CHRISTMAS IN THE MIDST OF THE BURNING BUSH
Christmas often feels warm and familiar—candles, hymns, soft light falling across remembered verses. But the Gospel reminds us that God’s most decisive arrivals rarely happen in comfort. Sometimes they come in wilderness places, where sandals are worn thin and expectations have long since been surrendered.
One such Christmas text waits quietly in the Book of Exodus.
Moses is not looking for God. He is tending sheep—someone else’s sheep—on the far side of the desert. His life has narrowed; his ambitions have cooled. Egypt is behind him; promise feels like a rumor he once overheard and never quite believed.
And then God speaks.
“And the Angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire from the midst of a bush. So he looked, and behold, the bush was burning with fire, but the bush was not consumed” (Exodus 3:2).
Fire without destruction. Presence without annihilation. Glory wrapped in restraint. Christmas already knows this language.
The bush burns, yet remains. God is there, yet Moses lives. This is no small thing.
Throughout the Bible, fire often signals judgment. But here, fire reveals mercy—holiness that does not destroy the one who draws near.
In Bethlehem, the same mystery appears again: divinity clothed in gentleness; holiness swaddled; the fire of heaven housed within fragile flesh (John 1:14).
Moses steps closer, and God speaks again:
“Do not draw near this place. Take your sandals off your feet, for the place where you stand is holy ground” (Exodus 3:5).
Notice the shift. The ground itself does not change—what changes is who is present.
Christmas works the same way. A stable becomes a sanctuary; straw becomes sacred; the ordinary is transfigured by nearness.
When Christ enters the world, the ground beneath human feet is forever altered.
Then God reveals His heart:
“I have surely seen the oppression of My people…and have heard their cry…for I know their sorrows. So I have come down to deliver them” (Exodus 3:7-8).
This is Christmas before Christmas.
God sees.
God hears.
God knows.
God comes down.
Bethlehem is not a detour in God’s story—it is the pattern fulfilled. The One who descends into fire without consuming the bush will later descend into flesh without crushing humanity.
He comes down again—not merely to deliver Israel from Egypt, but to deliver the world from sin and death (Luke 2:10-11).
And then Moses hears a name.
“And God said to Moses, ‘I AM WHO I AM’…‘Thus you shall say to the children of Israel, “I AM has sent me to you”’” (Exodus 3:14).
Centuries later, in the quiet of a Judean night, that same Name lies breathing beneath the stars. “Before Abraham was, I AM” (John 8:58).
The eternal present steps into time.
The self-existent God enters dependency.
The great I AM becomes a child who must be carried.
Christmas, like the burning bush, invites both wonder and reverence. Draw near—but remove your sandals. Sing—but do not forget the weight of glory. Rejoice—but remember that this joy is holy.
And perhaps this is the deepest comfort of all: the bush burns, yet is not consumed. The world groans, yet is not abandoned. Your life may feel aflame—pressured, tested, stretched thin—but Emmanuel stands in the midst of it, present and preserving.
God still comes down.
God still speaks.
God is still with us.
That is Christmas—even in the wilderness.
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Holy Lord—great I AM—meet us in the ordinary places and make them holy by Your presence. Let the fire of Your love burn without destroying, and draw us near with reverent joy. Amen.
BDD
