Burning bushes
The Hebrew text in Exodus 3:1 indicates the shepherd was doing what he usually did--taking care of the flock for Jethro. It's possible that the shepherd, though an embittered man, was thinking about his people back in Egypt. He named one of his children 'Gershom' because he couldn't forget that he was exiled, separated from his own. Be that as it may, it was in the middle of another ordinary day, or at least, in the middle of one that began that way, that the man met God in an extraordinary way. There, with sand in his clothes, hair and between his teeth. There, with the parched land, the whispering wind, the throbbing heat and the smell of sheep he was confronted with an old and awesome Ally.
Was it some natural event? Like St Elmo's Fire, which sailors often see out at sea? Perhaps, but after forty years of shepherding wouldn't you think the shepherd had seen more than a few instances of all those natural things? Wouldn't you think he had become at least accustomed to such sights? And doesn't the text suggest that the man finds this experience unusual? He came near and someone (who knew the shepherd's name!) told him to go barefoot, the ground had been made holy, not by the bush, but by the presence of an indwelling God. Among other things, this text suggests we find God at times in surprising places.
A burning bush is a good symbol of God who burns without needing any external help. If the shepherd had ever lit a fire he would have seen a bush burning until it was consumed and known full well that the fire died with the bush. That was because the fire was taking its strength from and depending for its existence on the materials surrounding it. When they were gone, the fire was gone. It had no independent life.
On this occasion, the fire continued to burn without having to draw on its surroundings. We're told that God appeared to Moses in a 'flame of fire' which is self-sustaining. Here is a God who depends on nothing and no one for his existence; one who isn't kept alive by the power/strength/life of his worshipers or servants. This truth mustn't be lost on us. We need a God who is close to us, a God who is like us (since we're 'in his image') but we're in dire need of a God who is unlike us, who is altogether other than us, who is in that ultimate sense independent of us. God forbid that we should depend on a God who depends utterly on us!
A burning bush is a good symbol of Israel, which was, even at that moment, in the heat of trouble and trials but would not be consumed. Given Israel's situation in Egypt--still they flourished. How was that possible? What was it that was frustrating the purpose of Pharaoh to consume and curse Israel? The blessing of God who was ever with them. The God who spoke from the bush had assured both Abraham and Jacob that the people would go down into Egypt and although (he tells Abraham) they would be oppressed while there, He would preserve them and bring them out of bondage (Genesis 15:12ff; 46:3-4). The secret behind the blessing in the midst of oppression and the deliverance from the rapist was the presence of the indwelling God. The Church of God needs to experience and enjoy this truth.
A burning bush is a good symbol of people who go through some horrendous experiences or prolonged suffering without being destroyed. Haven't you seen people who left you speechless with their bravery? By their refusal to be embittered? By their refusal to be put off as they seek God in righteousness and sincerity? And aren't we persuaded that whatever else is true about situations like that, God is showing himself in it? That we should go barefoot because we're on holy ground, we're in the presence of the holy One?
I know a woman who had thirteen children, whose life was way too hard (the details only her family really know), never got her head above water, suffered numberless disappointments, wrestled with illness and debt. It's now when I look back on my mother's life and remembering her cheerfulness, her compassion toward needy neighbors and the sick in our district (only God knows how many came to our door to see if Cassie McGuiggan could advise or help); it's now when I think of the nights with very little sleep or none at all because one or more of the children was sick, of too little food for herself, too few clothes, too little help, too little encouragement and then dying before her time--it's now, looking back on all this and remembering her faith that I realize I was in the presence of God--I should have gone barefoot.
When I think of the women I saw in my boyhood around our district who quietly but bravely opposed (often at awful cost) the whining or bullying of their husbands and insisted that they act like honorable men; women who bore the indignity of their poverty with the dignity of princesses--I realize now, I should have gone barefoot.
When I look at some of the TV documentaries and watch people who live with brave eyes and unbowed hearts through an endless stream of abuse and injustice, who ask for nothing, who aren't part of the protesting crowds when the TV pictures are taken because they are out there somewhere scratching in the ground trying to feed their families--when I look at them, I know I'm in the presence of God. I should go barefoot.
When I see the masses of people being worn down, lowering their standards, joining the crowds of those who insist that society owes them 'a living'; when I see the bulk of us settling for the pathetic, lapsing into bitterness, endlessly finding fault with everyone else, acting as though we were one of the people in the Third World or Eastern Europe when in fact, things could hardly be better, just needing a bit of fine tuning; when I see people whose days are frittered away in doing nothing but what their impulses suggest, in passing what's left of their lives planning and doing only what is pleasant to them--when I see all this, I realise that while burning bushes aren't completely absent, they are few and far between. And it's because our societies are so filled with those of us who throw in the towel so easily that 'burning bushes' are so special. You see a different indwelling spirit there, you hear God speaking to you out of a common burning bush, "the place" becomes holy and you have to go barefoot. Now and then, as I go through another ordinary day I see visions. Like the gentle and cheerful woman who lives two hundred yards from me and whose crippling illness makes her walk bent almost double and she has to look up just to say hello. Or the bright-eyed, giggling woman with her daughter and grandson I saw recently in a distant city. I speak reverently before God when I say she was the most disfigured lady I've ever seen. In coming into contact with such people I suddenly see something that makes me wonder and I feel the impulse to go barefoot.
©2004 Jim McGuiggan. All materials are free to be copied and used as long as money is not being made.
Many thanks to brother Ed Healy for allowing me to post from his blog, the abiding word.com.
