The Living Mystery of God
The Third Sunday in Lent, March 20, 2022
Exodus 3:1-15 • 1 Corinthians 10:1-13 • Luke 13:1-9
Moses has fallen far. He has been brought up in luxury in the court of an Egyptian princess, and then lost it all by losing his temper and killing an overseer who was abusing a Hebrew slave. In fear for his own life, he has fled to his father-in-law, Jethro, and is now a shepherd, living in poverty and obscurity.
What was going on in Moses’ mind as he led his flock out of the wilderness to the holy mountain of Horeb? Was he recalling his experiences of growing up as a fake Egyptian, witnessing the struggle of his own people? Was he analyzing what had finally led to his lethal anger over the abuse of a slave? Was he dwelling on all he had lost, and where his life had ended up?
We can never know. What we do know is that his feet and his flock led him to a dramatic encounter with the mystery of the living God in the bush that burns without being consumed. I was struck this time in my reading that Moses, despite his absorption in the sheep and his thoughts, notices the burning bush, and that it is only when God sees that Moses has noticed, that God calls to him. Moses could have walked right by, missing it entirely. But he doesn’t. God calls to him to take off his shoes. He is standing on holy ground.
Last week we heard the narrative of the ancient covenant between Abram, Sarai and God. And as Davey reminded us, how Abram was continually surprised that, even though they had traveled far from their priests and altars, the God who had called them out of Ur was always with them. That this God listened, answered and led.
Today, in this story with Moses, we find that this God is still listening, answering, and leading. Yes, Moses has grown up living a lie. He has killed a man and fled, but God is still with him, and has plans for him. Moses will lead his people out Egypt, out of cruel slavery, and all will be well.
As Moses imagines how it will go when he approaches the Pharoah with his audacious request for the freeing of the Hebrew slaves, he wants to know how he should refer to this living God. After all, the Pharoah is familiar with many gods, all with a small g. This God, who is found in all, not just a few places, tells him somewhat cryptically, ‘I am whom I am’. There is no name, no one place where this God is or isn’t, no one realm of activity. This is instead an incomprehensible living mystery, unrestricted by location, sphere, or time.
There is much for us to be nourished by in this story. Despite its extraordinariness, I think we can all find our way in. Each one of us has found ourselves lacking and lost at points in our lives. Each one of us has experienced time when the old has fallen away and the future unclear, even perhaps dark.
The burning bush was burning whether or not Moses spotted it. The land was holy whether Moses realized it or not. The incomprehensible living God was absolutely present for Moses if Moses chose to notice and engage with God. And, as we know he does.
That Moses had lived a lie, denying his people in the honey pot palace in Egypt, had committed an act of murder, and then run away did not mean that all was lost. God found Moses, was with him and had work for him to do, just as God has had with all the other less than perfect characters in our scripture narratives. And just as God is with us, whatever we do.
Moses was out on a holy mountain when he encountered his burning, but not burning bush. But haven’t we all had an experience of something dazzling and unexpected. Something that feels so extraordinary that it feels like an encounter with God, Godself.
Mine was when I was sitting under a big old oak tree at the Stanford Dish. All was quiet and beautiful. When suddenly some kind of enormous bird of prey took off from its branches. Suddenly my world was fragmented, with a thunder like cracking of branches, a wild wind, huge beating wings and golden eyes. I was entirely lost in some other reality – and it was unmistakably holy in every dimension. What a gift!
Many of you will know Annie Dillard’s 1974 memoirs, ‘Pilgrim at Tinker Creek’. She remembers a young friend of hers, blind from birth, who had had surgery to restore her sight. On having the bandages removed, the first thing she saw was what she called ‘a tree with lights’. Dillard continues the story:
“.....Then one day I was walking along Tinker Creek thinking of nothing at all and I saw the tree with the lights in it. I saw the backyard cedar where the mourning doves roost charged and transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I stood on the grass with the lights in it, grass that was wholly fire, utterly
focused and utterly dreamed. It was less like seeing than like being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by a powerful glance. The lights of the fire abated, but I’m still spending the power. Gradually the lights went out in the cedar, the colors died, the cells unflamed and disappeared. I was still ringing. I had been my whole life as a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck. I have since only rarely seen the tree with the lights in it. The vision comes and goes, mostly goes, but I live for it, for the moment when the mountains open and a new light roars in spate through the crack, and the mountains slam.....”
The living mystery, that is God, is all around us, ready to flame spectacularly into our awareness. We cannot understand it. All we can do is notice it, and be willing to engage with it. Recognizing that with it, we can accomplish infinitely more than we can imagine. For ourselves, for our communities, and for the whole world. And there is much work to be done.
“Another world is not only possible, she is on her way.
On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.”
“All shall be well, all manner of things shall be well.”
Words: Arundhati Roy & Julian of Norwich Music: Ana Hernandez