At the bush

At the bush

I think this is the only reference in the Old Testament to that great vision which underlay Moses’ call and Israel’s deliverance. There seems a peculiar appropriateness in this reference being put into the mouth of the ancient lawgiver, for to him even Sinai, with all its glories, cannot have been so impressive and so formative of his character as was the vision granted to him solitary in the wilderness. It is to be noticed that the characteristic by which God is designated here never occurs elsewhere than in this one place. It is intended to intensify the conception of the greatness, and preciousness, and all-sufficiency of that “goodwill.” If it is that of Him that dwelt in the bush, it is sure to be all that a man can need. So then here, first, is a great thought as to what for us all is the blessing of blessings--God’s goodwill, “Good, will”--the word, perhaps, might bear a little stronger rendering. “Goodwill” is somewhat tepid. A man may have a good enough will, and yet no very strong emotion of favour or delight, and certainly may do nothing to carry his goodwill into action. It is more than “goodwill”; it is more than “favour”; perhaps “delight” would be nearer the meaning. It implies, too, not only the inward sentiment of complacency, but also the active purpose of action in conformity with it on God’s part. If I might dwell for a moment upon scriptural passages, I would just recall to you, as bringing up very strongly and beautifully the all-sufficiency and the blessed effects of having this delight and loving purpose directed toward us like a sunbeam, the various great things that a chorus of psalmists say it will do for a man. Here is one of their triumphant utterances: “Thou wilt bless the righteous; with favour wilt Thou compass him as with a shield.” That crystal battlement, if I may so vary the figure, is round a man, keeping far away from him all manner of real evil, and filling his quiet heart as he stands erect behind the rampart, with the sense of absolute security. That is one of the blessings that “the favour, or goodwill, will secure for us.” Again, we read: “By Thy favour Thou hast made my mountain to stand strong.” He that knows himself to be the object of the Divine delight, and who by faith knows himself to be the object of the Divine activity in protection, stands firm, and his purposes will be carried through, because they will be purposes in accordance with the Divine mind, and nothing needs to shake him. So he that grasps the hand of God, not because of his grasp, but because of the hand that be holds, can say, “the Lord is at my right hand; I shall not be greatly moved.” And again, in another analogous but yet diversified representation, we read: “In Thee shall we rejoice all the day, and in Thy favour shall our horn be exalted.” That is the emblem, not only of victory, but of joyful confidence, and so he that knows himself to have God for his friend and his helper can go through the world keeping a sunny face, whatever the clouds may be. So the goodwill of God is the chiefest good. Now, if we turn to the remarkable designation of the Divine nature which is here, look what rivers of strength and of blessedness flow out of the thought that for each of us “the goodwill of Him that dwelt in the bush” may be ours. What does that pregnant designation of God say? That was a strange shrine for a God. That poor, ragged, dry desert bush, with apparently no sap in its grey stem, prickly with thorns, with no beauty that we should desire it, fragile and insignificant--yet that is God’s house. Not in the cedars of Lebanon, not in the great monarchs of the forest, but in the forlorn child of the desert did He abide. “The goodwill of Him that dwelt in the bush” may dwell in you and me. Never mind how small, never mind how sapless, never mind how lightly esteemed among men, never mind though we make a very poor show by the side of the oaks of Bashan or the cedars of Lebanon. It is all right; the fire does not dwell in them. “Unto this man will I come, and with him will I dwell who is of a humble and a contrite heart, and who trembleth at My word.” Let no sense of poverty, weakness, unworthiness ever draw the faintest film of fear across our confidence, for even with us He will sojourn. Again, what more does that name say? He that “dwelt in the bush” filled it with fire, and it burned “and was not consumed.” Our brethren of the Presbyterian Churches have taken the Latin form of the words in the incident for their motto--Nec Tamen Consumebatur. But I venture to think that is a mistake; and that what is meant by the symbol is just what is expressed by the verbal revelation which accompanied it, and it is this: “I am that I am.” The fire that did not burn out is the emblem of the Divine nature which does not tend to death because it lives, nor to exhaustion because it energises, nor to emptiness because it bestows, but after all times is the same; lives by its own energy and is independent. “I am that I have become,” that is what men have to say. “I am that I once was not, and again once shall not be,” that is what men have to say. “I am that I am” is God’s name. And this eternal, ever-living, self-sufficing, absolute, independent, unwearied, inexhaustible God is the God whose favour is as inexhaustible as Himself, and eternal as His own being. “Therefore the sons of men shall put their trust beneath the shadow of Thy wings.” What more does the name say? He that dwelt in the bush dwelt there in order to deliver; and, dwelling there, declared “I have seen the affliction of My people, and am come down to deliver them.” So, then, if the goodwill of that eternal, delivering God is with us, we too may feel that our trivial troubles and our heavy burdens, all the needs of our prisoned wills and captive souls, are beknown to Him, and that we shall have deliverance from them by Him. The goodwill, the delight of God, and the active help of God, may be ours, and if it be ours we shall be blessed and strong. Do not let us forget the place in this blessing on the head of Joseph which my text holds. It is preceded by an invoking of the precious things of heaven, and “the precious fruits brought forth by the sun . . . of the chief things of the ancient mountains, and the precious things of the lasting hills, and the precious things of the earth and the fulness thereof.” They are all heaped together in one great mass for the beloved Joseph. And then, like the golden spire that tops some of those campaniles in Italian cities, and completes their beauty, above them all there is set, as the shining apex of all, “the goodwill of Him that dwelt in the bush.” That is more precious than all the precious things; set last because it is to be sought first; set last as in building some great structure the top stone is put on last of all; set last because it gathers all others into itself. So the upshot of my homily is just this--Men may strive and scheme, and wear their fingernails down to the quick, to get lesser good, and fail after all. You never can be sure of getting the little good. You can be quite sure of getting the highest. You never can be certain that the precious things of the earth and the fulness thereof will be yours, or that if they were, they would be so very precious; but you can be quite sure that the “goodwill of Him that dwelt in the bush” may be like light upon your hearts, and be strength to your limbs. And so I commend to you the words of the apostle: “Wherefore we labour that, whether present or absent, we may be well-pleasing to Him.” (A. Maclaren, D. D.)