St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL

Exodus 3:1-15          Luke 13:1-9

Have you have ever had a moment
when the world around you suddenly changed—
not because the scenery shifted,
but because you did?

Maybe it happened in a hospital hallway,
or on a mountaintop,
or while standing barefoot in your backyard.

One minute you were going about your business,
and the next, something cracked open—
and you knew you were not alone.
You knew you were standing on holy ground.

Not because the GPS said so.
Not because there was a plaque or a pulpit.
But because your spirit said,
“Pay attention. Something sacred is happening here.”

* * *

Moses had one of those moments.  
He was not looking for it.  

He was at work. 
Shepherding.  

And right in the middle of an ordinary workday,  
in the middle of the wilderness,  
God shows up in a bush that burns but is not consumed.  

Many of us have heard this story so many times
that it seems downright boring to us now,
but come on! This is big stuff!

If you looked out your kitchen window
and saw your Japanese magnolia ablaze in your yard,  
you would not say, “Ho hum,
just another manifestation of the Most High God.”  
You’d freak out, and scream, and call 911!

But Moses does not run.  
He draws closer.  

And then comes the voice—  
Moses, Moses . . .
Take off your shoes, 
for the place where you are standing 
is holy ground.  

* * *

But here’s the thing. 
This is not a temple or a shrine.  

It is the side of a mountain.  
It is wild. It is wilderness.  
And yet, God says, 
“Right here, right where you are . . . this is holy ground.”  

And that ought to tell us something.  

Because, see, we tend to divide the world up: 
holy places over here, 
not-so-holy places over there.  

Church? Holy. 
Grocery store? Not so much.  
Sanctuary? Sacred.  
Doctor’s office? Just a waiting room.  

But what if God is not interested in those divisions?  

What if the whole world 
is already shot through with holiness? 
What if, as Elizabeth Barrett Browning put it,  

“Earth’s crammed with heaven,  
And every common bush afire with God.  
But only he who sees takes off his shoes . . .”

Maybe the problem is not where God is.  
Maybe the problem is whether we have eyes to see.  

* * *

Lent is a season of clearing our vision.  
It is a season of stripping away, 
of removing whatever keeps us blind  
to the holy ground under our feet.  

And that leads us straight into today’s Gospel,  
where Jesus is in the middle of some hard conversations.  

Some folks come up to him and say,  
“Jesus, did you hear about those Galileans? 
The ones Pilate slaughtered?  
It was awful.”

And then another person chimes in,  
“Oh, and what about that tower in Siloam? 
It fell and crushed eighteen people!”  

Now, these were tragedies.  
And beneath their words, you can hear the question:  
Why?  

Why did it happen to them?  
Did they do something to deserve it?  
Was God trying to send a message?  

But Jesus does not let them stay in that thinking for long.  
He shuts it down.  

“Do you think they were worse sinners 
than anyone else? 
No.
But unless you repent, 
you will perish just as they did.”  

Which is a real conversation stopper.  

But here is what Jesus is doing:
he is not dismissing their suffering,
and he is not saying we should turn our backs on tragedy.
What he is doing is refusing to let us explain it away.

He will not let us treat their pain
as if it were just a moral object lesson.
Instead, he shifts the focus,
from speculation to self-examination.

Because if we spend all our time trying to make sense
of why bad things happen to them,
we might just miss the burning bushes in front of us,
right here, right now.

And then, Jesus does what Jesus does.  
He tells a story.  

A landowner had a fig tree.  
It was not producing fruit.  
So he said, “Cut it down.”  
But the gardener—who, let’s be honest, 
sounds a lot like Jesus—  
steps in and says,  
“Give it time.  
Let me tend to it.  
Let me dig around it, loosen the soil, put down some manure.”  

Now, that is the moment to pay attention to 
because manure may not the most glamorous image in scripture, 
but if you are a gardener, then you know . . . 
manure means possibility.  
manure means things can grow.  

And maybe Lent is less about 
feeling bad for what is not growing,  
and more about letting Jesus 
dig around the roots of our lives,  
break up the hardened places,  
and spread a little fertilizer  
so something new can take root.  

* * *

So here is what I am wondering this Lent:  
What if God is already speaking,  
right here, right now,  
in the places we least expect?  

What if the holy ground is not just in the church,  
but in the hospital waiting room,  
and in the teacher’s lounge,  
and at the kitchen sink?  

What if the burning bush is already in front of us, 
but we have to stop  
to see it?  

Maybe, just maybe,  
the grace for us today is this:
the whole earth is already crammed with heaven.  

And our job is not to make it holy,  
but to take off our shoes,  
and realize that it already is.

Amen.