Moses was Egyptian

"Moses Was Egyptian” (text from a speech given at a diaspora conference)

There is a pericope found in the book of Exodus that has fascinated me endlessly. Many theologians, preachers, and Biblical scholars have wrestled with its meaning throughout the last two millennia. I have found myself pondering this passage for hours on end.

It was not until I started working with the Diaspora Project and really focusing on the identity of my people that something struck me.

In Exodus chapter three, it reads:

Now Moses kept the flock of Jethro his father-in-law, the priest of Midian: and he led the flock to the backside of the desert, and came to the mountain of God, even to Horeb. And the angel of the LORD appeared unto him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush: and he looked, and, behold, the bush burned with fire, and the bush was not consumed. And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt. And when the LORD saw that he turned aside to see, God called unto him out of the midst of the bush, and said, Moses, Moses. And he said, Here am I.

While most people focus on the nature of the burning bush and God’s revelation that comes in the following verses, it was “Moses, Moses” that most stood out to me. Why is God calling his name? Why is he calling his name twice? So I did a little digging to learn more about this man named Moses.

The story of Moses starts in the water. This Hebrew baby was placed in a river by his mother, and Pharaoh's daughter discovered him and named him Moses. For all intents and purposes, Moses was Egyptian. Raised in Pharaoh’s palace, bathed in Nile water. He was taught to walk like an Egyptian, talk like an Egyptian, and think like an Egyptian.

Did you know that Moses is an Egyptian name, not a Hebrew one? Yes, it is an Egyptian name that translates to “born of.” The name appears in Ancient Egyptian names like Thutmose (Toot-mose) and Ahmose (Ah-mose), meaning "born of Thoth" and "born of Iah," respectively. So while his people, the Hebrews, were being tormented in Egypt, Moses wore the name of an Egyptian.

Moses spoke Egyptian. His tongue was fluent in the master's language. His native tongue was the language of his oppressor. Moses dressed like an Egyptian. He wore silk robes and gold rings. He celebrated Egyptian holidays. He knew Egyptian dances. His first crush was probably on a little Egyptian girl. I’m sure at one point, he looked at himself and thought he was just an Egyptian. What did he know about being Hebrew? He looked like empire. He moved like the oppressor’s son.

Moses was an Egyptian.

When he finally came to his people, his real people, they didn’t recognize him. And truth be told, he barely recognized himself.

African Americans, does that sound familiar?

Because we, too, are a people born Hebrew but raised Egyptian. We, too, were born of the water, stolen from the shores and sold into the empire. We were given names that were not ours, taught a language that broke our tongues, clothed in customs that buried our memory.

Moses, Moses.

But beneath these foreign fixtures, there was something in Moses that knew. It was something in him that was ancient. It was something in him that connected to a people he had never known. Maybe it was written in his DNA, a blood memory that ached in his bones. Or maybe truth has a way of surviving the silence.

So here is Moses dealing with this duality. He is Egyptian in his experience but Hebrew in his heart.

W.E.B. Du Bois called it double consciousness. This conflict is not new to our scholars. Don’t we know this story well? The African and the American, being a native son and a stranger in the same skin. We were raised American. But we ain’t never felt American. We walk like Pharaoh’s kin, but we dream like Zion’s children.

Moses lived that too. He knew the ways of the palace, but the cries of the Hebrew slaves exposed something in the sequestered places in his soul. He could not un-hear them. He could not un-feel them. He was caught in this double consciousness.

And we, African Americans, too, knew. Even when they auctioned off our bodies like cattle, even when they beat the drums out of our hands…we still knew.

We braided maps into our daughters' hair. We hummed the homeland in our hymns. We called out in dreams to ancestors we couldn’t name. Because memory lives in the marrow. And Africa has always been in our blood, even when we had no language for her.

So Moses wandered in the wilderness. He was confused, ashamed, dislocated, disconnected, exiled, broken, bewildered, forgotten. But then he saw a bush on fire but not consumed.

And from that flame, God called his name. God did not say, “Son of Pharaoh.” He did not say, “Man of Egypt.” He didn’t call him an American. No, God said, “Moses, Moses.”

It was as if God was calling him back to himself, to give him back to himself. It was God calling him to remind him of who he was… to bring him back to remembrance of his true self… to give Moses back to himself.

Black folk in America, there is a bush on fire over in Africa, and it is calling us by name. Moses, Moses. It is saying, “come home, my child.” This is our burning bush moment. In Johannesburg. In Accra. In Dakar. Africa is calling us out of the fire. Calling us by names we never knew we lost.

We are the descendants of people who were sold like sugar and worked like mules so that Europe could dine with silver spoons and America could worship its Constitution. We have built their nations, nursed their children, given our brilliance, sacrificed our lives, but the bush is calling us from the flames.

Moses, Moses!

When Moses went to his people, they didn’t recognize him. He was foreign. He was no more than the child of Pharaoh's house. He didn't dress like them. He didn’t talk like them. He didn’t carry their name.

And when we show up to Mama Africa, we look foreign. We are dressed in the clothes of the empire. We speak the language of the colonizer and oppressor. We stand at the village gates, dressed in Jordans and jewelry.

But let me remind you: Though Moses walked like an Egyptian, he was chosen by God to deliver the Hebrews. It was not his disconnection that disqualified him. It was his disconnection that positioned him.

Moses was chosen because he had both worlds inside him. And so do we.

Who knows Pharaoh better than the one who lives in his house? We are the ones who have survived the plantation and the boardroom, who have mastered survival in Babylon but still dream of Zion.

So now, here we are, again, standing on African soil. We don’t speak the language. We don’t know the songs. We show up with passports, with pride, with pain.

And sometimes they look at us like strangers. But we ain’t strangers. Look past our accents and see our ancestors and call us by our name: Moses, Moses!

Let Africa not mistake our garments for betrayal. Let her hear the drumming in our dreams. We come not to imitate Pharaoh. We came to bury him. We come to build with you. To remember with you. To liberate with you. To tell Pharaoh with a resounding voice: let my people go.

Because when Moses stopped running and stood barefoot before the flame, God called him home. He called him by name: Moses, Moses. And he answered, "Here I am."