In the letter I sent to the Parish earlier this week I quoted from Wendell Berry's poem, Wild Geese. And so, as I begin my reflections today, I want to share that poem in full.
Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer's end. In time's maze
over fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed's marrow.Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.
These last months journeying with Jesus, we have traveled downwind of great destruction. We have not gone unscathed, of course, but we have not experienced the same as our friends in the Okanagan.
There are images seared into my mind. There are stories, too, of those who stayed behind to save their livestock, their livelihoods, even as they had been told to leave. There’s the story of the teenagers at Camp OAC, evacuated just-in-time, evacuated just before the fires roared in and consumed the trees, the buildings, the grounds, leaving little behind.
And yet out on the water, a sign. Out on the water, the skeleton of a dock, and a white cross that remains: an emblem of downward mobility. An emblem of sacrifice. A reminder that though death comes for each of us, through Christ, death does not have the final word.
Today's gospel, where Jesus fights with Peter, offers that haunting reminder that Jesus' love will not be limited by our flinching discomfort.
We come to church today downwind of great destruction, and what have we today, but a story of fire. In this climate, what do we do with this striking image of Divine Presence as burning flame?
At first glance, and under these circumstances, our first impulse may be to turn away, to douse every last ember, for fire is destructive, fire is dangerous, fire consumes.
When Moses takes notice, perhaps he’s wondering about this too. A bush aflame. The grasses dried, the land is parching. The land is burning. In this environment, like ours, fire is a dangerous thing. Looking again, Moses’ attention is drawn to impossible reality: the bush is ablaze but not consumed. The fire is real, is present, but it doesn’t spread. It does not destroy.
No need to call the firefighters. But friends, is there a physicist in the room who can explain this to me? Of course there could be any number of explanations. Perhaps Moses is walking this patch of grass at Golden Hour, and with the setting sun at a particular angle, it appears the bush is on fire. That’s one response. Another might be Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poetic interpretation when she writes:
Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God,
But only he who sees takes off his shoes.
I like things to make sense. Really, I do. And yet if we try to collapse this story to the entirely rational, we lose half of it, don’t we? Whatever causes Moses to stop, he does. He stops and he focuses his attention on this magnificent sight. Moses notices, turns his attention, and listens to the voice who speaks to him, the voice who calls him by name. Moses listens to the voice that reminds him of who he is and of where he’s come from.
God speaks from the fiery bush, and in that encounter, Moses feels seen. He feels the fire of burning love. Moses is reminded of God’s love in a moment where he has no reason to believe it to be true. Following sheep around in some dead-end job while his people in Egypt endure backbreaking labour of their own.
The Divine voice speaks clearly, directly, acknowledging the plight of the people: What you’re dealing with. What I’m dealing with. The things that keep us up at night. The injustices of this world. The suffering we’ve experienced. The suffering of others. Into this void, God speaks. And God still speaks today. God still speaks, even if it seems—as it often does—that their is a drought of the Word of the Lord.
And I wonder: do we still believe that God speaks? Do you believe it?
Out on the land, tending sheep for his father-in-law, in the midst of the mundane everyday grind of life, God speaks, and Moses takes notice.
The bush is aflame but it is not consumed.
And we can make a lot of the words that are said. Indeed, we ought to. But in our drought-ridden province, the miracle of a fire that provides heat and light, one that does not consume or destroy, that’s something to take notice of. God is wild. God is powerful. God is wind and flame and so much more.
The words God speaks to Moses from the fire are not words of destruction, but words of life—if only we would listen. If only we turn our heads, take notice, and take off our shoes. And maybe you’re good at this.
Maybe you are the kind of person who looks for and notices every bush aflame. And if you are, we need more of that. We need more of that gift in our community, the people who listen deeply for God’s words of liberation and life.
Here’s what has been occupying my mind these last weeks. This sense of urgency. Not to do more. Not to put programs in place and to shore up our congregations from decline. It’s not about more money, more programs. At the heart of our urgency as a church is the need—the invitation—the call—to open our selves to the wonders of the divine who is—as I’m prone to say—as close as your very next breath.
We breathe without thinking, and yet God is the primordial breath on the waters of Creation. God leads Israel in the wilderness by cloud and by fire. God is the great wind that greets the disciples at Pentecost, with tongues of fire upon their heads. God is unpredictable, elemental. God’s spirit blows as she pleases, and God help us, sometimes we are so preoccupied with other things that we struggle to notice.
Sometimes it takes a burning bush. Or a dream. Or an unexpected encounter to remind us that God is here, that God has been here all along. What we need is here.
One Rabbinic Tradition tells us that Moses’ flaming talking bush has been burning since the beginning of time. Since the dawning of God’s creation dream, the bush has been burning, and nobody noticed. Not until Moses. Not until now. And who knows, maybe it was mere luck that he noticed at all. Maybe a couple of goats picking a fight cause Moses to turn his head. Sauntering over to break it up, shepherd’s crook in hand, the bush finally catches his eye. Moses sees the bush, takes in a swift breath and lets out a low whistle. And then he listens. He listens and then he responds.
And isn’t that we are called to do? Isn’t that the kind of people we are called to be in this world? Isn’t that precisely the people we Christians are called to be?
We are called to be the ones who stop. We are called to be the ones who take in a swift breath. We are called to be the ones who let out a low whistle when the presence of God appears. We are called to be the ones who listen, and then respond. Sure, like Moses, maybe we push back a little. Maybe we say “who am I that I should do this thing…” And let me tell you, all too often that’s when God says, “don’t worry, I will go with you.” What you need is here.
Moses isn’t the hero of this story. Sure, he looks, he pays attention, he responds to God’s invitation. But this is first and foremost the story of a God who is wild and powerful, whose flame does not destroy. This is the story of a God who is wild and powerful, whose heart is on fire for liberation. That all people would know and experience that they are beloved, worthy, valuable. That they need not strive to achieve whatever perfection the world has told them they need.
God is the flame who has always been there, will always be here.
And when we turn, and when we listen, the voice always says, “I have heard the cries of my people, and I will respond.” I have heard the cries for compassion. I have heard the cries for companionship. I have heard the cries for someone to listen. I have heard the cries for solace. I have heard the cries of the young, the elderly. I have heard the cries of the refugee. I have heard the cries of the queer teenager kicked out of their so-called Christian home, with no place to go. I will respond. And I want you to join me. I need people—people like you to be my witnesses.”
I wonder. As you think over your life. Maybe recently. Maybe long ago. Where have you seen God? What have been your burning bush moments? What have been the experiences that animated, that fuelled your faith, that set your heart on fire?
Would you do me a favour? Would you think about that this week? Where have you experienced those burning bush moments in your lives? How did they move you? How were you moved to respond?
You don’t need more than what you have. More than who you are. What you need, what we need, what we all need, is here.
