“All Saints’ Story Time”

1 Samuel 3:1-10

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

November 2, 2025 - All Saints’ Day

All Saints’ Day is a time set aside for giving thanks for those that we have loved and lost. And it’s a time to pause and consider our own mortality. How do we want to be remembered someday? What gifts do we want to share with the world while we’re still living?

As I told the kids, the customs that have grown up around All Hallows’ mean it’s also a time for imagining ourselves into stories. And so, I want to tell you a very old story on this All Saints’ Sunday. This story is about connections between the generations and the way we mentor others in faith. It’s a story about growing up in our faith. It’s a story about how the veil between this world and the next is often thinner than we might realize. And it’s a story about the power of listening - to the Spirit and to each other. 

The night is quiet. The boy is about 10 years old. He’s curled up there on his sleeping mat, just near the front of the sanctuary,  next to the Lamp of God. The scene reminds me a bit of when I was a little girl and I loved to fall asleep by the Christmas tree in December. Warm light, silent night, and a feeling of holiness as I drifted off to sleep. 

Why is a child sleeping in the sanctuary? Well, this isn’t just any child, nor is it just any sanctuary. We’re in  Shiloh, about 30 miles north of Jerusalem. Shiloh’s claim to fame is right here next to the sleeping boy. Long before Jerusalem was the home to the Temple, this was the most sacred site for our faith ancestors. This is where the Ark of the Covenant lives. In fact, the boy sleeps near it every night. The Ark of the Covenant represents the presence of God with the Israelites. When the Israelites wandered in the wilderness, they carried the Ark with them. When their wandering finally stopped, it came to rest here in the sanctuary at Shiloh. 

Why is a child sleeping in the sanctuary? For this particular boy, it might not be just because of the Ark and the Lamp. This sanctuary holds additional meaning for the boy. This sanctuary is the place where his mother, Hannah, came a decade ago to pray for God’s help. She desperately wanted a child and, through her tears, she promised God that if she had a child she would dedicate his life to the service of God. Eli, the priest at Shiloh, had seen Hannah praying that day and offered her a blessing before she left the temple. In this way, Eli had been in the child’s life before he was even conceived. 

After his birth, Hannah rejoiced. She named him Samuel which means “I have asked him of the Lord.” And when he was old enough to be weaned, Hannah kept her word to God. She brought Samuel to the temple at Shiloh and gave him to Eli’s care, so that he could learn the faith and, eventually, become a priest himself. 

And that’s why this particular child is sleeping in this particular sanctuary. 

The story goes that, in this time, God’s voice was hard to hear. Surely God was still speaking, but maybe the people just didn’t notice. We are told that the priest Eli was growing older and couldn’t see as well as he used to. Perhaps this was more than just his physical eyesight. Maybe it was his spiritual attunement, too.  

And just who is this priest, Eli? Our faith ancestors who wrote these stories down didn’t hold back with their critiques of bad leaders, so we can assume that no news was mostly good news. Eli had been a trusted leader of the people and, it seems, a good mentor for the young Samuel. There was just one small problem. Two, actually.

Eli’s sons Phinneas and Hophni were a concern. Despite the decency of their father, these two had grown into an indecent problem. They had grown a bit too comfortable in the Temple. Instead of treating their access to this sacred space with respect, they took advantage of their privileges to a gross extent. They skimmed money off the top of the offering plates and slept with the women who worked in the temple. Eli heard about these things and chastised his sons - but the abuses of power continued. 

Things were going better with Samuel. Perhaps Eli was teaching him more carefully than he had his own sons. Samuel seems to have been growing into a fine young man - making both his parents and Eli proud. 

And so I suppose it’s not too surprising that when God spoke Samuel’s name that night, he heard it loud and clear. At first he didn’t know what he was hearing. Despite his priestly upbringing, Samuel didn’t yet know God personally. Everything  he had learned so far had been filtered through the lens of his elders. 

Surely his mother Hannah, who had prayed so earnestly at his birth, taught him to pray as a young child. We don’t know much about Samuel’s father, but we do know that he managed to take his family on an annual religious pilgrimage to Shiloh, so we can assume he also cared deeply about his son’s religious formation. 

And we know that Samuel must have spent countless hours being apprenticed in the ways of the priesthood by Eli, his mentor. The priest taught the boy the old stories and helped him learn how to preside over the rituals. He taught him the arts of speaking carefully and listening well. He taught him how to be judicious and kind. He taught him how to not only answer questions, but ask good ones, too. 

Like any teacher, Eli made mistakes from time to time. Perhaps wasn’t as enthusiastic as he could have been about the more difficult parts of their shared calling. But he treasured the opportunity to have a student. He had not done as well as he had hoped with his sons. He tried, but ultimately failed, to share with them his passion for God but they went astray. And so he was particularly grateful for this second chance with Samuel. The boy had been an answer to Hannah’s prayer, but he felt a bit like the answer to Eli’s unspoken prayers, too. 

As the years continued to pass, Eli realized that Samuel was a blessing in other ways, as well. They had been through the rituals so many times now that Samuel could probably even lead them himself if he had to, and someday he would. And just last week, he had seen Samuel telling a little girl about the ten commandments etched on the tablets. As she asked questions, Samuel answered them patiently and correctly. Eli’s heart swelled with pride. 

Samuel was a blessing in more practical ways, too. As Eli’s eyesight continued to fade, the boy began taking on more duties around the temple. At the end of the day, Eli no longer had to straighten the sanctuary or check on the lamps. It was hard for him to see in the dark, and so Samuel had taken over all these tasks and he handled them beautifully. 

And so it was that on this particular night, when Samuel crept into Eli’s room, Eli was surprised. It had been years since the child had interrupted his sleep asking for reassurance or another blanket to stay warm. He was so big now. Almost grown. He hardly needed anything from the old man. 

But on this particular night, Eli realized he had at least one more lesson to teach the boy. He hadn’t realized that - despite all his book learning, despite the hours of practical education in what it takes to be a priest - Samuel had never heard God’s voice before. When he realized what was happening, he gently told the boy to go back into the sanctuary and listen again. “This time,” he said, “When you hear your name, respond, ‘Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.’ Listening is such an important part of being a leader, Samuel. Listen to what the Lord has to say to you. And never be afraid to follow the instructions given.”

Samuel did as his mentor taught him. He lay down once more on his sleeping mat in the darkened sanctuary. The Lamp of God was still burning. The Ark was still right where it should be. And if he listened to the silence hard enough, he could almost hear the sounds of a young woman’s whispered prayers and tears. 

Laying there, Samuel remembered all that his elders had taught him. He remembered the words of the song his mother used to sing to him as a young child, “God raises up the poor from the dust; God lifts the needy from the ash heap to make them sit with royalty and inherit a seat of honor.” 

He remembered the sweat on his father’s brow as he loaded up the cart each year to make the long journey to Shiloh. 

And he remembered the hours he had spent with his mentor, Eli, learning everything he needed to know to grow into the priest he would become. 

Full of the faith of his elders, he opened himself to the silence and waited. 

“God’s Economy”

Exodus 16:2-4, 9-18

Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

First Congregational UCC, Manhattan, KS

October 12, 2025

There are some things you can know with your head, but you don’t really KNOW them until you’ve lived them, right? 

Like what it feels like to be hungry. You can think about what it’s like to be hungry, but unless you’ve actually lived the reality of not knowing where your next meal is coming from - well, you don’t really know what it’s like. 

The people in today’s story KNEW what it was like to be hungry. The whole congregation has been traveling together in the wilderness for about six weeks now. And the provisions they packed are running out. They’re hungry. Not in some “oh, I’m kind of worried our situation is precarious” kind of way but in a deep, know-it-in-your-bones, I-actually-have-no-idea-how-I’m-going-to-feed-my-kids-tomorrow kind of way. 

And so they know not only hunger but desperation. The frantic clawing of fear. 

And as they continue on this journey, they begin to know something else, too. They start to know regret. 

As absurd as it might sound to us, they dream of captivity. They wish that they could go back to being enslaved. They wish to trade their freedom for the security of three square meals a day. 

From the outside looking in, we can’t really know their desperation. The clawing anxiety. The hunger. It’s not even uncertainty they’re feeling - because things are looking pretty certain. It’s certain they will die unless there’s some kind of miracle. 

Moses and Aaron say to the people, “In the evening, you shall know it was the Lord who brought you out of the land of Egypt, and in the morning you shall see God’s glory. Because God is with you. God has heard your desperate cries. You are not alone.”

And so the people come to know something else that it’s hard to know unless you REALLY know it. Unless you’ve experienced it first-hand. They come to know God’s faithfulness. God’s provision and care. They come to know and trust that they are not alone. That they live in God’s world - who has created and is creating. They don’t know it as an intellectual exercise. They know it’s true like you know the sun is real - because you feel its warmth beating down on the back of your neck. Because they’ve lived it. 

We are told that God sends nourishment in a miraculous way. Bread and meat appears for them each day. And so they come to know God’s presence deep in their bellies. Because the raw, aching, gnawing grip of hunger abates. And they come to know that it was, indeed, God who brought them into freedom. And God who walks with them still. Morning and evening. Day by day. 

I’ve sometimes heard Biblical storytellers begin their stories like this: “I want to tell you a story from the Bible. I don’t know if this really happened, just like this, but I know that it’s true.”

This is one of those stories. It contains truth even if the details blow our mind a bit. Because the truth is: this isn’t just a story about something that happened in the past. It’s also a story about something so many of us have experienced here and now and in our own lives. 

We have experienced God’s faithfulness through miracles big and small - like finding an antidepressant that finally works (praise God!), or a phone call from an old friend at just the right time. We’ve had our days when a stranger offered a word of care that lifted us up, bound us back together, and gave us the strength we needed. We’ve known desperation - and received manna. And we’ve been manna for others, too. 

The SPECIFICS of this particular story, handed down to us by our faith ancestors, are fascinating. Moses tells the people that they are to gather what they need for everyone in their tent. 

Now, I’ve often heard this story told that “the people disobeyed” and some tried to hoard the food by gathering too much while others were lazy and didn’t gather enough. But, actually, the text doesn’t say that. The text simply says they went out to gather and some gathered more and others less - which is exactly what you might expect since some people had 2 people in their tent and others had 10. The text says when it all got measured, everyone had the exact right amount that they needed for their family. Whether this was some kind of cute, baby miracle or just how it worked out, we aren’t told. But the message is clear: God provides exactly what every person needs. Faithfully. 

Biblical scholar Robert Williamson, Jr. points out that these details make this more than a story about just manna. It’s also a story about the world God is inviting us to be a part of. God shows the people a new economy in this ancient story. [1] A way of living together where everyone has what they need. No longer are they enslaved to quotas of production and a system of scarcity that enriches a few while leaving so many in desperation. [2]

And God doesn’t invite the people to just imagine this or THINK about it. God invites them to try it out. To practice it. To really KNOW it by living it. Williamson says it’s as if God is using this liminal, wandering, wilderness time to show the people how it could be - how it should be - in this new world they are building together. 

One of my favorite social media follows is Vu Le, who is a brilliant leader in the nonprofit management world and absolutely hilarious. This week, he wrote about how we need nonprofits to “reclaim our vision for the amazing society we want to build from the ashes.” [3] He reminds us that there are some people in our society who have a very clear vision of the future. Tech billionaires know exactly what kind of world they want to build. Mark Zuckerberg wants a world where we’ve outsourced human relationships to AI chatbots. The CEO of Oracle envisions a world where everyone is “on their best behavior” because we’re all under constant surveillance. And Le says that Elon Musk and Peter Theil envision a world where we no longer need democratically elected governments because we’ve traded them in for a technocracy. 

Le reminds us that billionaires not only have a clear vision, they have the resources they need to make it happen. And that’s why it’s so important for those of us who have an alternative vision to keep shouting about it every chance we get. Le paints it like this: 

I think our ability to rise out of this horrible period and build something better depends on our ability to reclaim our vision and to inspire the rest of society to do the same. I want us to have a world where everyone has their basic needs like food and shelter taken care of. In this vision we’d already have made reparations for past injustices like slavery and stolen Indigenous land. Concepts like capitalism, racism, misogyny, transphobia, poverty, war, borders, and so on would be hard for people to remember or even imagine.

I want us to reconceptualize work so that we’re not beholden to it and our worth isn’t judged by how “productive” we are. I want people to spend most of their time creating art—writing poetry, painting, dancing, and making music, whittling small animals out of bars of soap, etc.—and for fun, not because they’re hustling trying to pay rent. Housing would be a basic human right, along with healthcare and education and other things people need to thrive. [4]

Isn’t that a beautiful vision for the future? I wonder if the people in Exodus started to dream dreams like that? I wonder if they went out in the  morning to forage for their daily bread and found themselves humming a little tune, imagining a future where everyone had enough. I wonder if they envisioned a world with more frolicking and less violence, more art and less fear. 

It sounds an awful lot like God’s Dream to me. You know, economics comes from the same Greek word as household. The economy is more than just the stock exchange ticker on the bottom of the news. The economy is a global household where resources are created, gathered, used, consumed, shared. Because we all truly share one global household together.

Through this ancient story, God reminds us that we are invited to consider what it would look like to live in a manna economy. A world where everyone has enough. A world where scarcity is a thing of the past. A world where God’s dreams can be realized. And just as the Israelites were invited to practice there in the desert, we are invited to practice, too. This is what it means to Be the Church. To live as if God’s economy were already so. To listen to the Spirit and encourage one another as we strive to build God’s Beloved Community together. 

You know, when we become members of this congregation we pledge to support it with “our prayers, our presence, our gifts, and our service.” In that way, we are practicing God’s Dream here. Practicing in this little corner of creation so that our hands and hearts might be shaped for ministry in the wider world. We practice here so that we can know - really KNOW through living it - that God is present. That God is faithful. And that we, too, can show up with our prayers, our presence, our gifts, and our service. Here and everywhere we go. 

This month, as we consider our financial pledges for the coming year, we are given this story as a conversation partner. 

It’s a story about God’s faithfulness. It’s a story about the One who dreams a world into being where everyone’s needs can be met. It’s an invitation to ponder how we can be a part of that through our own sharing of resources. And it’s a reminder that giving of any type - whether it’s time or money - isn’t JUST about keeping the lights on or getting volunteer slots filled. 

True generosity is an invitation to reorder our relationship to God, one another, and the world around us. It’s knowing - really KNOWING, deep in our bones because we’re living it - that there is enough in this world for all. Our job is to tune our hearts to God’s economy of abundance. 

In practicing generosity, we come to know - really KNOW - God’s faithful provision as we hear the ancient promise: 

There is enough. 

You are enough. 

Rooted in God’s love, we can build a world of enough - together. 

May it be so. 

Notes: 

[1] Bible Worm podcast for Oct. 10, 2021

[2] Isaiah 43: 18-19

[3] & [4] https://www.nonprofitaf.com/lets-reclaim-our-vision-for-the-amazing-society-we-can-build-from-the-ashes/ 

“From a Distance”

Luke 10: 25-37

October 5, 2025

First Congregational UCC of Manhattan, KS

Sermon by Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

 

In 1963, Michael Collins joined the 3rd class of NASA astronauts. In 1966, he exited and re-entered the earth’s atmosphere for the first time. In 1969, he orbited the moon 33 times as a part of the Apollo mission. And in 1974, he shared this observation in his memoir:

 

I really believe that if the political leaders of the world could see their planet from a distance of, let's say 100,000 miles, their outlook would be fundamentally changed. The all-important border would be invisible, that noisy argument suddenly silenced. The tiny globe would continue to turn, serenely ignoring its subdivisions, presenting a unified facade that would cry out for unified understanding, for homogeneous treatment. The earth must become as it appears: blue and white, not capitalist or communist; blue and white, not rich or poor; blue and white, not envious or envied.

 

I am not a naïve man. I don’t believe that a glance from 100,000 miles would cause a Prime Minister to scurry back to his parliament with a disarmament plan, but I do think it would plant a seed that ultimately could grow into such concrete action.

 

Michael Collins was a Catholic altar boy, so I have to think he had some familiarity with scripture. And I hear the echoes of the Apostle Paul in his words: “The earth must become as it appears: blue and white, not Jew or Greek; blue and white, not enslaved or free; blue and white, not male or female.”

 

Most of us will never be able to look at the earth from 100,000 miles away like Collins did. But all of us who profess to follow Jesus must struggle with the promise and demand found in the Apostle Paul’s words. Because there is a promise AND a demand there. It feels cuddlier to only focus on the promise part – as if Jesus will somehow magically wave a wand and take away all of the divisions in the world and make the Prime Ministers spontaneously scurry back to their parliaments with disarmament plans, and make the ICE agents unmask their faces, and make the war contractors toss and turn at night and realize that profiting off the murder and starvation of innocent children is not actually how they want to live their lives after all.

 

To hear only the promise in Paul’s words is to hold out hope that Christ will somehow magically bring all of this to pass.

 

But if we listen to Jesus himself, we start to see a slightly different picture. Jesus spent his time healing and sowing compassion, yes. But he also spent his time teaching us how to live. And when we pay attention to his words, we start to also hear the demand woven into the Paul’s promise of human unity.

 

******

Like Michael Colllins, Jesus was also big into thinking beyond boundaries. And today’s story is no exception. It’s one of the “greatest hits” of Christian scripture and it’s a two-fer. Not only do we get the well-known parable about the Samaritan on the Jericho road, we also get Jesus plainly stating the Greatest Commandment: to love God and love your neighbor as yourself.

We call it the Greatest Commandment, but at first glance it seems to be three commandments rolled into one. Love God. Love your neighbor. Love yourself. 

A wise person once told me that he had puzzled over this seeming contradiction for years: why, when asked for the SINGLE most important commandment, does Jesus accept the lawyer’s reading from scripture as the answer? It’s clearly three things, not one! Eventually, this person told me, they came to the conclusion that perhaps those three things are not as discrete as they seem. Perhaps, because we are made in God’s image and because God lives and moves within us, perhaps loving God, loving our neighbors, and loving ourselves aren’t as distinct as we think. Perhaps we are loving God whenever we love our neighbors. Perhaps we are loving God when we choose to love ourselves.

Perhaps the firm boundaries between me and you, us and them, heavenly and earthly are more porous. Perhaps when viewed from 100,000 miles up – or through Jesus’s eyes – the separation melts away a bit. And we can start to remember that loving God and loving our neighbors as ourselves truly is a single commandment.

It seems the lawyer himself was also a bit puzzled by the simplicity of this greatest commandment. Despite lifting it directly from scripture himself, he still has questions. He asks Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

Nothing like a legal type to get technical with the language. But Jesus takes it in stride, showing us once again what a fantastic teacher he is. He knows that stories teach and he weaves a story for this man. Simple enough for the youngest child to understand, yet it drives the point home in a way only a parable can.

 

The parable is, of course, that story of the Good Samaritan. For many of us, it’s well-worn and familiar. But it would have been quite shocking to those first hearers.

 

In essence, Jesus uses this parable to blow expectations wide open. The answer to the question, “who is my neighbor?” is both simple and terrifying. The answer is, “the person who takes care of you.” Or, as Frederick Buechner put it, “anybody who needs you.”

 

It’s not about where you live. It’s not about who looks like you. It’s not about who you vote for. It’s not about what denomination you are. 

 

No, it’s not about any of those things. Jesus says that our neighbor – you know, the one we’re supposed to love as ourselves – is the person who shows us mercy. Jesus says that our neighbor is the one that needs our care. The Samaritan is our neighbor not because he’s an outcast (though you could certainly find that argument many other places in Scripture) but because he offers care. The man in the ditch is our neighbor because he needs us.

 

It's such a simple and profoundly human story. All of us, every single one of us, has basic needs. We need water to drink and food to eat. We need to have our wounds tended to. We need to have a safe place to sleep, out of the elements. When you look down from 100,000 miles above, we humans all start to look a whole lot alike. We all need peace. We all need love. We all need each other.

 

I know you know this already. I know I’m not telling you anything new. But we seem to live in a world that threatens to undo these simple truths at every turn. Our spirits are constantly attacked by news of people turning against one another. We humans forget that we are all made in God’s image. We forget that every single one of us deserves a chance to simply live freely in a just world. 

And this is not an accident. Those who hold power are doing what Empire has always done. They consolidate their power by attempting to turn the rest of us against one another. They stoke fear and violence. They hide their faces while committing atrocities in broad daylight. They send troops into sleepy neighborhoods. They drop bombs and block supplies. And as each of these daily horrors is enacted, the message we receive is constant: protect yourselves from the enemy. 

But Jesus comes with a different way. Jesus doesn’t stand under the lights on a big stage. Jesus doesn’t ride in fancy jets or an armoured car. Jesus stands among the crowds, with everyday people like you and like me. He speaks their language. He loves to hear their questions. He reminds them that, like the lawyer in today’s story, they already have the answer within them. He affirms their curiosity. Again and again - by quoting scripture, through acts of compassionate healing, and with the power of stories - he reminds them of the main thing: Love God. And love your neighbor as yourself.

Zoom out to 100,000 miles if you can. Look at the beauty of this good earth spinning in space. Pause to take in the miracle that we exist here at all. Notice, like Collins did, that when you’re at that distance, this marble spinning in the black expanse looks quite different. The all-important borders are invisible. Those noisy arguments and yelling heads on our screens? You can’t hear them at this distance. 

The tiny globe continues to turn, Collins says, “serenely ignoring its subdivisions, presenting a unified facade that [cries out] for unified understanding… The earth must become as it appears: blue and white, not capitalist or communist; blue and white, not rich or poor; blue and white, not envious or envied.”

Blue and white, not a citizen of this country or that, not Russian or Ukranian, not Israeli or Palestinian, not a member of this political party or that one. You can’t see anyone’s immigration status from space either. 

What becomes very clear from this vantage point is that we are all of us neighbors. Spinning in the vastness of space on this planet we call home. 

The promise - and the demand - is as clear today as it was 2,000 years ago. There is neither Jew nor Greek, enslaved or free, male or female. There is humanity. Created in God’s image. Full of need, full of gifts. Languishing on the side of the road and mercifully stopping to provide care. 

Just us. Here. Together. 

May we accept the good news of the promise and fashion our lives to meet the demand. May we love God and love our neighbor as ourselves. 

“Curiouser and Curiouser”

Exodus 2:23-25; 3:1-15; 4:10-17

September 21, 2025

First Congregational United Church of Christ of Manhattan, KS

Sermon by the Rev. Caela Simmons Wood

Curiosity killed the cat. Or so we’re told. 

But my guess is that for every cat curiosity killed, a million other cats didn’t die, but, instead caught a mouse or made a new friend or found some treats tucked away out of sight. 

Curiosity can lead us into danger, sure, but it can also lead us into new possibilities. The problem, of course, is that one never knows which way curiosity is pointing us until we take that first step and go exploring. And so, curiosity seems to be inherently brave. To be curious is to take a risk, to be vulnerable, to admit that there are things out there beyond our knowledge that we’d like to explore. 

Moses was saved by curiosity. As the story goes, his life should have been snuffed out immediately. The Pharaoh had ordered two Hebrew midwives, Shiphrah and Puah, to kill all newborn Hebrew boys. But Shiphrah and Puah carried within them the type of brave curiosity that begets great strength. To hold a newborn child in your arms is to dwell deeply, fully in the realm of possibility. Months, years, decades stretched out before the midwives as they looked down at the gift of new life in their arms. Who would this child become? What hardships would come their way? What joys? Might this one become a teacher? This one a father? This one a wise leader?

“Curiosity leads to call.” [1] And so the midwives were called to defy the king’s orders. They bravely refused to kill babies born under their watch, but the babies still weren’t safe. The king ordered the whole realm to kill male babies by drowning them in the Nile River. Many perished. 

But Moses was born to a curious woman named Jochebed, who rocked her newborn son in the dark silence of her home, praying for his safety through her tears. When the boy reached three months of age, she could hide him no longer, so she did the only thing she could think of: she carefully sealed a reed basket with tar so it would float. And she put her baby boy in the reeds along the riverbank. 

Moses’s sister, Miriam, couldn’t bear the not-knowing of it all. She had to see what would happen to her baby brother. And so, this curious little girl stood watch to see what might happen next. 

The king’s daughter came down to the river to bathe and saw the basket there, among the reeds. Another curious woman! She asked her servants to investigate. When they opened the basket, her heart was moved with compassion for the crying infant. “This must be one of the Hebrew babies,” she said. Brave, curious Miriam stepped out of the reeds with a question on her tongue, “Would you like me to go and find one of the Hebrew women to nurse the child?”

And so baby Moses was reunited with his mother. She nursed him for a time and then gave him back to the king’s daughter, who adopted him. 

Moses was raised in the king’s palace. The midrashim tell about Moses that we don’t have in our Bible. The rabbis said that he was a curious child - wandering off down the palace hallways and finding his way into nooks and crannies. They said that the king was fond of Moses - they enjoyed playing games together and sometimes this curious child would even reach up and grab the king’s crown, placing it on his own head with a giggle. When some of the king’s magicians saw this, they grew concerned. They felt it was a bad omen - that this child would one day challenge the king. But Jethro, his future father-in-law happened to be nearby and said, “Don’t be silly. He’s just a curious child. He doesn’t have any idea what he’s doing. Here, I’ll show you. Place the boy in front of two objects: a golden chalice and a hot coal from the fire. He’s so silly he’s just as likely to grab the coal as he is the chalice. Watch. You’ll see.”

And so they placed Moses in front of the objects. He started to reach for the sparkly chalice, as most children would. But an angel moved his hand to the hot coal instead. He burned his hand and immediately stuck his fingers into his mouth to soothe himself. His fingers burned his tongue and this is, the rabbis said, how he became “slow of tongue.” [2] 

As Moses grew into adulthood, his curiosity never left him. Sometimes it got him into trouble. One day, it altered his life completely. He was walking among the Hebrew people and saw how horribly the Egyptians mistreated them. He heard a scuffle and ducked into an alleyway to see what was happening. There, he found an Egyptian violently beating an enslaved man. Without thinking, Moses sprang into action, defending the man from harm. His strength was, perhaps, greater than he realized, and Moses killed the Egyptian. 

After this, he went on the run. He made a home in a foreign land and found a wife, Zipporah. He lived happily alongside her family. Things were different in Midian. A far cry from his privileged youth in the Egyptian palace. But Moses was happy in this new place. There were always new things to see, new customs to understand, new places to explore. And he became a father! Gazing down at his infant son, he must have felt what those midwives felt all those decades ago: a sense of curiosity and wonder. “Who would this child become? What joys lie ahead? What struggles?”

One day, the rabbis say, Moses was out tending his father-in-law’s flock in the countryside. He was never bored at work. The world was enough for him. He examined bugs and watched birds fly overhead. He sang songs and made up stories. He spoke to the sheep and kept an eye on the weather. Moses had been watching a raincloud off in the distance when he suddenly realized one of the younger sheep was wandering off. He left the rest of the flock behind and chased the missing lamb. The faster Moses ran and the more he yelled, the quicker the lamb ran away. By the time Moses caught up with her, he was out of breath and red in the face. Coming around the corner, he saw that she had stopped to drink at a stream. His anger drained as he realized the lamb had just been thirsty. “Oh, sweet lamb,” he said, “I’ve been so foolish. You were only thirsty and by chasing you I’ve made everything worse. You must be so tired now. Here, let me help,” and he scooped up the lamb, placing her over his shoulders and carrying her back to the flock. 

The rabbis say that God was watching Moses that day. Seeing his compassion, God said, “That’s the one I want to lead my people out of slavery in Egypt.” [3] 

Years passed and Moses continued to watch over Jethro’s flock. The curious little lamb who had wandered off grew up and Moses kept a careful eye on her. If there was something interesting to see, she could be counted on to take the detour to find it. If there were nooks and crannies to explore, you can bet the lamb would squeeze into them. One day, as Moses was moving the flock from one pasture to the next, he realized the curious lamb was missing. He looked around and found her, meandering on a dirt path through some bushes. Grumbling under his breath, he doubled back to bring her in. By now, he knew better than to chase her, so he walked slowly, gravel crunching under his sandals. He pushed the brush out of his way and came into a clearing. The lamb was standing still, staring at a lone bush. 

The bush was like nothing Moses had ever seen. He felt himself pulled towards it, as if by an invisible hand. He absentmindedly put his hand on top of the lamb’s head as his mind overflowed with questions. “What kind of fire was this? How was the bush burning from within, but there was no smoke? He walked slowly around the bush. How could a bush burn like this without diminishing at all? Where were the ashes, the heat, the smell of burning wood?” 

Perhaps it was Moses’s simple gift of curiosity that changed his life that day. His ability to sit in discomfort in the presence of something that simply didn’t make sense, without shrinking away. He didn’t reflexively shrink back, he just stayed. Perhaps it is because he didn’t pass judgment or come to any conclusions at all that God knew he was the right one to go on a journey requiring great vulnerability, courage, and faith. 

Out of nowhere, the bush SPOKE. “Moses! Moses!” thundered the bush. Moses responded in Hebrew, “Hineni! Here I am! It’s me!” English doesn’t quite capture the fullness of hineni. It’s more than just a geographical statement about where a person is located. In the Hebrew Bible, it’s a deep YES rooted in a desire to be of service. 

When God calls out to Adam in Genesis, Adam does not respond hineni. Instead, he hides from God because he is afraid. Abraham and Isaiah both respond to the call of God with the word, as does the young Samuel. And hineni isn’t only a word for humans. God also speaks the word in Isaiah, promising to faithfully answer humanity’s cries for help. 

Hineni is a word for those who are curious. A word for adventurers. A word for lambs who wander off again and again and midwives who courageously save babies from genocidal tyrants. “Hineni! Here I am!” It’s a word for intrepid explorers who make a way out of no way. A word for little girls who have to know the end of the story and bravely follow their baby brother down the river to see what happens next. A word for princesses who peek into mysterious baskets and find their lives changed. “Hineni. Here I am.” 

It’s a word for all who wander. Those who stare up at the sky and consider the clouds. Those who create worlds inside their minds as they daydream. “Hineni. Here I am.”

The answer of the curious. The vulnerable. The courageous. The faithful. 

Thanks be to God for those who keep their hearts and minds open. Present. Learning. Growing. Answering the call. 

Hineni. 

NOTES: 

[1] Fretheim, Terence E.. Exodus: Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (p. 54). (Function).

[2] Exodus Rabbah 1.26, as found in The Storytellers’ Bible, p. 114. 

[3] Exodus Rabbah 2.2, as found in The Storytellers’ Bible, p. 114.