(c) Eva Marie Everson
Questions 15 & 16: He said to his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” (Mark 4: 40) “Where is your faith?” (Luke 8:25).
The Path of Silence:“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you (Deuteronomy 31:6).
The Path of Memory: Take time to write your thoughts, about your daily journey or memory.
The Path of Questioning: Read Mark 4:35–41; Luke 8:22–25.
The location was safe; Jesus and His disciples had been traveling around the area of the Galilee where they were most familiar. Several women had joined them, caring for them as women of those days often did. The crowds continued to grow. Jesus, using these precious moments, spent His time teaching, using stories or parables to draw the people closer to God. The more He spoke, the more people He gathered.
At one point, Jesus’ mother and brothers came to see Him, but the crowd was so thick, they could not get to Him.
After several days, and as night drew near, Jesus said to His disciples, “Let’s go to the other side of the lake.”[i]
Without a moment’s thought, the disciples found the nearest boat, hopped in, and pushed off from the shoreline for the “other side.” However, I feel quite certain that at least a few of them looked at one another and thought, “To the region of the Gerasenes? To the place where the Gentiles live?”
Why would Jesus want to go there? What possible business could they have had in an area inhabited by people who were more Greek than Semitic? More worldly than godly?
But they immediately got into the boat. No questions asked. Jesus said it, they did it.
We can imagine those more familiar with being on the Sea of Galilee at night—the fishermen in the group, such as Simon Peter, Andrew, James, and John—took charge. Meanwhile, Jesus, exhausted from the teaching and the crowds, went to the back of the boat (probably beneath the stern), found something to use as a pillow (perhaps a sack of sand, which would have been a common find in a first century boat), and fell asleep.
Fishermen in the days of Jesus cast their nets at night when the fish were more active and more apt to swim near the surface. They were well-trained to maneuver their craft under the light of the stars and moon or of their own lamps. They were also familiar with the storms that often came in from wind off the Mediterranean Sea. This wind sliced through the cut of the Arbel Pass and was then caught over the surface of the Sea of Galilee, which, with its surrounding mountains, resembles a bowl. Once the winds began to circulate, finding an escape route became difficult. These storms were frequent and extremely dangerous, but fishing was such a vital part of Galilean lifestyle and economy that those who worked the sea had learned to survive them.
Most times.
On that night, the disciples and a slumbering Jesus rocked along the gentle waves of the lake toward the east, a storm whipped up. Not just any storm. Three of the gospel writers—Matthew, Mark, and Luke—who wrote about the incident use a word that defines a tumultuous tempest that arrives with violent shaking along with powerful gusts of wind and rain. Perhaps even hail. Some translated versions use the word squall, a storm often accompanied by thunder and lightning.
The disciples, who even though they were accustomed to such things, became afraid, which tells us all we need to know as to just how intense and brutal this storm was. But even as waves crashed onto and into the boat, Jesus slept on.
Finally, the disciples stopped fighting the storm to wake the Lord. “Master,” they said, “Lord Rabbi
we’re in real trouble here.”
I imagine Jesus blinked, his eyes heavy with sleep. His face slick with water from the rain and waves, His hair curled under the effects of the same. His drenched clothes were plastered to his body as He slowly sat up. But there is not a moment of rushing with Him. He merely looked from the worried faces of the disciples to the rising waves, some of which could have been as high as seven or eight feet.
Then He stood. Perhaps he braced Himself with the sternpost. He looked toward the inky blackness and chaos around Him and said, “Hush.”[ii]
And the wind and the waves did exactly that. They became silent. Not slowly. Instantly. As though they never were. The only evidence that a storm had ever been present at all was the water sloshing at the feet of the disciples and the soaking they’d taken only minutes before.
Jesus turned to these men who had watched Him perform miracle after miracle and heard Him teach parable after parable. They had fully accepted Him as the Lamb of God, the Savior, the long-awaited Messiah. What had they believed would happen to them with the God of all creation in the boat? Even asleep, He had all power. They knew this because, as first century Jewish men, they would have known their scriptures. Verses such as: You answer us with awesome and righteous deeds, God our Savior, the hope of all the ends of the earth and of the farthest seas, who formed the mountains by your power, having armed yourself with strength, who stilled the roaring of the seas, the roaring of their waves, and the turmoil of the nations and You trampled the sea with your horses, churning the great waters, and Now this is what the LORD says—He who created you, O Jacob, and He who formed you, O Israel: “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; you are Mine! When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you go through the rivers, they will not overwhelm you.[iii]
Their Scriptures—words filled with line upon line of truth and promise within the verses—reminded them constantly that God controlled the storms, Both literally and figuratively. But they had forgotten because they were in the middle of the storm. Even with God Himself in the boat, they had forgotten. And so, they became afraid.
“Why?” Jesus asked them, inviting them to examine their fear.
And then: “Where is your faith?”
Our greatest fears are not around us; they are within us.
And our faith? Where does it dwell? Within the sudden storms of life or with the One who, even sleeping, can stop them with one word: hush.
How ironic that Jesus and His disciples were about to dock on the east side of the Sea of Galilee where they’d immediately encounter a demoniac living among the dead. Oh, what Satan will do to stop us from our mission. How hard he will work to keep us from “getting to the other side.” How deftly he weaves a blanket of fear that we willingly don so much more swiftly than we will ever take on the mantle of faith—that complete, unyielding confidence in God, in His provisions, in His protection, and in His purpose for our lives.
What are you afraid of?
Where is your faith?
***
We fear jumping because we fear falling. We fear being broken. But still, jump we must, because it’s only in jumping that we’ll ever find someone to catch us.[iv]
Richard Paul Evans
***
Now it’s your turn to journal on The Path of Questioning. Noting the words I have underlined, plus any words you may have underlined as well, along with the questions Jesus asked the disciples—and now asks you—write your answer to Him.
Circle toward the labyrinth’s center with The Path of Prayer. Then, sit quietly for a few moments with God before returning to life as you know it.
Question 17: “How many loaves do you have?” (Matthew 15:34).
The Path of Silence:So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand (Isaiah 41:10).
The Path of Memory: Take time to write your thoughts about your daily journey or memory.
The Path of Questioning: Read Matthew 15:29–39.
There are so many beautiful moments in the story of the feeding of the 4,000, I scarcely know where to begin. First, there are the stories that precede it, beginning with Jesus’ feeding of the 5,000 (see Matthew 14:13–21, Mark 6:32–44, Luke 9:10–17, John 6:1–15), which took place near Bethsaida and would therefore have been a miracle performed among Jews. Over the next few days or perhaps weeks and months, the disciples watched in awe as Jesus healed the sick and walked on water. They listened as He taught in parables, admonished through His teaching, and showed love even to those they had previously believed were “unlovable,” such as the Canaanite woman who begged for a healing for her demon-possessed daughter. Mark tells us specifically that she was Greek (a Gentile) born in Syrian Phoenicia.
Within this story, Jesus, who was in the northern region along the Mediterranean Sea, referenced bread in an unusual way by saying, “It is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.” This should have been and could have been the ultimate insult to the woman. Jesus was saying He had come to give to the children of Israel first. But He was also testing her level of faith. In doing so, He essentially called her a dog.
The woman, however, immediately replied, “Lord, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.”[v] The children’s crumbs. The broken pieces that fall to the ground.
Jesus is so moved by her faith He commends her, then sends her home to her daughter, a child He has healed without seeing or touching.
Then Jesus returned to the Sea of Galilee, but to a predominately Gentile area. There, His reputation having preceded Him, a large crowd gathered around Him—many of whom were lame, blind, mute, etc. Broken by life but believing in this miracle-working rabbi. This teacher. And now Jesus, who had previously challenged a Gentile woman for coming to Him with a request for healing for someone else, has great compassion on these people. In fact, Matthew tells us He “healed them all.”[vi]
Three days passed. Three days of teachings and healings and of these Gentile people praising the God of Israel. Three days, also, of eating until the food the people had brought with them had simply run out. Now, Jesus’ compassion runs a different course, and within His benevolence lies the next beautiful moment. Jesus did not want to send the people away hungry because, in doing so, they could possibly become “faint.” In other words, the energy they were existing on—between the physical food partaken and the spiritual food poured out upon them—would simply fade. How could they, these people, these new followers of the Christ, carry on?
The disciples asked Jesus a most amazing question, which, in the original language, comes across like this: Where can we get bread in the wilderness?
Oh, how quickly we humans forget the miracles of God! Jesus had not only produced enough to eat out of five loaves of bread (and two fish) to feed 5,000 men plus women and children, but hadn’t He, as God, provided manna (bread) in the desert for their ancestors?[vii] Hadn’t God shown up for them there, especially there, in a stark and barren place?
Jesus then asked the disciples, “How much bread do you have?” This question always brings a smile to my face because He was (and is) the Bread of Life (see John 6:35). Clearly, by their answer, they took this as a literal question (which it probably was, I simply find it interesting that the Bread of Life asked it and they are counting loaves). I would almost expect one of them—perhaps Peter—to raise his hand and say, “Oh! Oh! I get it! I get it! Same miracle, different crowd, right?” Or, for John to say, “We have all the bread we need in you, Rabbi.” Instead, they gave the literal answer: seven loaves and a few fish.
And this is where the story becomes its most brilliant in my eyes. Jesus took the seven loaves, thanked God for them, and broke them into pieces. Those pieces not only fed the multitude of people to their satisfaction, but plenty was left over.
***
Broken. Broken. Broken. Have you been there? Have you ever felt as though you’ve done all you could do with what God gave you, but now you can hardly put another foot in front of the other? That the gifts He bestowed on you—blessed you with, even—are now nothing but the dregs? Has life left you with nothing left to go on?
Jesus has compassion for you. But know this: the bread in Jesus’ hands could not satisfy until it had been broken. In his book, Living Prayer, Robert Benson wrote these words, words I have underlined and marked with a sticky-note, and have read so often I could probably quote the words from memory. They go like this: if we are to be the Body of Christ, then we are to suffer the fate of Christ—we are to be broken that we might be shared
we too must be taken, blessed, broken, and shared. We must somehow stop offering ourselves in prayer and begin offering ourselves as prayer
But it is rare to hear anyone pray to be broken
we are God’s chosen after all, why should we have to suffer? Why should these things happen to those who have been so blessed and have so much to share? We should be multiplied, it seems to us, not broken
we are not meant to be taken, blessed, and multiplied. We are meant to be taken, blessed, and broken.
Robert concludes this powerful, thought-provoking section with these words: It is our brokenness, perhaps even our willingness to be broken, that holds the key to whatever it is we have to share.[viii]
***
How much bread do you have? What gifts has God given to you, which you have either shared to near-depletion or have chosen never to share at all? Because you are too afraid of the outcome or too timid of God’s ability within you. How have you placed yourself—what bit of a loaf you may be—into the hands of The Bread of Life, the One who takes whatever we give Him and breaks it to multiply it? To share it. Looking back over your life, what stories come to mind—especially those that made no sense, whether at the time or even now—where you can see God allowing you to be broken? And then, how were you shared? And, because you were in His hands, how were you multiplied?
Equally important, do you allow the Christ to feed you from the broken pieces? Or do you think you’ve got this whole “walk with Christ” thing figured out? He heals us, yes. He teaches us. But oh! How sweet to sit at His table and walk away satisfied. “I am the Bread of Life,” He declared. “Whoever comes to me will never go hungry ”[ix]
***
Now it’s your turn to journal on The Path of Questioning. Noting the words I have underlined, plus any words you may have underlined as well, along with the question Jesus asked the disciples—and now asks you—write your answer to Him.
Circle toward the labyrinth’s center with The Path of Prayer. Then, sit quietly for a few moments with God before returning to life as you know it.
Question 18: Then the LORD said to him, “What is that in your hand?” (Exodus 4:2).
The Path of Silence:For though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. They have divine power to demolish strongholds. We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ (II Corinthians 10:3–5).
The Path of Memory: Take time to write your thoughts about your daily journey or a memory.
The Path of Questioning: Read Exodus 3:1–4:5.
First, the backstory.
The promise God had given to Abraham teetered on a predicament. A condition—enslavement.
“I will make you into a great nation, and I will bless you. ”[x]
Later, God again spoke to Abraham, saying, “Look up at the heavens and count the stars—if indeed you can count them so shall your offspring be.”[xi]
And later still, God reiterated the covenant, lest Abraham forget (because God never does, but we so often do). “I will confirm my covenant between me and you, and will greatly increase your numbers You will be the father of many nations
kings will come from you
I will establish my covenant as an everlasting covenant between me and you and your descendants after you for the generations to come, to be your God and the God of your descendants after you. The whole land of Canaan, where you are now an alien, I will give as an everlasting possession to you and your descendants after you; and I will be their God.”[xii]
In time, Abraham indeed had a son named Isaac, who had a son named Jacob, who had twelve sons. Jacob’s favored son, Joseph, was sold into slavery by his brothers (all but the youngest, Joseph’s “full brother” Benjamin, were in on the plot) because of their jealousy over the love their father poured out to Joseph and the flaunting nature of the young man.
Joseph landed in Egypt, where after many years and missteps, he became a vizier, the highest official under the pharaoh, or king. But before that, he was a prisoner, sentenced for a crime he had not committed.
Shortly before Joseph’s rise to power, the pharaoh had a dream so real and explicit, he believed it required understanding. Joseph, known for the gift of dream interpretation, was called to stand before him. Pharaoh told Joseph the details of the dream, and after giving God the glory, Joseph explained the dream: Egypt would experience seven years of abundance followed by seven years of a famine so severe, so extreme, the good years would be forgotten. But rather than leave the king troubled, Joseph devised and shared a plan by which the Egyptians could store a portion of the seven years of plenty, which could then be sold and used during the years of lean. Pleased at the brilliance of Joseph’s plan, Pharaoh made Joseph the vizier.
In time, the famine drove itself throughout not only Egypt but also into the surrounding areas, including the land of Canaan, where Jacob and his remaining family lived. Hearing that Egypt had grain to sell, Jacob sent the oldest ten sons there to make a purchase. When they arrived, they stood before their brother, but they didn’t recognize him. Joseph, knew exactly who they were and, having forgiven them because he had seen the purpose in God’s direction for his life, devised a new plan, one that would get his father and his brother Benjamin to Egypt as well.
The plan worked. Father and son were reunited. Brothers were reconciled. And Joseph’s family settled in the area known as Goshen, located to the northeast of the Nile. Called the “best part of the land,”[xiii] Goshen—fertile and perfect for grazing livestock—was given to Joseph’s family, who were shepherds, as a gift from a still-grateful Pharaoh.
And so it was.
But Jacob died. And Joseph died. And the Pharaoh died. About two-hundred years went by, and with the passage of time, the greatness of Joseph and the provision and gratitude of Pharaoh were forgotten.
But had the promise God made to Abraham been forgotten? Perhaps by the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. But not by God.
Even though the people were not living in the land God had sworn would one day be theirs, they had become fruitful. So fruitful, in fact, that as more time went on, the new pharaoh became concerned. And rightfully so. For an approximate one hundred years between the time of Joseph and this portion of our story, a group of Semites known as the Hyksos (shepherd kings) had ruled Egypt. When they were finally driven out, the Egyptians may have been concerned that the Israelites, who were great in number, would rise against them. To combat this, the pharaoh made the Israelites slaves to the Egyptians. The treatment of God’s people was so cruel and relentless, it should have left the Israelites worn out. Depleted. Instead, they continued to grow in number. Just drink in the words used in Exodus 1:7 to describe the situation. The Israelites were exceedingly fruitful, they multiplied greatly, they increased in number, and they became so numerous the land was filled with them.
Pharaoh then came up with another plan—He instructed the midwives to kill all the male Hebrew children. But two of the explicitly named midwives—Shiphrah and Puah—feared the Hebrew God and went against orders.
Seeing he had been outsmarted, the Egyptian king gave a new order: all male babies born to Hebrew women were to be thrown into the Nile River and drowned.
And so it was.
Except one baby boy survived. He was not thrown into the Nile; he was instead placed there by his mother in a basket of papyrus reeds made waterproof with tar and pitch. And when the pharaoh’s daughter came down to the river to bathe, she found the baby, took him into the palace, and raised him as her own.
She named the child Moses.
Forty years went by. Forty years of palatial living and the finest education, all while aware the Hebrews were, in fact, his people. Then one day he went out among them. While watching suffering under such intense labor, he witnessed an Egyptian beating one slave. Enraged, Moses killed the Egyptian. This one act alone tells us a lot that we need to know about Moses—that despite being reared in freedom and pleasure, he had an immense passion for those who had no voice. No hope.
Initially, he thought no one had seen his deed, but the following day, he learned that what he believed to have been a private matter had not been done in secret after all. When Pharaoh heard, he determined to kill Moses. Moses, in turn, fled Egypt.
Moses’s departure was so much more than leaving a country behind for brighter horizons and new opportunities. Moses left his adoptive home, his true heritage, his privilege, and all that he had ever known for the barren land of Midian, a place for nomadic shepherds. There, he married, became a father, and was employed as a shepherd by his father-in-law, a priest with seven daughters who worshipped the one true God.
In a matter of a few verses, Moses went from prince to shepherd, from single man living in the palace to married man living as an “alien in a foreign land,”[xiv] and from purposeless to purposeful. Only Moses didn’t understand this yet. What he thought was the point of his rising each morning—to tend to his father-in-law’s livestock—was God preparing him for leading a nation back to the land of promise. In fact, everything about his life up until this point—every dot and tittle—had been about what God intended to do through Moses.
Meanwhile, back in Egypt, Pharaoh died, and the Hebrew slaves, more burdened than ever by their taskmasters, finally (because until now, we have no record of them doing so) cried out to God amid their agony and hardships.
And God saw.
And God heard.
And God cared.
Not that He hadn’t seen and heard and cared all along. But now everything had fallen into place for salvation. Now the next phase of the covenant promise lay within a grasp. The timing, now perfect. A new pharaoh had ascended to the throne. More than four hundred years had passed since Joseph became a vizier to the new king’s predecessor. The Hebrew who were once a pampered people but who had lived as slaves now recognized that God and God alone could save them; they were ready to end their suffering. Moses, who should have been a slave but had been reared a prince and who ran away from the country of his timely birth, now dwelled in Midian for the last forty of his eighty years, stood fully prepared for leadership.
One day, he led his flock along “the far side of the wilderness”[xv] to Mount Horeb (also known as Sinai), which may be a single mountain or a mountain range. Not that it matters. What does matter is that Moses was there, and God showed up, displaying His glory in a flaming bush that did not burn up (because God’s holiness cannot be extinguished).
“Moses … Moses.”
Imagine that moment for this prince-turned-shepherd, young-man-turned-old … hearing the voice of God calling him by name just as He had once upon a time called Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Imagine knowing fully God not only sees you, He also knows you.
Moses … Moses … a name that means “drawn out of the water.”
Everything in his life—the drawing out, the palatial life, the fleeing to Midian, the learning a new trade and lifestyle—zeroed in on this moment, the moment God called him to his purpose.
“Hineni,” Moses replied, which means, “Here I am.”
Hineni, a response to the call of God that says, “You have my full attention. I do not know what You want or where this will lead, but I will listen, even though I do not know what this moment or the next words I will hear will mean for me. Here I am in this spectacular and thrilling moment that will change my life, of this much I am certain.”[xvi]
What follows is a conversation unlike too many others, but one that begs to be studied and understood from the perspective of both parties.
“Take off your shoes; the ground where you stand is holy. Holy because here, I am. I have seen the misery of my people … I have heard their cries … I am concerned … so much so that I am sending you so that I may rescue them and bring them back to a good and spacious land, a land flowing with milk and honey.” God needed someone—the perfect someone—to carry out this mission, and Moses, He had decided even before his birth, was that someone.
But.
“Who am I,” Moses asked, “that I should be the one to go and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” (You may have forgotten, Lord, that I am a wanted man, that I am nothing more than a shepherd, that I am no longer the Prince of Egypt. I’m not even sure I remember the language.)
“I will be with you,” God replied. An answer that does not answer the question but provides the means. This isn’t about you, Moses, and who you are or who you were. This is about Me and who I Am and who I will always be. “And when you have brought the people out of Egypt, you will return to this place—this desolate, holy place—and you will worship here.”
Moses, wholly unconvinced, asked another question. “What if the people want to know your name? What if they ask who sent me?”
“I am that I am,” God answered. I am the Lord. I am all that you need me to be and will be all that you need me to be. I am the Creator; I was not created. I am compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to the generations.[xvii] “I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob. Now go … ”
This would be enough for most and should have been enough for Moses, but a lot rode on this question-and-answer session, and as far as he was concerned, the debate was far from over. After all, the last time he’d seen his people—the Hebrews—they had chastised him. The last time he had seen his adoptive family, Pharoah had threatened to kill him. Surely he was known there as a coward, having run away from what he had done, whether or not the cause was justified. “What if they do not believe me?” he asked. “What if they say, ‘The Lord did not appear to you?’”
Such bravado, I think. Or such insanity. Never mind that Moses had just asked, “Who am I that you should send me,” but now he has also inquired whether God had thought out the details. Or possibly, this is a spur-of-the-moment decision on God’s part, this sending of the prodigal back to Egypt.
Can you picture this? Do you imagine God paused? Blinked long and hard? Raised his brow at this favored son? Or, most probably, most assuredly, God knew Moses would need further proof. And so He asked, “What is that in your hand?”
“A staff,” Moses answered. For a shepherd, the tool of his trade. A crook, a sturdy stick with a hook at the top, which enabled those who tended sheep to guide and defend their flocks. The shepherd also used them to maintain balance when terrain became unpredictable. A staff, which had become as much a part of Moses as his hand that gripped it.
“Throw it on the ground,” the Lord told him.
And he did. Without argument. Without inquiry as to the “why” of it. And when he had done this unquestioned thing, the staff became a snake. Now, this could not have been an ordinary serpent because the Word tells us that Moses ran from it.[xviii] Moses, who no doubt was vastly accustomed to snakes and such predators and who had probably killed his fair share, ran from what his staff had become.
The Lord did not laugh. He did not chortle or point and make a joke of the moment. Instead, He said, “Take it by the tail,” a line that would have made as little sense to Moses as it makes to anyone who knows even a modicum about snakes. One does not pick up a snake by the tail but from just behind the head. If one picks up a snake by the tail, the snake can then turn and bite its captor.
But in this extraordinary moment, Moses trusted God. Perhaps this was the first time in his life he had, or even had a reason to. We do not know. What we know is Moses pushed aside his fears, his questions, his doubts, his own desires for his life and did as God asked of him. He did as God required, and when he did, the snake returned to a staff, the tool of his trade.
Ah, but Moses wasn’t done with his arguments, and neither was God. Yet, just as it always has been and always will be, God won the debate. Moses would return the sheep to his father-in-law. He would take the tool of his trade, the experiences of his lifetime, and he would turn his face to the northwest. Toward Egypt.
Now, Moses had another flock to tend to.
And so it would be.
***
Now it’s your turn to journal on The Path of Questioning. Noting the words I have underlined, plus any words you may have underlined as well, along with the question God asked Moses—and now asks you—write your answer to Him.
Circle toward the labyrinth’s center with The Path of Prayer. Then, sit quietly for a few moments with God before returning to life as you know it.
[i] Luke 8:22
[ii] The Greek word σιωπάω (transliterated as siōpaō) means “to be silent” and is also used metaphorically to define a calm sea. The Greek word φιμόω (transliterated as phimoō) means to “silence with a muzzle.”
[iii] Psalm 65:5–7, Isaiah 43:1–2a
[iv] Evans, Richard Paul, The Mistletoe Secret, (Simon & Schuster, New York, NY), 306.
[v] Mark 7:26
[vi] Matthew 15:30
[vii] See Exodus 16; Numbers 11
[viii] Benson, Robert. Living Prayer (Jeremy P. Tarcher/Putnam, New York, NY. 1998) pgs. 40–42.
[ix] John 6:35
[x] Genesis 12:2
[xi] Genesis 15:5
[xii] Genesis 17:2–8
[xiii] Genesis 47:5
[xiv] Exodus 2:22
[xv] Exodus 3:1
[xvi] For more on the difference in Hineni (here I am)and hi’nih’ni (I am here), go to: http://www.jewishchronicle.org/2014/11/30/hineni-here-i-am-and-i-am-here-are-different/
[xvii] Exodus 34:6, 7
[xviii] Exodus 4:3
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