572 The Math Doesn’t Work

Intro

If you would, open to Exodus 1. We are stepping into the world of the Old Testament. As we do, there are a few things I want us to carry through this entire book:

It sounds obvious, but Exodus picks up exactly where Genesis left off.

Genesis ends with Joseph’s bones in a coffin in Egypt.

It’s a strangely hopeful ending.

A famine has been survived.

A family has been rescued.

Seventy of Jacob’s family went down into Egypt because God raised one man from a prison cell to the palace.

Exodus begins by naming those same people again—almost word for word. It repeats the end of Genesis.

The author wants us to feel the seam between these books. Genesis is primarily a story of God’s promises. Exodus shows us what happens to those promises—it’s just not the way anyone expected.

The family God rescued has become Egyptian slaves.

Preservation has become persecution.

Before Joseph dies, he says, ‘God will certainly come to your aid.’ Genesis ends with his bones in a coffin in Egypt. But even his bones are waiting for an exodus.

God wasn’t surprised. Centuries earlier, God told Abraham that his descendants would live as foreigners, be enslaved and oppressed, and afterward be brought out.

Now, that does not make Pharaoh innocent, or Israel’s suffering good. But it means their suffering hasn’t carried them away from the purposes of God.

Israel is enslaved.

Their sons are being killed.

And God appears to be silent.

Exodus is the story Israel tells to remember who God is—the God who saw, heard, remembered, came down, and brought his people out of slavery. Everything else in the book rests on that foundation.

Before God gives Israel his law, he gives them grace. He is the God who delivers.

One more thing before we step into the story:

Watch who is named in this passage.

And watch who does not.

In the Hebrew Bible, the book of Exodus is called שְׁמוֹת (Shemot)—“Names”—because it begins, “These are the names.”

This is a book about a God who knows the names of people empires overlook.

That matters more than we might expect.

So here’s the question that pops in my head as I start reading Exodus:

What is God doing when everything we see seems to contradict everything he has promised?

Movement 1 — The Math Doesn’t Work

Exodus 1:1–7 CSB

1 These are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt with Jacob; each came with his family: 2 Reuben, Simeon, Levi, and Judah; 3 Issachar, Zebulun, and Benjamin; 4 Dan and Naphtali; Gad and Asher. 5 The total number of Jacob’s descendants was seventy; Joseph was already in Egypt. 6 Joseph and all his brothers and all that generation eventually died. 7 But the Israelites were fruitful, increased rapidly, multiplied, and became extremely numerous so that the land was filled with them.

Seventy people. That’s where Exodus begins. Not “the twelve tribes of Israel.”

Just a few names.

The text almost slows down to count them on its fingers.

That’s not a nation.

That’s not even a small town.

That’s a medium-sized wedding at best.

Then verse 6 happens almost in passing: “Joseph and all his brothers and all that generation eventually died.”

They’re all gone.

Everyone who remembered the famine and the family reunion—all gone.

Seems like a good place to end the story.

Instead, verse 7 causes a double-take: “But the Israelites were fruitful, increased rapidly, multiplied, and became extremely numerous so that the land was filled with them.”

Listen to the words piling up:

Fruitful.

Increased.

Multiplied.

Extremely numerous.

Filled the land.

This is familiar language from Genesis 1-2.

“Be fruitful.”

“Multiply.”

“Fill the earth.”

This is the language of creation.

It also reminds us of God’s promise to Abraham—that his descendants would become as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sand on the seashore.

A promise made to one childless old man is appearing centuries later in what looks like a census.

Pharaoh thinks he is dealing with a population problem. But he is actually placing himself against the blessing of YHWH. And God keeps his promises—quietly.

The math doesn’t work.

Seventy people shouldn’t become a nation.

A promise should not keep growing for centuries without anyone visibly managing it.

But it does.

God hasn’t spoken publicly. No miracle has occurred. No sea has divided. But the promise is still multiplying.

Movement 2 — When Growth Becomes a Threat

Exodus 1:8–14 CSB

8 A new king, who did not know about Joseph, came to power in Egypt. 9 He said to his people, “Look, the Israelite people are more numerous and powerful than we are. 10 Come, let’s deal shrewdly with them; otherwise they will multiply further, and when war breaks out, they will join our enemies, fight against us, and leave the country.” 11 So the Egyptians assigned taskmasters over the Israelites to oppress them with forced labor. They built Pithom and Rameses as supply cities for Pharaoh. 12 But the more they oppressed them, the more they multiplied and spread so that the Egyptians came to dread the Israelites. 13 They worked the Israelites ruthlessly 14 and made their lives bitter with difficult labor in brick and mortar and in all kinds of fieldwork. They ruthlessly imposed all this work on them.

“A new king, who did not know about Joseph, came to power in Egypt.”

That phrase is doing more work than it first appears.

It’s likely not a lack of information.

To say that Pharaoh did not “know” Joseph likely means more than that he had never heard Joseph’s name. Whatever he knew historically, he ruled as though Egypt owed Joseph nothing.

Can you imagine? Remembering Joseph would have made Pharaoh’s next actions harder to justify.

Exodus begins with a king who refuses to remember Joseph. But soon it will remind us of a God who remembers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

God doesn’t forget. When Scripture says God remembers his covenant, it means his covenant faithfulness is moving into visible action.

So Pharaoh looks at Israel’s growth and doesn’t see God’s blessing.

He sees a threat.

He sounds a bit like a national security report:

“The Israelite people are more numerous and powerful than we are. Come, let’s deal shrewdly with them; otherwise they will multiply further.”

Pharaoh doesn’t start by saying, “I hate these people.”

He implies, “These people are dangerous.”

Fear turns neighbors into threats. Suspicion justifies control. And control becomes cruelty.

So Pharaoh plans to bring the population back down.

Taskmasters.

Forced labor.

Beat them down.

The Israelites are forced to build store cities filled with wealth they will never enjoy, using bricks they will never own.

Verse 13 says they worked the Israelites ruthlessly

Don’t slide past that word.

Pharaoh isn't simply putting them to work. He is trying to grind a people down.

And verse 12 told us why:

“But the more they oppressed them, the more they multiplied and spread.”

It doesn’t work. The harder Pharaoh presses, the more Israel multiplies. Pharaoh controls the labor. He controls the bricks. He controls the cities. But he does not control the promise.

The math still doesn’t work.

Oppressed people are supposed to grow weak. Pharaoh has the army, the economy, the taskmasters, and the throne. Israel has none of those things.

Yet they grow.

You can feel the tension growing in the text.

Pharaoh’s power and cruelty are real.

Israel’s suffering is intense.

But Pharaoh’s power isn’t ultimate. No ruler can overturn what God has promised.

This doesn’t mean oppression is harmless, or that every faithful person will see answers when they are suffering. It means Pharaoh can wound God’s people, but he can’t cancel God’s covenant purpose.

And when oppression fails, Pharaoh does what frightened rulers do.

He escalates.

Movement 3 — The King Commands, the Midwives Fear God

Exodus 1:15–22 CSB

15 The king of Egypt said to the Hebrew midwives—the first, whose name was Shiphrah, and the second, whose name was Puah—16 “When you help the Hebrew women give birth, observe them as they deliver. If the child is a son, kill him, but if it’s a daughter, she may live.” 17 The midwives, however, feared God and did not do as the king of Egypt had told them; they let the boys live. 18 So the king of Egypt summoned the midwives and asked them, “Why have you done this and let the boys live?” 19 The midwives said to Pharaoh, “The Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women, for they are vigorous and give birth before the midwife can get to them.” 20 So God was good to the midwives, and the people multiplied and became very numerous. 21 Since the midwives feared God, he gave them families. 22 Pharaoh then commanded all his people, “You must throw every son born to the Hebrews into the Nile, but let every daughter live.”

Forced labor isn’t getting the job done, so Pharaoh turns up the heat.

He moves from economic oppression to secret, state-sanctioned murder.

He summons two midwives who serve the Hebrew women.

Shiphrah.

Puah.

He gives them the terrible assignment of killing the baby boys.

Remember, we said pay attention to the names.

Pharaoh—one of the most powerful men in the ancient world—is never named.

Egypt would carve his name on walls, statues, buildings, and royal inscriptions.

But Scripture does not bother to tell us who he is.

He is simply “a new king.”

Just a title.

But the author gives us the names of the two midwives who refused him.

The book called “Names” refuses to give Pharaoh’s name, but it carefully remembers Shiphrah and Puah.

Empires remember kings. But two ordinary midwives serving enslaved women?

Shiphrah.

Puah.

Heaven and empire prioritize differently.

Verse 17 tells us why Pharaoh could not own them.

“The midwives, however, feared God and did not do as the king of Egypt had told them; they let the boys live.”

Shiphrah and Puah feared God.

Two midwives, serving enslaved families.

Were they afraid of Pharaoh? Almost certainly. They just feared God more.

They refused to become instruments of death.

They didn’t storm the palace.

They didn’t raise an army.

They simply kept doing their jobs.

Over and over they went about their jobs, delivering precious babies, boys and girls. Quietly and courageously doing what was right instead of what was commanded.

Who would even notice?

Heaven noticed. Heaven makes sure we remember them by name.

Exodus is going to walk us alongside Israel as God sends plagues, signs, wonders, and a divided sea.

But here, before any of the spectacular signs, God works through ordinary people who quietly decide:

I will fear God more than I fear man.

Most of the time, faithfulness that matters most doesn’t look heroic in the moment.

Sometimes it looks like refusing to cooperate with evil.

Protecting the vulnerable person in front of you.

Choosing obedience when it may cost you.

Evidently Pharaoh noticed too. He calls the midwives back and demands an explanation.

They tell him that the Hebrew women are vigorous and give birth before they arrive.

We don’t know if their story is entirely factual or just quick thinking under pressure. The narrator isn’t focused there. The emphasis is clear:

They feared God.

They saved lives.

Pharaoh failed again.

One king with an empire. Two midwives with no power at all. The math still doesn’t work.

But, verse 20 reminds us, “So God was good to the midwives, and the people multiplied and became very numerous.”

And the promise keeps multiplying.

So Pharaoh escalates again.

This time, he no longer gives the command privately to two midwives.

He commands everyone: “You must throw every son born to the Hebrews into the Nile, but let every daughter live.”

Evil doesn’t sit still. Pharaoh enlists the entire population into his violence.

The Nile was Egypt’s great source of life. Pharaoh turns the river of life into an instrument of death.

Every newborn Hebrew boy is condemned to die.

But there’s an irony Pharaoh can’t see:

Pharaoh marks the sons for death and permits the daughters to live. But the women and girls he disregards will dismantle his plan.

Shiphrah.

Puah.

A mother.

A sister.

And eventually, Pharaoh’s own daughter.

The women Pharaoh disregards will become the means of undoing his plan.

God hasn’t yet spoken a word.

And no one knows that Pharaoh’s dark plans are about to collide with one household’s small act of rebellion.

God hasn’t yet raised up a deliverer, but he is already preserving life through people who fear him.

Movement 4 — One Household’s Small Rebellion

Exodus 2:1–10 CSB

1 Now a man from the family of Levi married a Levite woman. 2 The woman became pregnant and gave birth to a son; when she saw that he was beautiful, she hid him for three months. 3 But when she could no longer hide him, she got a papyrus basket for him and coated it with asphalt and pitch. She placed the child in it and set it among the reeds by the bank of the Nile. 4 Then his sister stood at a distance in order to see what would happen to him. 5 Pharaoh’s daughter went down to bathe at the Nile while her servant girls walked along the riverbank. She saw the basket among the reeds, sent her slave girl, took it, 6 opened it, and saw him, the child—and there he was, a little boy, crying. She felt sorry for him and said, “This is one of the Hebrew boys.” 7 Then his sister said to Pharaoh’s daughter, “Should I go and call a Hebrew woman who is nursing to nurse the boy for you?” 8 “Go,” Pharaoh’s daughter told her. So the girl went and called the boy’s mother. 9 Then Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, “Take this child and nurse him for me, and I will pay your wages.” So the woman took the boy and nursed him. 10 When the child grew older, she brought him to Pharaoh’s daughter, and he became her son. She named him Moses, “Because,” she said, “I drew him out of the water.”

The story zooms in from 30,000 feet to a living room. From an empire’s decree to one mother’s decision.

A baby boy was born. There should have been celebration. But not this day.

Verse 2 says: “When she saw that he was beautiful, she hid him for three months.”

The wording is important. His mother saw that he was “beautiful” or “good”—language that echoes creation. Pharaoh sees a threat to eliminate; she sees a life God has made and entrusted to her.

Maybe this hits me differently because I’m about to become a grandfather. I watch my son and daughter-in-law prepare for a boy they already love. Here, a husband and wife—we later learn their names were Amram and Jochebed—prepared for a boy they loved, knowing the king had already sentenced him to death.

Jochebed hid him for three months. Three months of:

holding their breath every time the baby cried.

panic whenever someone walked past their door.

Eventually, hiding him becomes impossible. So his mother gets a basket.

The Hebrew word is תֵּבָה (tevah).

That word appears in only one other story in the Hebrew Bible. Only one.

Noah’s ark.

She makes a tiny ark. She coats it with asphalt and pitch, places her precious child inside it, and sets it among the reeds along the bank of the Nile.

Once before, God preserved human life in an ark carried through deadly waters. Now a mother makes a tiny ark, and God preserves the child through whom Israel’s deliverance will come.

She places him in the very river he was supposed to die in. The place of death becomes the path toward deliverance.

But the tension is only building. Now Pharaoh’s own daughter comes down to bathe!

She sees the tiny ark.

From the riverbank, his sister—who we later know as Miriam—watches as Pharaoh’s daughter sends her servant to retrieve the basket. She cannot know whether she is watching a rescue or an execution.

He cries, and verse 6 says: “She felt sorry for him.”

That small moment of compassion changed everything.

This is the daughter of the man who ordered this boy’s death.

This is Pharaoh’s daughter. She knows exactly what kind of child this is. Preserving him means disobeying her father’s decree. Yet compassion proves stronger than Pharaoh’s command.

One mother. One sister. One basket. Against an empire. And somehow Pharaoh is still losing.

The sister quickly approaches and offers to find a Hebrew woman to nurse him. Pharaoh’s daughter agrees.

And the woman brought to care for the child is his own mother.

The irony is almost impossible to miss.

Pharaoh’s household pays a Hebrew mother to raise the very child Pharaoh ordered killed.

The palace finances the childhood of Israel’s future deliverer.

Pharaoh controls the decree, but God controls the outcome.

God has a strange and quiet way of doing exactly what he planned to do.

A condemned child lives.

A slave mother is paid.

A Hebrew boy enters the royal household.

The machinery constructed to destroy God’s people becomes the means to preserve their deliverer.

We breathe a sigh of relief with Amram and Jochebed. But don’t forget: Moses’ rescue did not end Pharaoh’s decree. It didn’t silence the grief in other Hebrew homes. Providence doesn’t make suffering painless.

The preservation of this one child doesn’t change the pain. But it does mark the beginning of the downfall of the evil that caused it.

When the child is older, Pharaoh’s daughter gives him a name: Moses. “Because,” she said, “I drew him out of the water.”

Pharaoh wanted his own name to endure and this child to disappear. Exodus does the opposite. The king remains unnamed. The child he couldn’t kill gets a name: Moses.

Within the story, his name becomes a sign of his calling. The child drawn out of the water will one day lead God’s people through the water.

The Discovery

Go back to the beginning.

Seventy people and a promise made generations earlier to one childless old man.

Now an empire sees that promise multiplying within its borders and decides it has to be stopped.

Pharaoh escalates from forced labor, to secret murder, to a public policy of drowning children.

God says, “Be fruitful. Multiply. Fill the land.”

Pharaoh says, “Oppress them. Kill the sons. Fill the river with death.”

In a sense, Pharaoh is trying to make God’s world run backward.

Pharaoh can fight the blessing.

He can wound the people carrying the blessing.

But he cannot reverse the blessing of YHWH.

And here is another great irony in this text.

Pharaoh can see Israel multiplying, but he can’t see what God is doing.

The man who appears to control everything understands almost nothing.

Before Moses ever confronts Pharaoh, five women have already begun to unravel Pharaoh’s world:

Two midwives.

A mother.

A sister.

And Pharaoh’s own daughter.

Pharaoh has the title. They have the names. Pharaoh has the empire. They have almost no power at all.

The math still doesn’t work. But Pharaoh is still losing.

God has not spoken a word in this text. If you were an Israelite slave, he must seem absent. But the narrator shows us his hand in every scene.

He is multiplying his people.

Frustrating Pharaoh’s plans.

Honoring courage and compassion.

Preserving the child who will become Israel’s deliverer.

God is silent. But he is not absent.

Israel can’t see an end to the slavery. They can’t see an answer to their prayers. They can’t see what God is doing.

But deliverance is already floating among the reeds.

Scripture will tell this kind of story again. This will not be the last frightened king who tries to secure his throne by killing children.

Centuries later, Herod will hear that a king has been born and order the death of the boys in Bethlehem.

Another child will be preserved.

Another Deliverer will come out of Egypt.

Moses will lead God’s son, Israel, out of slavery.

But Jesus comes as God’s true Son to accomplish a deliverance Moses could only anticipate.

Moses escaped Pharaoh’s death sentence.

Jesus willingly entered ours.

At the cross, everything looked like the promise had failed.

The Messiah was dead.

The disciples had scattered.

The authorities had won.

The stone was sealed.

The math did not work.

But what looked like the end of hope became the place from which salvation came.

God raised Jesus from the dead.

The cross became the means of victory and the grave became the doorway to resurrection.

So when we talk about trusting the hidden providence of God, we’re not trusting an idea. We are trusting the God who has already taken history’s darkest apparent defeat and turned it into salvation.

Where This Lands

And that matters because we live between the deliverance Christ has already secured and the day when we will finally see it in full.

We know the promises. We know the end of the story.

But sometimes we look at our lives and think:

There is not enough strength.

Not enough time.

Not enough progress.

Too much opposition.

Too much pain.

The math does not work.

Does God see me?

Does he remember me?

Is he doing anything at all?

Remember how Exodus began: “These are the names.”

Pharaoh may not know your name. The empire may never remember your name.

But the God of Exodus knows the names of people the world overlooks.

He sees.

He remembers.

Exodus doesn’t ask us to pretend the pain isn’t real.

Israel really is enslaved.

Pharaoh really is powerful.

Children really are dying.

God really does seem silent.

But Exodus teaches us not to confuse God’s silence with his absence.

That doesn’t mean every painful circumstance will turn out the way we hope.

Many faithful Israelites died without ever seeing the exodus.

But not one promise of God failed. And not one faithful life was forgotten.

So when you’re at the breaking point and you can’t imagine how God could possibly work this out, we remember the reeds.

Israel’s deliverer was already there before anyone recognized him.

God’s providence is never an excuse for passivity. In this story, the providence of God keeps showing up through the obedience of ordinary people.

The midwives refuse.

The mother hides and prepares.

The sister watches and speaks.

Pharaoh’s daughter sees, feels compassion, and acts.

Very often, his providence moves through the ordinary faithfulness of people who fear him more than they fear the consequences.

You can protect the vulnerable person in front of you.

You can refuse to cooperate with evil.

You can show compassion.

You can speak when it is time to speak.

And you can keep faithfully doing the work God has placed in your hands.

Even when deliverance doesn’t come in the form we hoped, the resurrection guarantees that it will finally come in a form no Pharaoh, no grave, and no power can prevent.

The God who kept his promise to Abraham,

who preserved Moses in the Nile,

and who raised Jesus from the grave

hasn’t stopped working.

You may not see the burning bush yet.

You may not hear the answer yet.

You may not understand the math yet.

But his promises are still working.

His providence is still moving.

And his deliverance may already be nearer than you know.