So it was Wednesday, and my day started out with a cup of coffee and the morning paper, as usual. Since it was Easter week, there was an article in the paper about the movie The Ten Commandments, which is typically shown on television around that time each year. The article was referring to a recent remake of the movie, and how it was incorporating a more modern approach to the story.
As I read the article, I heard a sound on my front porch. I stood up and walked over to the front door, wondering who or what could possibly be on my front porch at 7:15 in the morning. I opened the door and saw the neighbor’s cat, along with a dead mouse it had brought me as a gift. The cat had done this once before, years ago.
“Well thank you, Moses!” I said to the cat, and then I froze. It was one of those synchronicities I had become quite familiar with.
The cat’s name was Moses. And there I was, standing at the front door looking down at Moses and his gift. Or sacrifice, I thought. I had just been interrupted by a cat named Moses while reading about Moses. Yes, that was a good one. I could feel the chills and goose bumps. I said thank you to the cat and closed the door.
I walked slowly back to the kitchen table, trying to make sense out of my latest little coincidence. This one seemed far more interesting, more important, and more meaningful than most.
Did I mention that my middle name is Moses? Yes, indeed. My mom thought it would be an appropriate middle name for a baby that was abandoned by his mother. So I was named Harold Moses Phillips.
I sat back down at the table and wondered what the incident with the cat might mean, and it occurred to me that there could be far more to my middle name than I had previously considered. Moses was a leader. He delivered a message. Was I walking in his footsteps?
“Now hold it right there!” I can here the Christians saying. And the Jews. And the Muslims. And many others as well. “Aren’t you getting a little carried away here, Harry? Thinking that you’re another Moses, come to set people free?” And I agree with you, it was a ridiculous, far-fetched idea to consider. But remember, I was in a very strange and unfamiliar place at that point, and I was not viewing reality the same way you are. My life had become rather confusing, and I was looking for explanations, any explanations, that could help me make sense of it all.
So that morning I drove to school pondering the thought that I was somehow being told, by God no less, that I was to be a messenger of sorts. And from that vantage point, I could see my entire life leading up to that role. Everything seemed to fit into place – the abandonment in infancy, my identification with the less fortunate, my passion for religion and spirituality, my teaching profession. I saw it all, and it all fit together perfectly.
I arrived at school, walked straight to my classroom, and sat down at my desk. It was still early, and the students hadn’t yet arrived. I looked around at the posters and displays on the walls. Posters showing animals, skeletons, diagrams listing animals by class, genus, species. A whole room full of science. When I was in college, this was what I dreamed of having someday. And here it was, just as I had imagined it. But now I had moved beyond it all. I had discovered the reason behind it. I had found the why behind the how. And the why was much, much bigger!
It was in sixth period biology class that it happened. It was supposed to be a review session for a test the following day. We were discussing species migration, and for whatever reason one of my students asked a very unusual question.
“Hey, Mr. Phillips,” the student said. “Did humans ever migrate?”
Now, I don’t know why he asked that question. To this day, I wish I had asked him that. I don’t even remember which student it was. But had he not asked it, the rest of my story would have been very different. And you would not be reading about it.
It was one of those little things that can alter the entire course of your life. A key moment in which something happens, something seemingly insignificant, that changes everything. This was one of those moments.
“Well, it’s not really a question for science class,” I answered, “but sure, humans have migrated.”
I found the question interesting, so I continued. “In primitive cultures, humans often followed the migration of certain animals because that was their food source. Other groups of people moved with the seasons in order to be at the right place at the right time for vegetative food sources or for more hospitable living conditions. And any time there was a famine, you would see people move from one place to another.”
I thought of the Israelites, perhaps because I had been reading about them that morning. “For instance, you know the story of the Israelites – they moved down to Egypt during a famine, and wound up being enslaved for hundreds of years by Pharaoh. They survived, but I don’t think it played out the way they intended it to!”
I looked around at my students, but none of them were laughing, or even smiling. It seemed they either found no humor in my comment or had no idea what I was talking about.
“Come on guys, you know, the Israelites? In Egypt? The Exodus? Ever heard of the Exodus???”
Nothing. Blank faces, and shrugged shoulders. I was speechless. Then, finally, a voice from the back of the room said, “I know about the Israelites.” It was Suzanne, one of my brightest students.
“Good!” I said with relief. “Then you know what I’m talking about.”
Suzanne shook her head. “Not really. I don’t see what this has to do with migration. This isn’t going to be on the test, is it?”
The students laughed. I smiled. “No, it’s not. But I’m surprised the rest of you don’t know what I’m talking about. Don’t any of you guys go to church?”
I looked out at a classroom full of shaking heads. I couldn’t believe it. None of them knew about the Exodus, about all the trials and tribulations of the Israelites wandering through the desert.
I was determined to give them a very brief synopsis and then return to the test review. But first things first.
“The Israelites moved down to Egypt to escape a famine in their homeland. They ended up staying for hundreds of years, were enslaved by the king of the Egyptians, called Pharaoh, and then Moses came along and freed them.” There I was, talking about Moses in class. After having thought about him all morning.
“You guys have heard of Moses, right?” I asked.
The students all nodded. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“I certainly hope so,” I continued. “He’s one of the most important figures in history. Moses led the Israelites out of slavery. And they migrated back to the Holy Land, only they had to wander in the desert for 40 years before they got there. I’m really surprised you guys don’t know all this.”
I don’t know why, but this really affected me. How could these kids not know this stuff? I viewed it as common knowledge, and yet here was a class full of kids in their mid-teens who had no idea what the Exodus was or what it meant. A story that had been told again and again for almost three thousand years was being lost. This generation that sat before me was, for the most part, unaware of it. As I said, I was deeply affected.
I lost track of my thoughts for a moment, and I must have been staring at the class for far too long. The students began to move about uncomfortably and one of them said, “Mr. Phillips, are you okay?”
My attention snapped back to the classroom. “Sorry, guys,” I said, trying to smile. “My mind wandered there for a second. I think it’s important for you to know about the story of the Israelites. And I’m surprised that you don’t.”
“Well, why should we?” a student asked. “This isn’t church.”
The question struck a nerve.
“No, it’s not church. But this story is important. It is symbolic of the escape from bondage, of any type. The Israelites represent man’s condition, trapped by his own beliefs and limitations. And in order to escape his bondage, he must reach beyond his lower self, beyond his fears and his self-imposed limitations. He must shake free of the shackles of ignorance, call upon God, and free himself from the prison that he’s in.
“The story of Moses is the story of mankind, in many ways. They teach it in church, but it’s not just a religious story, or a historical record. It contains meaning. It teaches you that you must free yourself, and that to do so requires effort and faith. It’s an incredibly important story, and that’s why it has been passed on for thousands of years.” I finished talking and looked around at the faces in front of me. They looked puzzled. As if they had no idea what I was saying, or why I was saying it.
At that moment, I felt a jolt of energy. It was like a current of electricity that shot through my body, down my arms and legs and up my spine. I had the sudden feeling that these kids wanted me to tell them something. Something that would clarify for them why they were here, who they really were.
I looked at their faces and saw them not as teenagers in science class but as lost souls who had long since forgotten who they were. And their eyes seemed to be pleading with me to tell them.
Just then, the bell sounded signaling the end of class. The bell startled me and sent adrenalin surging through me. My heart thumped wildly in my chest.
The students began putting their notebooks in their backpacks. “What about the test, Mr. Phillips? We didn’t review much today.”
It was true. I hadn’t gone over much, and I had assured the class I would review everything in preparation for tomorrow’s test. It would have to wait until next week. But next week was Easter break, so it would have to wait until the week after that. All because I had gotten into a discussion about Moses.
The kids were starting to make their way toward the door, and I had to make a quick decision. “No test tomorrow,” I said. I heard a flurry of sighs.
“No homework, then?” one student asked. I thought for a moment. And then, following an impulse and without giving any thought to what I was saying, I blurted out, “Write something about Moses.”
The students stopped walking and turned toward me, eyebrows raised. “Huh?” several of them said.
“Write something about Moses,” I said again. “Anything. In honor of the holiday.”
“But why?” one of them asked. I felt annoyed by the question.“Why not? We talked about him in class. Just give it a little thought, and write something down. A paragraph or two, that’s all.”
I received some odd looks, but the students resumed their way toward the door.
“But Mr. Phillips, I don’t really know anything about him,” said a female voice. “How can I write about him?”
I thought for a moment. “Do you have a Bible at home?”
“Probably,” she answered.
“The beginning of the Bible is all about him. Or you can search on the internet. Don’t put much time or effort into it. Write anything you want. We’ll finish our discussion tomorrow.”
The class filed out, and I sat down in my desk chair. I folded my arms, took a deep breath, and looked up at the ceiling, trying to organize my thoughts. The last twenty minutes had seemed rushed, chaotic. I reviewed in my mind the scene that had just taken place, and gradually the impact of it hit me.
Not only had I discussed the Israelites in class, but I had sent the kids home with an assignment to write about Moses.
Was this going to get me in trouble?
Did I overstep my bounds?
Perhaps. But deep down, I knew I had done the right thing. These students had no spirituality in them whatsoever. They gave no thought at all to who they were, what they were. From my perspective, our society had failed them. It had failed to provide any encouragement, any stimulation along such lines.
Not that I had any particular agenda, other than to stimulate them. If they decided, upon further examination, that the whole God idea was bogus, that religion was a bunch of crap, I was fine with that. As long as they gave it some thought. As long as they decided for themselves, rather than swallowing whatever was being told (or not told) to them.
That was my point, I decided, as I sat at my desk that fateful afternoon. I just wanted people to think. To examine. To decide for themselves. I was tired of everyone just following the pack, deferring to whatever the loudest voices were saying.
I didn’t know what my role would be in all of this, but I had just thrown my hat into the ring.
However the cards were to fall, I was in the game.
I had sent a class full of teenagers home with a small but mighty task. In one sense it was no big deal – write a few words about a man who lived a long time ago. But in another sense, I was taking a step – my first step – toward something bigger, more meaningful, than all the teaching I had done for a decade.
I had opened the proverbial can of worms.
What would crawl out of it?
I would soon find out.
