he stays until he’s weaned—possibly a couple of years, as extended breastfeeding would’ve been the norm.

After weaning, Moses is taken into the Egyptian palace. Egypt at that time was a powerhouse: he would’ve been immensely privileged, received the best education, and he likely grew up observing the oppression of the Hebrew people, possibly having Hebrew servants of his own. There is debate as to whether Moses knew of his Hebrew heritage as he grew up, with some suggesting he discovered his identity well into adulthood, others imagining he would have known all along. (I’m partial to the latter, but who can be sure?) Either way, his story picks up when he’s in his forties, as his dueling identities collide.

One day, he sees an Egyptian beating a Hebrew slave. It’s here that we first see him identify with the people of his heritage. He looks around to see who will put an end to this injustice. Seeing no one, he becomes the man to step up. He kills the Egyptian. Later, he sees two Hebrews fighting and steps in to intervene, to calm the quarrel. Rather than responding with gratitude, they say, “Who appointed you as prince over us? What are you going to do, kill us, too, like you did the Egyptian?” Rejection. Accusation. Moses is afraid, and rightly so: when Pharaoh hears of the murder of the Egyptian, he seeks to kill Moses. Alienation. And so, Moses flees. Disillusioned, betrayed, and heartbroken, he flees and won’t return for 40 years.

He runs far away to the land of Midian, where he encounters some young shepherd girls. They assume him to be Egyptian, and he does not offer any correction. He marries and has a son, whom he poignantly names Gershom, meaning “stranger in a foreign land.” Even in this distant place, Moses remains caught between worlds, unable to fully embrace one identity or another.

This is brought out dramatically in a strange story in Exodus 4:24-26. By this point Moses has lived a quiet life of anonymity when God appears to him, a God whom Moses seems to know very little about, but who wants Moses to return to Egypt to deliver his people. Moses resists, feeling entirely inadequate for such a job, but eventually relents. As he is journeying home, God seeks to kill him. His wife, Zipporah, apparently seems to understand the situation, and, jumping into action, circumcises their son and touches the foreskin to Moses, calling him a bridegroom of blood.

This story elicits about 5,000 questions, which each have fascinating answers and parallels to previous and future stories. But for the sake of this article, one important question often asked is why was the son of the soon-to-be-leader of the Hebrew people not circumcised according to the central covenantal tradition? It’s likely that Moses himself was circumcised, and that this may be how Pharaoh’s daughter knew his Hebrew identity as a baby.

But focusing on the matter of identity:

Why would Moses have circumcised his son? To circumcise his son would have been to say:

I, Moses, am a part of this people.
My son is a part of this people.
We belong.
This is our identity.

Why didn’t Moses circumcise his son? Because Moses likely wondered whether he had a right to presume any belonging to this people. As an adoptee, he’d been caught in the in-between, having two families, yet belonging to neither. As Holocaust survivor and Nobel Peace Prize laureate Elie Wiesel wrote in his essay “The Loneliness of Moses,” “of all the biblical characters, he is the loneliest.” Moses is a stranger to himself, living a life not his own.

This pivotal scene and Zipporah’s quick response (while not ending his ongoing struggle with his people, his calling and competence, and his God), marks an end, a full-circle moment—a rebirth as a true Israelite, a salvific act by the hands of a woman—in his resistance to his heritage.

Just two chapters later, there is a neat chiasm[1], or sandwich, to this story. Here, we see two instances of Moses doubting himself, asking why did you ever send me? (Exodus 5:22), and despairing I am of uncircumcised lips (Exodus 6:30). In between these repeated phrases is the genealogy of Moses.

What’s the treasure in the middle of the sandwich of why did you pick me, I’m not the guy?
What’s the central point?

Moses is the guy.

Even if he hasn’t discovered it, even if he hasn’t accepted his belonging yet, look at who Moses is and where he comes from. He’s the guy.

I love this story for so many reasons, for the richness it offers. It is not a black-and-white story, it is not simplistic or platitudinous, and the text doesn’t tell us how we’re supposed to feel about any of it. Events happened to Moses, good and bad, and there were lasting repercussions. He struggled internally not just for decades, but throughout his whole life. This is a deeply human story, because Moses is a deeply human, deeply relatable character.

Moses’ story is often presented as a simple adoption story, and though it diverges significantly from modern assumptions and practices, there is absolutely a sense that this is a complex adoptee story. This is a story about belonging, uncertainty, alienation, rejection, fear, identity, family, the choices we make (or don’t make) in light of what has happened in our lives.

Most of all, this is a story about a God who knows our identity, even if we aren’t so sure.

This is a story about a God who sees and pursues, who calls and redeems.

This is a story about a God who knows what it means to be human and who meets us where we are, a God who uses all our imperfections, our hurts, our weaknesses, our resistance, even, to bring about good and draw us nearer to him.

And this is a story to remind us that scripture is complex and rich and that there is always more to it than meets the eye, much like adoption.