A few weeks ago, I was out on a bike ride on the Capital City Trail, between Dunn’s Marsh and Lake Farm Park. It’s a beautiful stretch of the trail, rolling terrain, some wooded areas and a lot of prairie. I love riding through the prairies in the summer—the scenery is a riot of color with purple coneflower, wild sunflowers, and rudbechia dominating the landscape. As I was riding along, I saw from the corner of my eye a flower I didn’t recognize, but it took me a second to process it and by then I was a few yards further down the trail and reluctant to turn back. 

Later, as I made my way back home the same way, I kept my eyes peeled for the same flower and when I saw it, I stopped took a photo, and identified it with my camera. It was prairie blazing star, a purple-spiked flower. There was just a small cluster of them in one spot just a few feet from the trail. I have biked the same trail several times since then, and I haven’t seen that flower again. Perhaps I haven’t looked for it, or I was too focused on other things, deep in thought, to notice it. 

The story of Moses’ encounter with God at the burning bush is one of the foundational stories of biblical tradition—the story of God’s self-revelation to Moses and God’s call to Moses. But it starts in such an ordinary, mundane way. Moses was going about his business, tending his father-in-law’s sheep.

A lot has happened since we encountered Moses as a little baby, rescued by Pharaoh’s daughter. He grew up at court, with all the privileges entailed, and when he was a young man out and about, he encountered a slave driver whipping a Hebrew worker, got angry and killed him. So he had to flee, and ended up here, in Midian, where he encountered Jethro and married his daughter.

I can imagine him there with a flock of sheep, no one to talk to, lost in his thoughts. He might have been wondering how he had gotten here, after living at Pharaoh’s court; he might have been wondering how his life might have turned out if he hadn’t done that one bad thing. He might have been wondering how his life would turn out now. He might have been feeling just a little bit sorry for himself. One boring day after another, watching a flock of sheep as they grazed.

And as he’s going about his business, on a day like any other day, he has an encounter with God. He sees a burning bush; it’s strange because the fire doesn’t seem to destroy the bush but it keeps burning. So he goes to investigate. On one level, this encounter with the divine is a straightforward theophany, the scholarly term used for such experiences of the holy. There’s a strange event—the burning bush; the divine address to a human, and the human’s response of fear and humility. Moses took off his sandals and hid his face. There’s also the divine self-revelation. I am the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. In Hebrew scripture, such theophanies often include a call or commission, as this one does: God tells Moses to go back to Egypt and lead God’s people out, to this place, to worship God.

But Moses isn’t having it. As I’ve said before, these stories from Genesis and Exodus depict many of the leading characters in complex ways. They aren’t all good. That’s certainly the case with Moses, even from what little we know so far. After all, he did kill that Egyptian, so at the very least, he’s probably hotheaded, rash. But now we see another side of him. He’s not going to accept the task God has set out for him without some discussion or debate. He pushes back, saying to God, “That’s all well and good, God, but who should I tell them has sent me?”

Now, in Hebrew scripture, names are incredibly important. They aren’t random but reveal something essential about the person’s identity. Jacob, which was said to mean “heel” for example, was called that because he was grasping the heel of his brother when they came out of the womb. Later, he would be renamed Israel after wrestling with the angel, which was said to mean “he strives with God.” 

So when Moses asks for God’s name, he is asking to know who God is, but knowing names also gave one some power over the one named. But God’s answer eludes Moses’ trap, and eludes our efforts to understand and control God as well. On one level, God’s response, “I am who I am” is the perfect comeback. It could mean, “Moses, don’t try to control me.” But the Hebrew could be translated in other ways, most significantly, in the future tense—“I will be who I will be.” 

It doesn’t just prevent Moses from defining or confining God into categories he’s comfortable with. It’s declaring to Moses that if he wants to know who God is, he will have to spend time with God; he will have to experience God, walk with God. And over the course of his long life, Moses would do just that. 

But it wasn’t just Moses. The same was true of other biblical figures—Abraham who God called out from his home. It was true of Jacob, who after wrestling with God was renamed Israel. 

And it is true of people in the New Testament, not least the disciples, who Jesus called to follow him. We see that with Peter, who made his great confession of faith, “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.” And yet a few verses later, when he hears Jesus speaking about what will happen to him in Jerusalem, Peter rebukes him, refuses to believe that Jesus might suffer and die—and in response, Jesus calls him Satan. He, and the other disciples would learn what Jesus meant by his prediction only by following him. They would learn, only by following him, who Jesus was and what it meant to follow him, to take up their crosses.

We often think we need to figure everything out, to know what we believe, know who God is. But as I’ve said before, sometimes, the questions we ask are more important, more revealing of ourselves and of God. Scholars have pondered for centuries just what God’s answer to Moses means. Those few words have opened up infinite speculation and questions that would have remained unspoken if Moses hadn’t asked his question.

Moses asked God a question. Do you have questions about God? Any questions about or for God that you dare to ask? 

Asking these questions, actually saying them out loud, opens us up to the possibility of deeper relationship with God. The God we encounter as we ask the questions is a more expansive, more exciting, more challenging God.

In addition to God’s answer to Moses, we learn something else about God in this reading. It’s something very important but often overlooked. God hears the cries of those who suffer. God responds to the oppressed. 

In addition to Moses’ question, there’s another question that emerges from today’s readings. God called Moses to lead God’s people out of bondage. Jesus called his disciples to take up their crosses and follow him. Relationship with God, relationship with Jesus Christ is not just about being or knowing, it is also about being called. And so the second question we are posed today is, “Where is God calling us?” Our inclination may be, given what Moses did next, given what the disciples ended up doing, that being called by God means big things—becoming a prophet, a saint, a hero of the faith. But close reading of scripture reveals something else, that God uses ordinary people, like you and me, and that God often calls us in very small, ordinary ways. So where is God calling you? Sometimes, that call from God may come in a spectacular event, like a burning bush; but sometimes it may be so small and quiet that we might be prone to miss it if we aren’t paying attention—like not seeing a prairie blazing star as we’re riding by.

Finally, remember that “God will be who God will be.” Among all the other things this means is that our deeper knowing of God, our deeper relationship with God, lies in the future, with all of its possibility and uncertainty. God is calling us all to new things, new adventures, and as we go, we will learn more deeply who God is and experience more deeply God’s love and grace.