Moses went up from the plains of Moab to Mount Nebo and looked down upon the land that had been promised.

In a time of terror you pushed me, mother, a crying baby in a basket, down-river.  Found by those enslaving our tribe, I grew up angry, committed murder, fled to the land of the Midianites.

Your memory remained, but I was alone; so, I pictured God in fire that didn’t burn, in a cloud with direction, a voice of thunder, a touch in the rain; but the skies cleared and when God disappeared nobody held me.

You were somewhere I couldn’t reach; so I searched for God, on Sinai or Horeb. My maps misled me; so instead, I pitched a tabernacle, met God in ritual that became routine and routine bored me.

When I was a baby you pushed me down-river.  My dear sister Miriam, nursed me with wisdom of Nature. I listened for floods, felt for fault-lines; but my faithless fear, drained waters at Meribah, and God condemned my claims on nature.

Miriam said work gave father self-worth; so, my brother and I, we worked and worked: Aaron conjured flies, frogs, maggots and sighs and that blood on a river! His staff made a snake that ate up all snakes and work swallowed me.

I strove to be good, kept writing down laws on tablets and doors – too many to absorb. My wife, a Midianite, summarised: ‘Love your God with your heart, soul and mind’, but I hated myself and murdered her tribe.

This was never a journey, there was no destination.  I was searching for you in ritual, work, imagination, law, wisdom and revelation.  Now, I stand faithless, forsaken.

Do I belong in the desert with Satan, comforted by his cynicism?  Be the angel to contend for me: I searched the Earth for loving kindness, I have longed to find some heavenly purpose.

Come to my side, dear mother, before this, my final journey: bless my head with a loving tear, then push me away, one last time, down river.

There, in a foreign country, Moses died. There has never been another prophet like Moses, whom God knew face to face.

 

2017