Mar 28 2020 Exodus 2:23-3:15

Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.


Moses has been beckoned to the burning bush by God. Upon his arrival, Moses is told to take off his sandals, because the place he’s standing is holy. And so he does.

This morning, I’m thinking about holy ground: what it is, where it is, and how we can mark it as holy.

It seems to me that if any ground is holy, it all is holy. God is everywhere, and everything has been made holy, including the mountain top, my front stoop, the hospital floors, and the homeless encampments. And while I believe that, it doesn’t make sense to take my shoes off everywhere. It’s hard to always remember that every step I take is on holy ground. I wish I could remember that, and behave like that always. And because that is nearly impossible, I do appreciate the marking of specific places as holy. Not that they’re more holy than others, but they help me mark and remember that ground is holy.



So what places feel holy to me? I am reminded about holy ground in the traditional religious places – temples, synagogues, cathedrals, chapels. It’s as if the holy intentions of the visitors stays in the space. I also get a sense of holy ground when I’m in the beauty of nature. A panoramic vista, oceans, the majesty of mountains. Frequently, I feel that my kitchen is holy ground. I cook, feed and nurture my loved ones there.

The final place that nearly always feels like holy ground is in grimy, bustling service settings, being with people in need. Homeless shelters, feeding programs, hospitals. It’s not that the ground is majestic or holy intrinsically, but when I see the face of Christ in others, it’s obvious that the ground is holy. How could it not be holy ground, when Christ is so imminent and present in the faces of volunteers and clients alike?

We just moved from an apartment to a home in Portland. By the front door, there’s a built-in shoe rack. I have taken to removing my shoes and putting on slippers when I come in the door, and I’ve never been one to do that kind of thing before. It may have started for practical, don’t-track-dirt-in reasons, but I’ve grown to appreciate the marking of the space as different, as somehow special. I do get a sense that when I remove my outside gear, I’m entering a more holy space.

Holy ground is all around me. And today, I want to think of ways to identify and mark the ways that a particular ground is holy.