Lately, I have been revisiting the Bible with fresh eyes, searching not just for familiar narratives but for deeper wisdom and spiritual truth. My faith and my understanding of my God transcend the confines of any single denomination. I find that no one tradition can fully encapsulate the divine. Instead, I see glimpses of the divine across the vast and varied landscapes of religious thought, historical traditions, and ways of living. Each path, in its own way, holds a piece of the larger truth, a fragment of the infinite. It is only by seeking across these many perspectives that I feel I can even begin to understand the divine mystery.
This morning, I found myself immersed in the Book of Exodus, a story that is as powerful as it is ancient. It recounts the dramatic liberation of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt—a journey marked by suffering, divine intervention, and ultimately, redemption. God, responding to the cries of the oppressed, calls upon Moses to lead his people out of bondage. Through a series of miraculous plagues, Pharaoh is compelled to release them, culminating in the breathtaking escape through the parted Red Sea. But their journey does not end with freedom; it moves toward covenant. At Mount Sinai, the Israelites enter into a sacred agreement with God, as Moses receives the Ten Commandments—a moral foundation that would shape the identity of God’s chosen people.
While reading about Moses on Mount Sinai, one passage in particular leapt out at me: Exodus 3:14. In this moment, Moses, standing before the burning bush, asks God for his name. The response? “I AM THAT I AM.” God tells Moses, “Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you.” This phrase, simple yet profound, set the clockwork of my mind in motion.
What does “I AM THAT I AM” truly mean? Could the phrase be punctuated differently? I found myself wondering—what if it were read as “I AM THAT, I AM”? That single word, “that,” suddenly seemed so significant. What if “that” is not just a definitive statement of self-existence but an open-ended invitation to define the divine?
Consider how often we use the words “I am” in our daily thoughts and speech: “I am exhausted.” “I am angry.” “I am not enough.” These declarations, repeated over time, become personal mantras—reinforcing states of mind that weigh us down, keeping us trapped in negativity. If the words following “I am” hold such power over our thoughts and emotions, what effect do they have on our spiritual well-being? Could they, in some way, shape our relationship with our God, separating us from the divine by reinforcing limiting beliefs about ourselves?
This brings me to something I have been practicing for some time now—my daily mantra meditation. For thirty minutes each day, I repeat a simple Sanskrit phrase: “Aham sukhi aham” (अहम् सुखी अहम), pronounced “uh-hum soo-key uh-hum,” meaning “I am happy, I am.” Another variation I use is “Aham karuna aham” (अहम् करुणा अहम), or “I am compassion, I am.” As I silently repeat these affirmations, focusing on my breath, my mind begins to settle. The usual background noise of my thoughts fades into stillness. More often than not, after half an hour of this practice, I actually begin to feel the truth of the words I am speaking—I become the happiness, the compassion, the peace that I am affirming.
And so I return to Moses at the burning bush. What if, in that sacred moment of revelation, when God spoke his name, he was not merely declaring himself as the self-existent being, the ultimate “I AM”? What if he was also imparting a deeper truth—that “I AM” is a blank slate, a divine reflection of whatever follows? What if God was saying, “I AM whatever you declare yourself to be”?
If this is true, then the words we choose to follow “I am” hold immense spiritual power. They are not just statements; they are acts of creation. “I am at peace.” “I am grateful.” “I am love.” If we consistently affirm these truths, we draw closer to our higher power, to the divine source that resides within and around us. In doing so, we align ourselves with a spiritual reality that nurtures our souls rather than diminishes them.
Perhaps the true message of Exodus 3:14 is this: God’s name is not a rigid, unchangeable declaration but an invitation to self-discovery and divine connection. We are, in essence, co-creators of our own spiritual reality. And if we are mindful of the words we attach to “I am,” we can shape a life that is abundant in love, compassion, and peace—drawing ever closer to the divine presence that Moses encountered on that sacred mountain.
The Space Between
Old book, new eyes.
Not walls, but windows.
God, not bound, but flowing,
through cracks of every creed,
fragments of the infinite, scattered, whole.
Exodus, dust and fire,
a people's cry, a sea's divide.
Freedom, then, a mountain's weight,
laws carved, a covenant made.
But the name, the question, the burning bush.
"I AM THAT I AM."
Or, "I AM THAT, I AM."
The "that," a space, a void, a possibility.
Not a definition, but a mirror.
"I am tired." "I am lost."
Words, chains, shaping shadows.
The "I am," a power, a seed,
planted in barren ground, growing thorns.
"Aham sukhi aham." "Aham karuna aham."
Breath, a rhythm, words, a current.
The mind stills, the "I am" transforms,
from echo to being, from thought to flesh.
Moses, the mountain, the name unheard,
or heard anew.
God, not a noun, but a verb,
"I AM," a canvas, waiting.
"I am peace." "I am love."
Words, not pleas, but acts,
shaping the unseen, the felt.
Co-creators, whispering truths,
drawing the divine, from within, without.
No rigid name, no final word,
but an invitation, a journey inward.
The "I AM," a silent echo,
of the vast, the boundless, the ever-becoming.
