What do you say to a burning bush?
Your teeth are a mess
You can feel the heat on your skin.
You can smell the flame.
The bush is unharmed though the blaze burns high.
What can you say? Oh, What can you say?
God says “Take off your shoes.”
God says “This is holy ground.”
You take off your shoes.
You pick up your jaw.
After all, what else can you do?
God says, “This is your task.”
“This is the work I would have you do.”
Your mouth falls open. Your belly cramps.
You stammer, your words stumble and fall over your tongue.
You aren't good enough, smart enough, wise enough, pretty enough
Your only clear thought is ‘Oh No God! Not me!’
But
God doesn’t care if your hips are too wide,
if your skin is too dark
if your clothes are in rags
God does not care if you cannot speak
if you’re rich, if you're crippled
if you cannot read.
When God calls you, it is you God wants
You, as you are, imperfect, afraid.
What do you say to a burning bush?
“Yes. Here I am,” is all you can say.
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