While the so-called culture war has in our time elevated the status of Genesis, it is the second book of the Bible, concerning the exodus from Egypt and the sojourn in the desert, during which God established at Sinai a covenant with Abraham's descendants, that has (by far) the most significance for Judaism. The original authors seem to have shared this view of what's most important. The Yahwist's narrative about Joseph and his brothers, which I skipped over in my post on Genesis, is characterized by brilliant storytelling, our appreciation of which is augmented by the creeping recognition that its function is largely utilitarian: it gets the people into Egypt, where they have to be in order to proceed with the crucial part of the story.
If we find the set-up more interesting than the main event--and I do--then I think it is because in the book of Exodus the work of the Yahwist is eclipsed by the material from the priestly source. Especially in the book's second half, while the people are encamped at Sinai, the determined reader faces the stultifying task of wading through considerable evidence of the priestly writer's interest in the building specs for two objects of worshipful veneration, the "Tent of Meeting" and the "Ark of the Covenant." Thus we meet page upon page of this kind of thing:
They shall make an ark of acacia wood; two cubits and a half shall be its length, a cubit and a half its breadth, and a cubit and a half its height. And you shall overlay it with pure gold, within and without shall you overlay it, and you shall make upon it a molding of gold round about. And you shall cast four rings of gold for it and put them on its four feet, two rings on the side of it, and two rings on the other side of it. You shall make poles of acacia wood, and overlay them with gold. And you shall put the poles into the rings on the sides of the ark, to carry the ark by them. The poles shall remain in the rings of the ark; they shall not be taken from it.
That's concerning the ark. Let us not give short shrift to the tent, also known as the tabernacle:
Moreover you shall make the tabernacle with ten curtains of fine twined linen and blue and purple and scarlet stuff; with cherubim skillfully worked shall you make them. The length of each curtain shall be twenty-eight cubits, and the breadth of each curtain four cubits; all the curtains shall have one measure. Five curtains shall be coupled to one another; and the other five curtains shall be coupled to one another. . . .
Had enough? Multiply by fifty or more. While the Jews are stuck at Sinai, Bible readers are stuck with the priestly writer.
By default, the first part of Exodus is of more interest. It describes how, after the death of Joseph, the people of Israel were reduced to slave status in the reign of a less friendly Pharaoh. There is a charming account of the unusual circumstances surrounding the birth and youth of Moses, who, before God recruited him to intercede with Pharaoh on behalf of the enslaved Hebrews, had been raised in Pharaoh's own house. These intercessory interviews do not go well, for Pharaoh continually and formulaically "hardens his heart," and, despite the afflictions wrought by a series of successively more baleful "plagues" meant to impress upon him the strength of Israel's God, does not relent. A contrarion may feel a grudging admiration for the willful Pharaoh, but I do not think that is the intent of the narrative.
I should say that, as we progress through the first couple books of the Bible, myth begins to merge into historicity. Searching for "the historical Adam" makes about as much sense as scouring records in an effort to discover who Tantalus really was. But the nomadic way of life depicted in the second part of Genesis, including customs connected to marriage and hospitality, is in line with what we know about human culture in the Mideast, circa 2000 B.C. When we come to the exodus from Egypt, we are plainly meant to regard it as an actual event. This is where brisk modern rationalists might begin to rebel. The annals of ancient Egypt have been searched in vain for even a fleeting allusion to the contretemps with the Hebrews. The identity of the Pharaoh with the hard heart has been the subject of scholarly inquiry. Ditto for the body of water (it could not have been the Red Sea) that swallowed up Egypt's finest after miraculously "splitting" to allow the Hebrews to flee. Various naturalistic explanations have been advanced to account for the plagues, for the mysterious pillars of cloud and fire that showed the way in the wilderness, for the manna and quail that fed the people--and for that great escape at the Sea (wherever it was). To me, it all seems sort of silly and unsatisfying. Shouldn't God, being God, have foreknown Pharaoh's hard-heartedness and just cut to the chase with the death of all the first-born? And speaking of things that God should know, why the instruction that Hebrews smear animal blood on the lintels of their homes, so that they would be "passed over"? Might God otherwise be confused about addresses and kill someone innocent?
But weren't Egypt's first-born innocent?
It seems to me that it's not advisable to spend a lot of time trying to distinguish what actually happened from the subsequent embroidery supplied by authors rendered unreliable by their passionate devotion to Israel's cause. There is also the removal in time to consider. Many of the laws set out in the book of Exodus are evidently designed to regulate life in a settled, agricultural state. Since the people of the exodus would have been wholly unacquainted with such a way of life, it appears that the biblical authors imposed current concerns on centuries-old "historical" material. Yet we are told to take it all as the inerrant and infallible word of God.
On the other side of the ledger, there is in Exodus a leitmotif relating to the wavering faith of Moses's people--and of Moses himself--that I find very attractive. When the people are on the march in the wilderness, they regularly complain about hardships--the lack of potable water, of tasty food, of all creature comforts. The bluntness of the complaint can hardly be overstated:
And the whole congregation of the people of Israel murmured against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness, and said to them, "Would that we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the fleshpots and ate bread to the full; for you have brought us out into this wilderness to kill this whole assembly with hunger."
Moses's reaction to God's voice from the burning bush is likewise unheroic. If I may paraphrase: No, not me! I won't know what to say. The people won't believe me. I am not eloquent. Please, someone else. Anyone else! It's a little humorous, actually. Moses argues with God, is not satisfied with the assurances he receives, raises new objections, receives more assurances but persists with his complaint, until finally "the anger of the Lord was kindled against Moses." The upshot is that his brother Aaron is appointed his aide. Imagine George Washington receiving that kind of treatment. Or the gallant soldiers with whom he crossed the Delaware on Christmas.