The fire didn’t burn the bush.
That’s what caught Moses’s eye that ordinary day in the desert. The bush was engulfed—but not consumed. Flames danced, leaves remained. He drew closer, sandals kicking up dust, and then... a voice.
“Moses.”
He stopped. A voice from the fire called his name and gave him a mission that drained the color from his face: go to Pharaoh. Set my people free.
And Moses, like many of us, hesitated. “Who am I to do this?” he asked.
But the real question wasn’t about Moses. It never was.
God answered him with something breathtaking: “I AM WHO I AM” (Exodus 3:14, ESV). Tell them, “I AM has sent me to you.”
Centuries later, Jesus echoed that same voice. To Pharisees who dissected lineage and law like scholars, He made a declaration that shook the ground: “Before Abraham was, I am” (John 8:58, ESV). Not “I was.” Not “I will be.” Just “I am.” Timeless. Present. Eternal.
No wonder the crowd picked up stones. They knew what He was saying.
I Am. No beginning. No end. The One who always is.
But what does that mean for you, sitting in your quiet kitchen, Bible open, coffee cooling beside a journal half-filled with prayers?
It means You're not trusting a God who shows up when He feels like it. You're not hoping for help from someone bound by time and space. You are speaking to I Am—always present, always self-existent, always enough.
When Moses asked for a name, God didn’t give him something safe or shallow. He gave him reality itself. This wasn’t a god carved from stone or a temperament-driven thunder deity with titles that traced human history. This was the Being behind all being. The breath behind every breath. The One who doesn’t just exist—He is.
That changes how you pray when the phone call comes and the diagnosis lands. When your child walks away and the silence stretches years long. When your heart aches beneath a smile you put on every day. Because you don’t cry out to a memory or a myth. You call upon the God whose name means: I Am There.
Maybe you’ve felt abandoned. Maybe, like Moses, you’ve whispered, “Who am I for this? Why would You choose me?” Lean in. God didn’t answer Moses’s fear with flattery. He answered it with identity—His, not Moses’s.
I Am.
Not “I was close to the faithful” or “I will be good eventually.”
I Am faithfulness. I Am goodness. I Am enough.
A friend once told me that when life feels like it's unraveling, she repeats those two words aloud: “You are.” And somehow, the tension in her shoulders lifts. The tears are still there, sometimes. But so is He.
He is for the mother long after midnight, cradling a feverish child and wondering if her prayers are working.
He is for the man packing up an office, walking away from a dream.
He is for the weary trying to start over one more time, wondering if grace really reaches them this time.
We live in a world of change. Politicians change. People change. Even the weather changes twice by lunchtime. But He does not change. He is who He is. He will be who He has always been.
I AM.
Steady in your shakiness. Peaceful in your panic. Inviting you to remove your sandals too—not because the ground is magic, but because it’s sacred when the eternal meets the earthly.
There’s a reason God didn’t say, “I was.” Your past doesn't intimidate Him.
There’s a reason He didn’t say, “I will be.” Your future doesn’t worry Him.
He simply said, “I Am.”
The fire didn’t burn the bush.
That’s what caught Moses’s eye that ordinary day in the desert. The bush was engulfed—but not consumed. Flames danced, leaves remained. He drew closer, sandals kicking up dust, and then... a voice.
“Moses.”
He stopped. A voice from the fire called his name and gave him a mission that drained the color from his face: go to Pharaoh. Set my people free.
And Moses, like many of us, hesitated. “Who am I to do this?” he asked.
But the real question wasn’t about Moses. It never was.
God answered him with something breathtaking: “I AM WHO I AM” (Exodus 3:14, ESV). Tell them, “I AM has sent me to you.”
Centuries later, Jesus echoed that same voice. To Pharisees who dissected lineage and law like scholars, He made a declaration that shook the ground: “Before Abraham was, I am” (John 8:58, ESV). Not “I was.” Not “I will be.” Just “I am.” Timeless. Present. Eternal.
No wonder the crowd picked up stones. They knew what He was saying.
I Am. No beginning. No end. The One who always is.
But what does that mean for you, sitting in your quiet kitchen, Bible open, coffee cooling beside a journal half-filled with prayers?
It means You're not trusting a God who shows up when He feels like it. You're not hoping for help from someone bound by time and space. You are speaking to I Am—always present, always self-existent, always enough.
When Moses asked for a name, God didn’t give him something safe or shallow. He gave him reality itself. This wasn’t a god carved from stone or a temperament-driven thunder deity with titles that traced human history. This was the Being behind all being. The breath behind every breath. The One who doesn’t just exist—He is.
That changes how you pray when the phone call comes and the diagnosis lands. When your child walks away and the silence stretches years long. When your heart aches beneath a smile you put on every day. Because you don’t cry out to a memory or a myth. You call upon the God whose name means: I Am There.
Maybe you’ve felt abandoned. Maybe, like Moses, you’ve whispered, “Who am I for this? Why would You choose me?” Lean in. God didn’t answer Moses’s fear with flattery. He answered it with identity—His, not Moses’s.
I Am.
Not “I was close to the faithful” or “I will be good eventually.”
I Am faithfulness. I Am goodness. I Am enough.
A friend once told me that when life feels like it's unraveling, she repeats those two words aloud: “You are.” And somehow, the tension in her shoulders lifts. The tears are still there, sometimes. But so is He.
He is for the mother long after midnight, cradling a feverish child and wondering if her prayers are working.
He is for the man packing up an office, walking away from a dream.
He is for the weary trying to start over one more time, wondering if grace really reaches them this time.
We live in a world of change. Politicians change. People change. Even the weather changes twice by lunchtime. But He does not change. He is who He is. He will be who He has always been.
I AM.
Steady in your shakiness. Peaceful in your panic. Inviting you to remove your sandals too—not because the ground is magic, but because it’s sacred when the eternal meets the earthly.
There’s a reason God didn’t say, “I was.” Your past doesn't intimidate Him.
There’s a reason He didn’t say, “I will be.” Your future doesn’t worry Him.
He simply said, “I Am.”
