Biblical teaching generally pushes Christians to advocate for submission to authorities, whether in politics or in the church. Paul’s words are often quoted: “Let everyone be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established” (Rom. 13:1)
Yet other Scriptures suggest that our loyalty to those in power should be understood in relation to our ultimate allegiance to God.
Famous examples in the Old Testament include Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, who were sentenced to death for refusing to bow to King Nebuchadnezzar’s golden image (Dan. 3:16–18), and Daniel, who was convicted for defying the king’s decree against praying to God instead of him. In the New Testament, when Peter and John were thrown into prison for refusing to comply with the authority’s command to stop preaching in Jesus’ name, they stood firm, saying, “We must obey God rather than human beings” (Acts 5:29; see John 19:11).
But one often-overlooked story is found in Exodus, where two minor characters were deemed so important to Israelite history that their names—unlike the unnamed mighty kings of Egypt—were preserved for posterity: Shiphrah and Puah.
When faced with the threat of destructive power, these two women demonstrated courage and inner freedom that can inspire the way we as Christians work and serve in a fallen world today. Their audacity to defy Pharoah shows us what it means to serve and fear the Lord in the face of evil.
The Book of Exodus continues the story that began in Genesis. From a small family clan, Israel became a whole people: “The Israelites were exceedingly fruitful; they multiplied greatly, increased in numbers and became so numerous that the land was filled with them” (Ex. 1:7). This growing foreign population made the Egyptian powers uncomfortable.
A new pharaoh arose and created fear in his fellow native Egyptians, convincing them that the Hebrew people were an imminent threat to the safety and well-being of their nation. In his mind, the presence of a population group which had not assimilated into the society’s dominant culture created an us-and-them dynamic: “‘Look,’ he said to his people, ‘the Israelites have become far too numerous for us. Come, we must deal shrewdly with them’” (Ex. 1:9–10).
Pharaoh began by putting the Israelites to work, oppressing them with forced labor. But the building tasks he imposed on the Hebrew people were not enough to keep them from multiplying. So, Pharaoh’s desire for control then turned to a tactic of terrible cruelty.
Pharaoh wanted to attack the flourishing of the Israelites, but he didn’t dare risk the revolt of his workforce by assaulting adults. Instead, he opted for a cowardly yet foolproof method of destabilizing and demoralizing the population. He summoned two Hebrew midwives, Shiphrah and Puah, and told them to kill all the baby boys born to the women of their people.
Imagine for a moment the horrific task Pharaoh was forcing upon these women: smothering a newborn baby, or perhaps breaking its neck, discreetly, right next to the baby’s mother, who had just given birth. In the monstrosity of his thoughts, Pharaoh wanted to make monsters of the midwives and make them directly complicit in crimes against their humanity.
But then the story shifted: “The midwives, however, feared God and did not do what the king of Egypt had told them to do; they let the boys live” (Ex. 1:17).
The midwives’ actions were not merely an act of obedience to rules (this was, after all, before Moses and the Ten Commandments) but also acts of faithfulness to their vision of what is righteous, just, and good, grounded in their fear of God. They didn’t hide behind a command from their earthly ruler but instead reckoned with the divine consequences of their actions.
When Pharaoh summoned the midwives to account for the failure of his plan, their response was simple: “Hebrew women are not like Egyptian women. They are vigorous and give birth before the midwives arrive” (Ex. 1:19).
What are we to make of this lie, which Scripture—unlike some commentators—hardly seems to hold against them? That’s another question their story raises.
First, it’s important to note that the exception does not make the rule. The Bible’s clear and consistent concern for truth rules out using this case as general permission for deception. But this was a case of great necessity. Shiphrah and Puah were trying not just to save their own heads, careers, or reputations but also to protect a whole community from very real and immediate peril.
Ethically, their choice to resort to the evil of verbal lies seems far preferable to the gruesome lie of treating human life as negligible.
German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer came to a similar conclusion in his unfinished essay “What Does It Mean to Tell the Truth?” Well known for his opposition to the Nazi regime, the pastor warns against a “formal, cynical notion of truth” of the philosophical (Kantian) sort, which does not take into account the reality of a situation or relationship at hand.
While he sees the risks of the formula, Bonhoeffer calls for a “living truth.”
“Lying is the negation, denial, and deliberate and willful destruction of reality as it is created by God and exists in God to the extent that it takes place through words and silence,” he argues. According to this definition, there is far more falsehood found in Pharaoh’s demands than in Shiphrah and Puah’s response. In fact, the midwives’ united audacity ultimately tells the truth about the inescapable failure of the Egyptian king’s plans to defy the will of Israel’s God for his people.
Shiphrah and Puah refused to be cogs in a violent political machine. In response, God entered the scene at the end of their story—not only to spare them from the wrath of the Egyptian king, but also to show them kindness and bless their families for their act of defiance (v. 20).
But this ancient king of Egypt was certainly not the first or the last to entertain such horrors. In a significant biblical parallel, the story of Advent begins with a citywide genocidal massacre of baby boys, ordered by King Herod—another powerful man seized with paranoia and insecurity amid rumors of a child who was said to have been “born king of the Jews” (Matt. 2:2).
In both cases, tyrannical rulers either directly or indirectly dehumanized a vulnerable population, seeing each group as nothing more than a political or demographic problem to be solved in order to preserve their own power and control.
In an act of civil disobedience similar to that of the Hebrew midwives, the Magi defied Herod’s order to return and report on the child’s whereabouts, choosing instead to protect Jesus’ life. And just as Pharoah ended up finding other willing participants to carry out his evil orders, Herod did the same.
Every oppressive political system relies on individuals who obey instinctively, without regard to the moral impact of their actions on themselves and others. Throughout history, the big fish have often left their dirty work to smaller ones. But the worldly hierarchies of our day do not allow people to offload their responsibilities before God and toward the rest of humanity.
To follow evil orders like Pharoah’s and Herod’s, you have to become less than human—to act like a robot and carry out orders without independent thought. You have to focus on fulfilling your civic duty regardless of the brutality it calls for. You have to prioritize man’s favor over God’s values and desensitize yourself to the negative human impact of your actions.
Whenever we demean or dismiss the equal humanity of others, we damage and threaten our own humanity in the process. Not only that, but if certain people—whoever they may be—can be viewed and treated as just a number, a statistic, or a sociopolitical problem to solve today, who’s to say we won’t be treated the same way for a similar reason tomorrow?
Many historical examples, including the tragic fate of Bonhoeffer himself, prove that resistance to evil is not without risk. Yet the midwives and the Magi remind us that God is the main character of history and that our accountability and allegiance ultimately belong to him.
Whatever the scale, every generation of believers will face abusive leaders who devalue what God cherishes and damage what God created. But in every age, we are called to align with God’s living truth over the destructive lies of earthly powers.
This is why I believe the biblical authors preserved the names of minor characters like Shiphrah and Puah—to help us as God’s people to persevere in fearing him when the world calls upon us to join in its evil.
Léo Lehmann is CT’s French language coordinator as well as publications director for the Network of Evangelical Missiology for French-speaking Europe (REMEEF). He lives in Belgium.
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