Skeptics, you know, make a big deal out of the lack of Exodus evidence. There’s not a single archeological piece of proof, says my friend Herb, who eats cookies, cakes and doughnuts during Pesach, but not a single bite of bread.
He interprets “leaven” a little differently than his 9 million fellow worshipers. (I gave up on Herb 20 years ago when he began faithfully observing Shabbat every Tuesday. “How do we know which day our Creator got started on the universe? The Book don’t say. It mighta been Wednesday — that makes Tuesday the seventh day.”)
But when it comes to Passover, some cynical scholars support Herb in his suspicions. Not a single hieroglyphic or cuneiform wedge mentions the victorious immigration of our ancestors. But then again, ancient rulers would spend a ton of gold describing their successes, but not a penny for defeats. There are numerous carvings of Pharaoh’s triumphs, processions of captives — battle scenes where guys with the big “P” (for Pharaoh) on their helmets are chopping up the king’s enemies. But there’s not one carving or picture of a horde of frogs/vermin and locusts eating up an Egyptian city. Or a river red with blood. “Not one,” says Herb.
Nothing has changed. The P.R. office of the New England Patriots will print a million words about three Super Bowl titles, but sorta forget the year when they went 1 and 15. So, the pharaoh of the Exodus didn’t build a temple to Isis whose walls were engraved with a tale of 10 ghastly plagues and the loss of his chariots and army in the Red Sea followed with a P.S., “OK, I guess their God was stronger than our God.” Bad enough to suffer humiliation in this generation — why prolong the embarrassment for two millennia more? So much for the lack of proof.
Ancient rulers (modern ones, too, come to think of it, like Bill Clinton and George Bush) don’t advertise their losses. They’re like Herb, who comes back from the casino with long stories about the fortune he won at blackjack, but not a brief whisper of the beating he took at roulette.
So, the pharaohs, when they scored a triumph, would send out P.R. guys to decorate every temple in town and any big rocks they found out in the suburbs. Their decorations were flattering, naturally. They never told the story of the king’s deficit in the grain budget. Or how a lowly shepherd boy sorted out Pharoah’s dreams. And they certainly didn’t tell the world and later generations that a band of slaves made a fool out of the ruler of all Egypt.
I’m careful to explain all this to Herbie at our corner bar on a non-Tuesday so he can take notes; I carry his wallet. How else could he buy me a beer on “his” Sabbath?
But arguing with Herb is like killing weeds in your yard. Pull a dandelion, another pops up.
“But 600,000 hungry Jews fresh from the flesh pots of Egypt walking in circles in a desert — what’s to eat??!!” He’s screaming and the guys at the next table are listening. I can tell they agree with Herb because they all three in chorus say, “Yeah, what’s to eat in a desert?”
I explain about manna growing on plants and lean quail falling out of the sky. There’s an old midrash, known only to me, that explains this was the first historical appearance of the low-carb diet concept.
“But the quails and manna, that’s only in our book — there’s no proof,” says Herb.
“And there’s no proof of the Trojan War except in a poem by a guy named Homer who drank an awful lot of wine,” I throw back at my argumentative friend.
And I’ll take the word of the star prophet of Israel over a loopy poet who has his eye on royalties, anytime!!!
Just to lock up my victory and convince the guys at the next table (who are making all kinds of side bets) I point out that all we know of historical truth is usually in a book. Archeology cannot dig up the immigration of ancient peoples from Hittites to Huns, the panic of 1843, the 30 Years War, the color of Napoleon’s eyes, or the amorous preferences of Cleopatra. All of this is only in a book. As soon as the generation affected steps off the human stage, you are hostage to faith. Whether it existed or not depends upon your belief in the book. Everything depends on a leap of faith.
Ted Roberts is a humorist based in Huntsville, Ala.