A Burning Bush [Proper 17A - Exodus 3:1-15]

The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Exodus 3:1-15

 

A Burning Bush

St. John’s, Essex

 

It was a pin prick in the universe.  It was a lonely ember in the ashes of an exhausted fire.  It was a single star pushing through the cloudy cover.  And it was God.

 

Such a subtle turn in the career of the Creator.  Once before a time, God spoke and worlds were created, planets in their courses; whales filled the salty seas of this island home; comets crossed the skies; velvety blackness dominated the edge of everything.  With a word, so much, much more than a human mind could ever comprehend.  And now, that God: the size of a cozy campfire. 

 

In a world that needed much bigger.

 

Moses was, at this point, a husband and a father, and a shepherd.  Also a fugitive.  His story was captivating.  He was born under a death threat.  Set sail in a tiny ark on a big river.  Found salvation in the arms of the enemy.  Was raised a royal.  But let that life go because he was stirred by injustice and killed an Egyptian who was beating an enslaved Hebrew.  Disowned by his own and hunted by those who raised him, he fled for the desert.  And in the desert, he was reborn and restarted.  Egypt: a distant collage of complex memories. 

 

He was minding his own business, or rather the business of the family into which he married.  And he was fine, content.  But also curious.  Curious enough to stop.  And stare.  And turn aside.

 

The bush was blazing, yet it was not consumed.  It was a sight to behold because it defied Moses’ experience of a desert.  In the desert, fires do consume.  And they spread.  And they do not stop until they run out of fuel.  But this fire did no such thing.  It did not consume.  It did not spread.  And it did not stop.  It just kinda sat there and burned, but without burning anything.

 

And that was enough, as far as curiosities go.  Plenty interesting.  Unusual enough to capture the imagination of a man who was accustomed to wandering with animals around a barren wilderness landscape.  It was a story he could tell around the well. 

 

But then the bush talked.  Or rather a voice called to him out of the bush – in this case, an important distinction.  And the voice knew his name.  He escaped to this desert to get lost, to start over.  He left infamy in Egypt to fall in with strangers, a tribe that knew nothing of his checkered past.  And it worked.  He built a quiet life in the middle of nowhere.  No longer a prince; far from the Wanted posters.  He was happy to be unknown.  But then this strange voice in this peculiar bush spoke his name.

 

God briefed Moses on the misery of those enslaved in Egypt.  But Moses already knew the story.  And, in a past life, he even tried to help.  But he was just one man.  And his efforts proved futile.  And dangerous.  And so he moved on and moved into a new life, a quiet life.

 

Moses was likely pleased to hear that God had come down to deliver the suffering souls of his former country.  He was probably a little confused as to why God was telling him, personally and individually.  And why God was conveying this happy report from a mysterious bush.  But good news is good news and you take it when you can get it. 

 

However, this was more than just a news report.  It seems God buried the lead.  Moses didn’t know he was part of the plan until the last line of the paragraph: the “so come, I will send you.”

 

That is where the good news becomes something else.  And now Moses, standing barefoot in the desert, talking to a burning bush that is not burning, has concerns and reservations.  And they are justified.  He just started his family.  He left Egypt for a very good reason: to not die.  And he already had a job.

 

And also, couldn’t God do this without him?  God said to Moses, “I have come down to deliver them from the Egyptians.”  So why not just do that?  Instead of the bush thing, instead of recruiting a middleman, why not just get right to the rescue?  Why be a flame in the shadows?

 

In a world that needed something much bigger?

 

And still does.

 

It seems like the God who made it could just fix it.  But doesn’t.  At least not yet.

 

Instead, the God who spins the planets and breathes life, mostly keeps a secret career.  Small and largely silent.  Typically unseen.   I don’t know why.

 

The salvation story is not a short story with a tidy conclusion.  It is a series of small unfolding miracles: a burning bush and a split sea, a baby in a manger and an empty tomb.  And a witness or two trusted to tell the tale of a subtle God whose love is slowly turning hearts to justice and the world into something more beautiful.

 

God hears the prayers.  And sees the pain.  And has come down, to be here, with us, for us.  And sometimes I do wish it was all more obvious.  But silence is not absence.  And small miracles have a way of making a big difference.  And though shrouded in mystery, God is present.  And if you look closely, there are signs.