Most people picture the burning bush as a display of power. They imagine a thunderclap, a shockwave, a divine spotlight that burns away everything insignificant. And honestly? That’s a fair take. Fire is scary. Fire consumes. If God is showing up in fire, you’d expect Moses to flinch.
But here is the thing about that scene in Exodus that trips up most readers: the fire didn’t burn the bush. It didn’t even scare Moses into running away.
The reaction wasn’t awe. It was curiosity.
— “Then he turned to one side and saw the angel of the Lord standing near him. Moses said, ‘If you have found favor in my eyes, please do not leave your servant.’”
Wait, that’s not right. Let me pull the actual text so we’re not guessing.
— “Now Moses was keeping the flocks of Jethro his father-in-law, the priest of Midian; and he led the flocks to the far side of the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God.”
— “And the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire from within a bush; and he looked, and behold, the bush burned with fire, yet the bush was not consumed.”
— “Moses said, ‘I will turn aside now, and see this great vision, lest this vision, seeing it, should perish.’”
See the shift? Moses doesn’t prostrate himself. He doesn’t shout “Lord!” He turns aside. He steps out of his routine. He stops shepherding. He stops managing. He looks.
This is the problem we need to address. We treat this encounter as a destination. We think, “If God is going to speak, it’s going to be dramatic. It’s going to be a voice from heaven. It’s going to be a dream.” So when God speaks in the quiet moments—when you’re washing dishes, when you’re stuck in traffic, when you’re lying awake at 2 a.m.—we miss it. We assume that if it isn’t loud, it isn’t real.
But Moses knew something different. He knew that the holy often hides in the ordinary. The shrub was just a plant. It grew in the wilderness. It had thorns. It was likely dry, given it was autumn and the year was turning. But in that dry, ordinary place, God showed up. And the sign wasn’t the destruction of the foliage. The sign was its survival. The fire touched it, but didn’t take it.
That’s the promise. God can touch your life with intensity—fire—and you might survive. You might even thrive. But you have to stop doing what you were doing before. You have to remove your shoes.
Why shoes? Because shoes are our connection to the ground. They are our practicality. Our routine. When Moses took off his shoes, he was admitting that the ground beneath him was holy. He was admitting that his usual footing wasn’t enough. He needed to be barefoot. He needed to be vulnerable.
This is where the practice comes in. How do we live this out this week?
First, stop assuming the message is loud. Next time you feel a nudge—a sudden thought, a recurring memory, a gut feeling—don’t dismiss it because it isn’t thunder. Turn aside. Step out of your current task. Even if it’s just for five minutes. Walk around the block. Sit in a quiet room. Look. See if the plant is still there. See if the flame is still burning.
Second, embrace the vulnerability of bare feet. We love our comfort. We love our routines. We love the fact that we know exactly how to handle Monday morning. But the holy ground is uncomfortable. Bare feet get dirty. Bare feet get cold. Bare feet can get cut by a thorn. If you want to stand on holy ground, you have to be willing to lose some of your protection. You have to be willing to admit that you don’t have it all figured out. You have to be willing to be exposed.
Third, trust that you won’t be consumed. This is the big one. The fire is scary. It changes things. It purifies. It burns away the dead wood. But the promise is that the core remains. The shrub stands. You stand. God isn’t trying to destroy you. He’s trying to refine you. He’s trying to clear the space so He can speak. Trust that the process, even when it feels hot, is working for you.
I’ll be honest. I’ve struggled with this too. There have been times when I felt the pressure of the fire—the stress, the change, the uncertainty—and I thought, “This is going to burn me up. I’m going to disappear.” I held on tight to my shoes. I tried to keep my footing. I tried to stay practical.
And I missed the message.
It wasn’t until I stopped trying to control the outcome that I heard it. Not a voice. A peace. A sense that I was exactly where I needed to be, even though I couldn’t see the way forward. The plant was still there. I was still there. And that was enough.
So this week, as the leaves fall and the days shorten, try this. Find one moment of routine. Maybe it’s your morning coffee. Perhaps it’s your commute. Or maybe it’s your evening walk. In that moment, stop. Take off your mental shoes. Admit that the ground is holy. Look at the shrub. See the fire. And trust that you won’t be consumed.
You might not hear a voice. You might not see a vision. But you might feel a shift. A release. A sense of being seen. That’s the encounter with the divine. That’s the holy ground. And it’s available to you, right now, in the middle of your ordinary week.
Just look.
