Moses' last letter: 'How I loved that brilliant ebony woman'

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December 17, 9:52 AM

by Rabbi Ben Kamin, Spiritual Life Examiner

Dear Joshua, my loyal successor:

As I sit here perched atop Mt. Nebo, looking over the Promised Land that I will not enter, I write my final confession.  Though I have passed through so much and know that history will judge me, I only know the ache in my heart for my true love, my magnificent Ethiopian darling, the one my brother and sister dismissed as “inappropriate” for me because of her color.  What kind of freedom march did I truly lead, my young student, if the love of my life is dismissed because of her magnificent black skin?  Woe into all human lovers, if that is a legacy of my life.

Now I see sweet Canaan from the distance, but I see it through my lover’s eyes.  Protect Shachara for me—she is still so young and I am about to die here on the mountain.  In my final moments of life, I send my whispered prayers of regret and rectitude across the winds, down into the valleys of fig trees and sunflowers, sworn to my predicament by the ineffable decrees of this God who rewarded me with new love after my wife Zipporah died.  Gazing down into the stony hills of Israel, I breath in its citrus-scented orchards into my nostrils, and all I can do is weep for never seeing my darling again.  Keep this a secret, Joshua, that it may not enter the chronicles because I dread any judgment of my love because she and I were not of the same race.

I was a quiet shepherd who became a freedom marcher; I was a boy born to Hebrews but raised by Egyptians who then led the Hebrews out of Egypt.  I’m understood as a mighty messenger but in fact I had a stutter, eschewed public speaking, and had my older brother Aaron do most of the public speaking—especially when we were up against Pharaoh.  The only thing I ever wanted is love.

I’m identified as a rabbi, though life itself was my seminary.  My raven-haired wife Zipporah, rest her soul, wisdom-faced and filled with pastoral kindness, was no Hebrew.  She was the daughter of the high priest of Midian!  Her father, Jethro, became my paternal bridge of affirmation after the seismic events of Egypt and the Red Sea.  He was my father, when I needed a father to tell me: “I’ve seen what you did and heard what God did to free the slaves.  Good!  Now I know who really is God.”  Even if he didn’t pray the way we did, he gave me that sure sense of footing, that pat on the back that only a parent can.  How I loved him—for that moment and many other moments of advice and counsel he gave me!

.And the woman I took to my flesh later in life, after losing my wife—yes, she was black, and shimmering—a high-shouldered Ethiopian of effusive spirits and soft hands.  The Bible never even endows my later lover with a name—she is written off as “the dark woman.”  But I remember my beloved Shachara, her husky voice, her good clean river smell, her almond eyes, and her forbearance for my moods.

If only all the biblical scholars knew how much I loved that brilliant ebony woman.

--Moses

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