Moses
sat with his back against the stone. Holy
ground didn’t prevent his feet from blistering and bleeding. It was just then he realized that he had been
carrying his sandals the whole time. And
so now he leaned forward to put them back on.
He shook his head in disbelief. “Well,” he thought, “That was the last
time he
would leave a flock of sheep to climb a mountain!” Nobody expects God to show up on a mountain
behind the wilderness. What is God doing
out on a mountain in the middle of the wilderness?”
Moses
screamed. All he could hear was the
distant mewing of his sheep and his wail . . . echoing down the mountain. He was truly alone—truly alone. In his anger, he picked up his staff and
threw it further down the mountain. The
momentum from his throw caused him to slide down his backside, over rocks and
shrubs, long past the staff he had thrown.
Not a smart move.
He
had come to the wilderness to lose all the palace intrigue and hypocrisy. Funny . . . how standing up for that one
Hebrew against his Egyptian taskmaster had led to what he thought was a quiet
and isolated life on the backside of the wilderness, had led to a burning bush
on the mountain, was leading him right back to . . . . Moses heaved a deep
sigh. That singular moment of reflection
made him wonder. . . . In a moment he had seen an Egyptian taskmaster beating a
Hebrew to death. How many Hebrews had
been beaten to death without a witness?
Without an advocate? Without an
avenger of blood?
Still . .
. he was tired. His one act of seeing a
Hebrew as a human being had led to all this?
“I was not made for this!” he shouted over his shoulder, still seated,
back up at the burning bush. He was
afraid to try and turn around, lose his seated balance, and go further down the
mountain on his backside. “I am not a
m-m-messenger. Do you hear me? I am not a m-m-messenger! I like it out here . . . away . . . n-n-not
bothering anyone!”
Silence. This God of the mountain and the wilderness did
not seem to care about his excuses.
Worked right through all of them.
Replied to him once and that seemed to be enough. Did not seem to have a need to win the
argument or prove anything. Said it
once. And Moses knew. The words arose softly out of the burning
bush with a depth and character that Moses had never heard before.
Moses
pushed himself up and, carefully and slowly, went back up the mountain to
retrieve his thrown staff. Once he had
it, he continued back down the mountain, slipping and falling, grumbling and
complaining, each step of the way. He
imagined the Pharaoh of all
As
the sun began to set, Moses looked for a secure rock where he could rest
comfortably for a moment. To his right
was a ledge which looked back over the wilderness. There he sat, and from his perch he could see
his flock waiting for him, sheep who would go where their leader led them,
trusting that whatever they would find in the wilderness would provide for
their daily needs. He had to lead them
while remaining connected to them.
How
odd, Moses thought, that this God seemed unconcerned about conquering the Egyptians
and their god Ra or any other god. Unlike
Ra. He knew Ra was only concerned about
power, conquering, and heavenly battles. Moses had been taught that gods showed their
worth and mettle by granting one people power over another. Therefore, his Egyptian teachers had taught
him, Ra’s power was on constant display as the Egyptian people ruled and
conquered.
This
God was not Ra. This God didn’t ask for
vengeance. “Just give us a little time
to worship freely,” Moses was to ask Pharaoh.
But both God and Moses also knew the character of Pharaoh and the
arrogance of
Moses
knew that most gods had made themselves known through people in power. Gods lived and died based on the success of
their worshippers in battle. Ra was God
because
So
who was this God? Who was this God who
did not fear the power and wrath of Pharaoh?
Should he fear Pharaoh with all his military might and economic
wealth? Or this God who heard the pain
of slaves and responded? Yeah, responded
through him. He imagined
trying to say to Pharaoh, “Let my people go!” without stuttering or his voice
cracking. He practiced. “Let m---y people go!” Great.
Wonderful. He shouted back up the
mountain, “I would have ch-ch-chosen someone else!”
Who was
this God who had him approaching the chariots and war horses of Egypt with a
shepherd’s staff? He could not believe
the new thing this God had done with his staff.
How would Moses handle this new thing?
Why was he supposed to show his faithfulness with this new thing? He looked at his staff. “A big stick,” Moses thought. “Am I supposed to imagine I can do anything
differently with this big stick?” Moses
stood, this time turned fully around, and shouted back in the direction of the
bush, “How about a s-s-sword or a m-m-magical helmet? S-s-something?” He looked at his staff and sighed. Again.
Silence.
By
knowing and calling out the names of Ra and the gods of
And
Moses knew that such non-answer answers would make him real popular with the
Hebrew people. They would want evidence
that this God was more powerful than Ra, and Moses would point to his
shepherd’s staff and tell them about a God with no name—a God who just promised
to be there. Moses’ eyes grew wide as he
imagined that scene. He would
have to lead them and remain connected to them.
How difficult that would be if the people did not believe him, in the
plan of the unnamed God.
He
grasped his staff more firmly in his hand, turned it lengthwise, and looked it
up and down. He knew that what he had
experienced was true. He knew what he
had to do. The apathetic love of a God,
who lived in mountain and wilderness, gave him a confidence that the earth was
infused with a softer, deeper, and stronger presence than what he had ever reckoned.
Moses
was being sent, without excuse, to present himself to Pharaoh, speak truth, and
persuade the person who referred to himself as the sun, moon, and the
stars. Persuade the sun, moon, and stars
to let the Hebrew people go? A smile
creased the lips of Moses. What a
strange, odd God, who had the audacity to send a stuttering shepherd to the
sun, moon, and the stars.
It
had taken Moses just a short time to climb the mountain. It had taken all of his energy, all of him to
stand on holy ground, in conversation with this God. Now it was taking the rest of the sun’s watch
to come down from the mountain. He
imagined how much more time it would take to come down from the mountain and
live out this conversation with God.
As
he reached the bottom of the mountain and even ground, his pace picked up,
reaching the edge of his flock and changing their direction. Back to the middle of the wilderness. Not sure it was the way he wanted to go,
Moses wondered whether all God’s messengers were this reluctant? What happens when the messenger gets his head
chopped off or, worse yet, the Children of Israel don’t believe him and want a
new messenger? God promised to be with
him, but Moses did not remember any promises this God made about how safe he
would be.
In the end,
what did he have with which to return from the mount of vision?
He had previously been a man whose lack of tolerance for
injustice produced violence; now he was armed with words and a common thing he
would have to handle differently, a wonder-working object--not a sword or a
helmet, but a shepherd's staff.[1]
Moses
looked back up the mountain and yelled in what he thought was the direction of
the burning bush, “I’m going to n-n-need to kn-n-now you are with me. You had better b-b-be with me.” Silence.
He walked with his flock into the wilderness. Amen.
[1] Much of this sermon is
taken from Everett Fox’s interpretation of Exodus 3, in The Five Books of Moses, p. 272, and what it means to be a
self-differentiated leader.
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