Burning Bushes Everywhere

By Laura Kauffman

Mary Oliver has a poem called “Yes! No!” where she writes, “To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.”(1) Whether it’s happening over almond milk lattes or in spiritual direction, the practice (and it is a practice) of paying attention brings the fuzzy edges of life into sharp relief. Suddenly, the most insignificant things are rife with meaning: a child’s shoe, the first snow, a bottle of Lexapro on the bathroom counter. It doesn’t matter; fuel for prayer is everywhere. 

No matter how mundane the material, when we pay attention to the movements of the Spirit in everyday life, we find a world infused with his presence. As Elizabeth Barrett Browning writes: 

Earth’s crammed with heaven, 

And every common bush afire with God, 

But only he who sees takes off his shoes; 

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.(2) 

When the Bushes Don’t Seem to Spark 

There are times when, despite our best efforts to “see,” the bushes don’t seem to be sparking. Even when we’re paying attention, God’s presence isn’t always easy to detect. On the road to Emmaus, the disciples walked for miles before realizing they were journeying with God. In the garden, Mary wept alone long before seeing her Beloved through tear-filled eyes. In the days of the prophets, Elisha’s panicked servant awaited certain death. Only later did he see the hosts of heaven. 

Unaware, all these people walked on holy ground. Earth is crammed with heaven indeed, but sometimes we can’t see the flames. 

In my office, directees often lament the silence of God: “I’m looking for God’s presence, but I keep coming up empty.” 

I hold these statements with no small amount of reverence. To anyone seeking the nearness of God but feeling their prayers bounce off the ceiling, his distance can feel, as Jon Guerra sings, like “an aching unto death.”  

When I’m with someone brave enough to give voice to doubt, I take off my shoes. What other response can there be to holy ground? 

A Jar of Skittles 

Last year, in an attempt to get my teenage sons to talk to me, I bought a giant bag of Skittles and an oversized glass jar. Whenever the boys were craving a treat, they could fish out a handful of candy, but for each Skittle, they had to answer a question about their day. Red meant something they read or learned; orange, something awesome; yellow, something not so awesome; purple, some classmate or teacher news. 

But the hardest Skittle of all was green: “Tell me about a kindness shown or received today.” 

They would roll their eyes in exasperation and insist that the world of middle school boys wasn’t exactly brimming with kindness. But soon enough, the glass jar would be all green, and sugar-lust proved incentive enough to reconsider. I heard stories of shared pencils, encouraging back-pats, and invitations to the lunch table. 

They conceded that kindness had always been there; they simply had to learn to look for it. With the help of neon candies, my children learned to see the world through kinder eyes and pay attention to the goodness at their fingertips. 

A God Who Draws Near 

Sometimes, the work of attention requires an ally—someone to offer the Skittle or (like Elisha) ask God for a glimpse of the unseen. When my boys were weighed down by the social politics of middle school, they didn’t need a lecture on perspective; they needed a listener to believe in kindness and ask good questions. When Elisha’s servant was overwhelmed with fear, he didn’t need to pull himself up by his spiritual bootstraps; he needed someone to pray for him. Holding belief, inviting attention, and praying for the gifts of revelation: This is the work of an ally. This is the role of a spiritual director. 

One of the theological assumptions of spiritual direction is that God is not a far-off, unconcerned Creator who sits back with a bag of popcorn to watch the drama of the world play out.  

His Spirit sets the world alight with burning bushes. Our work is to stand at attention. 

Burning Bushes Everywhere 

In the story of the burning bush, as far as we know, Moses wasn’t seeking a divine encounter. He was just watching sheep and going about his everyday business. Then unexpectedly, the bush erupts, the shoes come off, and the great I AM says his name. 

In one of the more unremarked upon parts of the story, Moses “saw that though the bush was on fire it did not burn up. So Moses thought, ‘I will go over and see . . .’” (Exod. 3:2–3). This reading is so familiar that it is easy to miss the astonishing amount of time contained in those few words. 

Think about how long it takes for something to “burn up.” Brush fires here in Iowa can burn for hours; it’s not unusual for a controlled burn to last all day. When Moses noticed a fire wasn’t going out, it was a miracle of attention. He must have looked at the flames and then—much later—looked again. Considered. Waited. Wondered. Soon, God would speak, miraculously and dramatically commanding Moses to come close. But first, Moses noticed that something was sparking. 

When a directee curls up in my leather chair and prayerfully considers their life, I join in the search for what’s sparking. Together, we pause, take in the landscape, and say, “It seems like something’s burning over there. Let’s go over and see.” Even if the enemies of depression or addiction are closing in or the daily rhythms of “just watching sheep” feel mundane, we trust that the ground is no less holy for the pain. Sparks of the Spirit rise even when we’re unaware. 

(1) Mary Oliver, “Yes! No!,” White Pine: Poems and Prose Poems (Harcourt Brace, 1994), 8. 

(2) Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh: A Poem in Nine Books (T. Y. Crowell, 1883), 304. 

This article has been adapted from Laura Kauffman’s book The Meeting Place: Quiet Spiritual Practices for Dwelling with God, published by Baker Books. She explores how ancient practices of spiritual direction and contemplative prayer help us draw near to God in a loud, distracting world. 

Laura Kauffman, MA, is a spiritual director and writer whose work explores the presence of God in everyday life. Drawing from the Christian contemplative tradition, she accompanies others in listening for God and responding to his invitation. She has published three collections of poetry that examine the holy edge of ordinary things. Laura lives with her family in the Midwest, where she practices spiritual direction and continues to write.