Sermon:
March 7, 1999

Scripture:
Exodus 3:1-14

I saw Moses' burning bush for the second time two weeks ago yesterday. Frankly, it wasn't any more spectacular in appearance than it was when I saw it for the first time, twelve years before. Pat commented, it really looked more like a large vine than a bush.

The bush is found inside the walls of St. Catherine's monastery, which is located deep in the red granite mountains of the Egyptian Sinai, in what has to be some of the most inhospitable real estate on the face of the earth, a landscape that looks like something beamed down from the surface of the moon. The monastery is surrounded by high walls, and for the first several centuries of its existence, there was no doorway; one gained admission only by being pulled up in a basket.

The monastery was built in 527 A.D. and named for Catherine of Alexandria, a saintly woman who was martyred a hundred years earlier. Legend has it that, upon her martyrdom, angels carried her body to this mountain and then revealed her burial place to some monks who were already living in the region. Monks had been living in this region for three hundred years before the monastery was built, but their presence had nothing to do with St. Catherine. The monks were there because of what that bush remembered.

There are several shrines near the monastery. A half mile away, at the opening of the valley, near an area that the Bedouin of the region use as a seasonal assembly ground, there is a small chapel that is said to mark the place where Aaron and the children of Israel built their altar to the Golden Calf. On top of the mountain, after a couple of hours of steep walking, you can see another chapel, this one said to be where Moses received the tablets with the Ten Commandments. There is also a church inside the monastery, where you can see centuries old icons and paintings, priceless relics that survived the destruction that came to so many early Christian shrines. And St. Catherine's houses a collection of ancient Biblical manuscripts and early Christian writings that is second only to that of the Vatican. But it started with the bush. Long before the collecting of the manuscripts or the building of the church or the monastery, before the artwork or the chapel on the plain or the one on top of the mountain, a small chapel stood beside this unspectacular bush. The art, the writings, the buildings are there because of the bush - or, more accurately, perhaps, because of what the bush remembers.

As I said earlier, as bushes go, I have seen better. We had one beside the garage in Midland that was far more striking, especially in the fall. Perhaps the one in the Sinai changes color with the seasons, too, although I don't remember our guide mentioning that, along with the other legends that he recounted; but even if it did, it would not explain the matter. The bush by our garage was called a burning bush because of its fiery color every autumn; the bush at Saint Catherine's remembers a different kind of fire.

But the fire did not happen while we were there. The bush did not earn its name either by roaring flames or by blazing color. It was a thrill to be there, to hike partway up the mountain, to see the ancient icons, to marvel at that incredible landscape, to recall the ancient story with a group of Christian friends; but the bush did not catch fire. The leaves stayed green; the twigs did not ignite.

I do not mean that statement to be heard as cynical in any way. I long ago came to appreciate Dr. James Fleming's observation that we should recognize that most of the churches and chapels in the Holy Land are where events have been remembered, whether or not they are always on the precise spot where an event occurred; and we should not expect to find footprints in the rock on the Mount of Ascension or pieces of the Cross on the slopes of Calvary or ashes from the fire around a bush.

However, my question this morning is not really about the bush of Moses - not about whether all or some of the intriguing legends surrounding it are true, or whether it is really the right bush or even if it is the right mountain. The last I heard, there were something like fourteen different mountains proposed as the "real" Mt. Sinai. I think that is, at least partly, the price you pay for requiring every candidate for a Ph.D. in Biblical studies to come up with an `original' doctoral thesis.

But that is a digression. My thought has to do with what that bush remembers - an encounter with God - and it seems to me that every life ought to have a bush like this one. Don't misunderstand me. I am not talking about something that would make our neighbors want to call 911 to report a fire, or head to some faraway place to free a bunch of slaves.

I am talking metaphorically here. I know everyone isn't into gardening. I know some have green thumbs and some cannot even grow things that flourish under benign neglect. I'm talking about a symbol that remembers a time when God touched our life and made it forever different. Understand, too, that I am not saying that everyone who looks at our bush will recognize what it means to us. As I said, as far as I was concerned, Moses' bush looked like a run of the mill vine to me.

But, ah, my friends, what such a simple bush can mean to the one who saw it flame!! A time when your breath caught in your throat - when your heart beat as it had never beaten before - or seemed as if it had stopped beating altogether. Ever had a moment like that? A moment that put goose bumps on your soul ... a moment when the fire burned?

In his book, Joys And Sorrows, the story of his life, Pablo Casals writes about the first time that he remembers going to church on Christmas Eve. It was in a small village in Spain when he was five years old. He tells of walking to the church with his father, who was the church organist. As he walked, he held his father's hand and shivered. He shivered, he says, not because he was cold, but because it was all so mysterious. These are his words:

I felt that something wonderful was about to happen. High overhead, the heavens were FULL of stars. We walked in silence. In the narrow, dark streets, there were moving figures, shadowy and spectral and silent too. Then suddenly, there was a burst of light, flooding from the open doors of the church. We moved into that light silently. Then, just as suddenly, my father broke the silence with music from the organ. We all sang. And when I sang, it was my HEART that was singing, and I poured out everything that was within me.... (Related by James Miller in Pulpit Digest, November-December 1982, p.20)

Well, you say, I'm sorry, but it just never happened that way for me. I wish it had; I wish it did; I wish it could. Sometimes the preacher keeps me awake; sometimes he doesn't. Sometimes there is a story I remember - for a little while, at least - or a joke that will fit in a presentation I have to give next week - or a thought that helps me along. But this mystical stuff, well, not really. After all, that has to be God's doing, doesn't it? I mean, God set the bush on fire, right?

But even as I agree that much of this is God's doing and not ours, I wonder if it is as one sided as that. Larry Burkett, writing in Moody magazine a few years ago (December of 1992), tells of a summer when he and his wife were traveling in North Carolina. He had a strong interest in old cars and he spotted several in back of a house, well off the road. Remembering that he had been less than enthusiastic some miles back when his wife had wanted to stop at an antique store, he didn't suggest that they stop and look at the cars. He was feeling rather good about his self-inflicted martyrdom, when, to his surprise, his wife said, "Did you see that?"

"Sure," he replied. Hardly believing his good luck, he ventured, "Uh, would you mind if we went back to take a look?" She said, "Okay," so he wheeled car around, drove back and pulled over as near as he could get to the old cars. But when he stopped the car and started to get out, his wife asked, "Why are we stopping here?"

He replied, somewhat cautiously, "Because this is where the cars are."

And she said, "But I wanted to go there," and she pointed to an antique store a little farther back and on the other side of the road. She hadn't noticed the cars; and he hadn't seen the antique store.

You get the point, don't you? Can it be that we become so attuned to our own interests in the world around us that we miss the road signs God puts in our paths?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning put it this way:

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
But only he who sees takes off his shoes,
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries ...

Again, don't misunderstand me. I am not suggesting that we can go about creating burning bushes by staring intently at blackberry vines. I don't believe that. I am not suggesting that we can create the experiences through which God speaks to us.

We do try to help with that in worship. I have to say that we do try; that is what worship is about. We hope to create the opportunities for such a moment here on Sunday morning. But we understand that holy moments cannot be programmed and scheduled, that what speaks to some may not speak to others. God may take the words of a sermon or the music of a choir or the notes of the organ or a time of prayer and create such a moment, but while some of that may be the work of worship and while much of that is God's doing, I would submit that a part of that rests with us as well.

There are some elements in this ancient story that may offer pointers to how we might make our spirits more open to such moments so that we do not miss them when they come.

Notice these words of the story: "... and Moses said, `I will turn aside and see this thing.'"

Big deal, you say! Who wouldn't? Who wouldn't? Maybe someone looking for old cars? Or antique shops? Or mulling over Monday morning's `to do' list? Or fretting about the latest flutter in the stock market? Or checking the fashions for church-wear these days? Or wondering how long the wait will be for lunch after church?

"I will turn aside and see this thing." It occurred to me in reading this passage one day that what is suggested here is that Moses could have walked on by! You may think that sounds incredible in retrospect, but he could have. Why else make the point that he decided to take a look? There was no voice shouting to him out of the bush. The voice came AFTER he turned aside. That is what the poet was pointing out. We roar on through the moment on our way to dinner after church, or to the completion of the task, or to the next chore, the next meeting, the next event, and we often miss the opportunity to see something on the way that may be more important than where we think we are headed. We need to learn to turn aside, to stop and see and hear. As Jesus told fretful people of his day, we need to CONSIDER the lilies, not just glance at them in passing.

There is something more here. The original language implies that there was more than a casual effort involved here. The New English Bible and the New International Translation read: "And Moses said `I must go across to see this wonderful sight,'" the suggestion being that this was more than a matter of simply stopping by the side of the path, that the bush was across the valley or that it required at least some effort on Moses' part to get closer. Anything wrong with that idea? I am not saying that it is not possible for God to knock us off our feet to get our attention; but perhaps he wants at least a little interest shown on our part to begin with. Why are we willing to exert all kinds of effort and energy in business or sports or recreation or life in general and think that the life of worship and faith should come easy? How hard DO we work at finding faith?

Another thing I would have us note about the experience of Moses is that it came to him in the midst of his work. This moment on the slopes of Mt. Horeb was not a religious pilgrimage for Moses; he was not out admiring the wonders of creation. Moses was tending sheep.

So part of what I am saying is that encounters with God do not have to happen in church. They can, and they do, but temples are not the only place to watch for them. The Bible record reports them many places. Moses was tending sheep; Isaiah was in the Temple in Jerusalem; Paul was on the road to Damascus; James and John were fishing; Matthew was collecting taxes; Zacchaeus was up a sycamore tree. The only constant element in the Biblical record is that there isn't any constant element except God. Which means, of course, that one person's bush may be another person's sycamore tree or fishing boat or highway marker or temple pew or tax booth. It isn't the bush; it is what the bush remembers.

I need to close with the reminder that Holy Moments with God lead to service. You know Moses' story. I am not saying we will all be called to that kind of service, just so you don't think I am simply urging you to cultivate some kind of religious feeling so you can go home and enter a date in your journal. This is about a call that makes our life forever different.

I asked you earlier if you had ever had one of those burning moments in your life. I invite you now to open your heart to one of those experiences in the present. You know by now that we are not really talking about bushes here. We are talking about what the bush remembers; we are talking about the call of God. It may come to you here in this sanctuary this morning in the quiet moments of our prayer time; or in the lifting of our voices in the song. Or it may come to you as it did to Moses, while you are at work; it may be at school or at home, as you go about the coming week.

The point is, be open to it; be willing to turn aside to see and listen. God is among us, everywhere. He calls us to serve Him in our time and when we hear and answer, most anything can be set afire - even a rather ordinary looking vine.