He Came Down...to Deliver

 

by Bart Denny

What follows is the sermon I intended to preach at Pathway - A Wesleyan Church on November 30, 2025, the first Sunday of Advent, when we would have lit the "Hope" candle on the Advent wreath if heavy snowfall had not preempted our service. This is the first message in a series titled He Came Down: The Wonder of God's Nearness.

He Came Down... to Deliver

Exodus 3:1-15

Introduction

Have you ever walked through a season when you felt… unseen? When you wondered, “Does anyone know what I’m carrying? Does anyone understand? Is anyone even listening when I pray?”

As we step into Advent, we need this reminder: Advent tells us we are not forgotten. Advent isn’t about people climbing their way to God. It’s the story of a God who comes down into the very places where we are — the ordinary, the unnoticed, the overlooked.

And that’s why we’re not beginning this Advent series where you might expect. Instead of Bethlehem or Nazareth, we’re starting in the wilderness of Midian — centuries before Jesus’ birth.

Because the story of Christmas doesn’t begin with shepherds and angels. It begins with a God who says, “I have seen… I have heard… I am concerned… so I have come down.”

We see the heart of Advent all the way back in Exodus 3.

So let’s open our Bibles to Exodus 3:1–15 (NIV):

¹Now Moses was tending the flock of Jethro, his father-in-law, the priest of Midian, and he led the flock to the far side of the wilderness and came to Horeb, the mountain of God.

² There, the angel of the Lord appeared to him in flames of fire from within a bush. Moses saw that though the bush was on fire, it did not burn up. ³So Moses thought, “I will go over and see this strange sight—why the bush does not burn up.”

⁴ When the Lord saw that he had gone over to look, God called to him from within the bush, “Moses! Moses!” And Moses said, “Here I am.”

⁵ “Do not come any closer,” God said. “Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.”

⁶ Then he said, “I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.” At this, Moses hid his face, because he was afraid to look at God.

⁷The Lord said, “I have indeed seen the misery of my people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out because of their slave drivers, and I am concerned about their suffering.

⁸ So I have come down to rescue them from the hand of the Egyptians and to bring them up out of that land into a good and spacious land, a land flowing with milk and honey—the home of the Canaanites, Hittites, Amorites, Perizzites, Hivites, and Jebusites.

⁹And now the cry of the Israelites has reached me, and I have seen the way the Egyptians are oppressing them. ¹⁰So now, go. I am sending you to Pharaoh to bring my people, the Israelites, out of Egypt.”

¹¹ But Moses said to God, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?”

¹²And God said, “I will be with you. And this will be the sign to you that it is I who have sent you: When you have brought the people out of Egypt, you will worship God on this mountain.”

¹³ Moses said to God, “Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ Then what shall I tell them?”

¹⁴God said to Moses, “I am who I am. This is what you are to say to the Israelites: ‘I am has sent me to you.’”

  ¹⁵ God also said to Moses, “Say to the Israelites, ‘The Lord, the God of your fathers—the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob—has sent me to you.’ “This is my name forever, the name you shall call me from generation to generation.

As we step into this passage, we begin to realize Moses’ story isn’t so different from ours.

He’s in a wilderness — far from where he expected life to go, carrying disappointment, routine, and questions. He likely felt forgotten. Unseen. Yet it’s right there, in that dusty, ordinary place, that God shows up.

Before the Red Sea, before the plagues, before the deliverance, the whole story begins with something simple and profoundly hopeful: God notices. He sees.

And the same God who saw Moses in Midian sees you in your wilderness today.

That’s where this passage starts — and that’s where our Advent hope begins: 

God Sees Your Condition

Exodus 3:1-6

Let’s start with Moses. Where is he? Verse 1 tells us he’s “on the far side of the wilderness.”  

That’s not accidental. It describes exactly where he is — not just geographically, but emotionally and spiritually.

He’s on the far side of everything.

He’s far from Egypt, where he grew up in Pharaoh’s household.
He’s far from his calling — far from the man he once thought he’d be.
After forty years of privilege and position, he’s now a fugitive, a murderer on the run.

He’s had to start over: new home, new family. He’s married a country girl named Zipporah, and instead of leading a nation, he’s tending sheep. Egyptian royalty didn’t think much of shepherds. And they’re not even his own sheep, but his father-in-law Jethro’s.

A man who once seemed destined for greatness is now living in a place that feels small, forgotten, and far from everything that once defined him.

He’s not standing in Pharaoh’s court.
He’s not doing anything “big” for God.
He’s watching sheep. In the desert. For his father-in-law.

And yet — that’s exactly where God shows up.

Can I submit to you that this is exactly where Advent begins?

Because Advent isn’t the story of God finding people at their best. Advent is the story of God coming down to people at their lowest.

Verse 2 says, “The angel of the Lord appeared to him in flames of fire from within a bush.”

Moses isn’t hallucinating. In the Old Testament, the phrase “the angel of the Lord” often refers to what scholars call a theophany — a visible appearance of God Himself. Not just an ordinary angel, if there is such a thing, but God showing up personally and tangibly.

We talked about this back in our Seeing the Unseen series, when Manoah and his wife — Samson’s parents — encountered the angel of the Lord.

The angel of the Lord appears in various forms throughout Scripture, but here in Exodus 3, Moses meets Him as a burning bush that doesn’t burn up. And as we keep reading, we learn something profound: God is revealing Himself as the One who burns with holy presence but never burns out.

He is self-sufficient — and yet He gives Himself freely to His people.

And this is what Advent reveals even more clearly.

The God who appears in fire in Exodus appears in flesh in Bethlehem.

The God who sees Moses in Midian sees the whole world in its darkness — and He comes down.

Why does God appear in a burning bush instead of a temple, or a throne, or a mountaintop with thunder? Because God meets us where we are, not where we wish we were.

God doesn’t wait for Moses to fix himself or climb the right mountain or build enough momentum. He meets him in a dusty, unimpressive, ordinary moment.

And that is exactly the message of Advent. God didn’t wait for humanity to climb its way to Him. He came down — into poverty, into obscurity, into a manger on the far side of everything.

And then God calls Moses’ name — twice: “Moses! Moses!”

In Scripture, whenever God calls someone’s name twice, it signals both intensity and affection. We see it in Genesis 22:11, when Abraham is about to sacrifice his son, Isaac. The angel of the Lord cries out from heaven, “Abraham! Abraham!” — Stop! Don’t lay a hand on that boy. That’s intensity. And right there, God provides a sacrifice.

We see it in 1 Samuel 3:10, when God calls the young boy in the night: “Samuel! Samuel!” It’s urgent. It’s weighty. And that moment becomes the beginning of Samuel’s calling as a prophet who will shape Israel’s future.

We hear it in Luke 10:41, when Jesus speaks with tenderness to a stressed, overwhelmed friend: “Martha, Martha…” You can hear the love in His voice as He redirects her worried heart toward what matters most.

And what could be more intense than the call of the risen Christ in Acts 9:4, when He appears to the chief persecutor, Saul of Tarsus? “Saul! Saul!” In that moment, Saul’s life is completely rerouted. He becomes Apostle Paul—the great missionary, church planter, and author of much of the New Testament.

That same intensity and affection is what we see here in Exodus 3, at the burning bush.

God sees Moses. God knows him. God calls to him. And in Christ, God does the same for us.

God sees His people in their condition. Psalm 34:15 reminds us, “The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and His ears are attentive to their cry.”

God isn’t distant, and He’s not unaware.

Psalm 139:3 says, “You discern my going out and my lying down; You are familiar with all my ways.”

In other words, God knows every step, every struggle, every burden you carry. Nothing is hidden from Him.

When we reach the Gospels, this truth steps into human flesh. Jesus is the God who sees. Jesus is the God who takes Exodus 3 and puts skin on it.

In John 1, Jesus sees Nathanael under the fig tree before anyone else even knows he’s there. In Luke 19, He sees Zacchaeus up in the sycamore tree, trying to hide above the crowd and get a peek at Jesus. In Luke 21, He sees the poor widow sacrificially drop her two small coins—the only money she had to live on—into the temple offering.

All throughout the Gospels, Jesus sees the blind, the sick, and the lame. He sees a woman so desperate for healing that she reaches through the crowd just to touch His robe.

The Incarnation of Jesus Christ is God saying,
“I see you — so I’m coming down.”

God has always been a God who sees.

Think about a good parent at a playground. Kids feel like they’re running wild. But that good parent — whether they’re standing or sitting, talking or sipping coffee — always knows exactly where their child is. Their eyes never really leave them. They see every stumble, every risk, every moment of danger.

God sees your wilderness. He sees your exhaustion, your disappointment. He sees when your hope is thin.

And Advent reminds us that God didn’t just watch us — He came down for us.

So let me ask you: Where do you feel “on the far side” right now? What part of your life feels dusty, unimpressive, or forgotten? What dream or calling do you feel like you blew?

Advent says, “God sees you.”

This isn’t the season of pretending everything is fine. This is the season of remembering that God has never taken His eyes off you.

Before God delivers you, He looks at you.
Before God moves you, He finds you.
Hope starts here — because Advent starts here.

Exodus 3 teaches us that God sees us long before we ever see Him—and Advent proclaims the very same truth. But God’s compassion doesn’t end with what He sees. The God who meets Moses in the wilderness is the same God who has been listening to generations of Israel’s groaning.

Seeing moves His heart, and hearing moves His hand. That’s how God works—then in Midian, and later in Bethlehem.

So let’s move to the second movement of this passage, and that’s a reminder that:

God Hears Your Cry

Exodus 3:7–9

After God reveals Himself in flame, He reveals His heart through His words.

Verse 7 contains one of the most compassionate declarations in all of Scripture: The Lord said, “I have indeed seen the misery of My people in Egypt. I have heard them crying out because of their slave drivers, and I am concerned about their suffering.”

Notice the verbs. God is not observing from a distance. He’s actively interested. He says: “I have seen… I have heard… I am concerned…”

The Hebrew word behind “concerned” carries an intimate, relational knowing. This isn’t detached awareness — it’s deep, emotional involvement. God doesn’t just notice their suffering; He feels it.

And Israel’s cries were not polite prayers. The word used here describes a cry of desperation — a scream for help. They had cried for generations… under oppression, violence, injustice, and shattered hope. Babies thrown into the Nile. Families torn apart. Brutal slave masters. Decades of what felt like unanswered prayer.

It must have seemed like God was silent.

But God says, “I heard every cry.”

Not one prayer evaporated. Not one tear went unnoticed.

And this is again where Exodus 3 meets Advent.

Because Advent is the story of God hearing the cries of a broken world —a world weary of injustice, darkness, silence…and responding in the most personal way possible.

At this point, a fair question arises: “If God hears like this, why didn’t He act sooner? Why wait 400 years?”

Scripture gives at least three answers (and there are probably more):

First, we are forced to confront the fact that God’s timing isn’t our timing.

Psalm 90:4 reminds us— “A thousand years in your sight are like a day that has just gone by, or like a watch in the night.”

God moves with perfect wisdom and in His timing… not in human impatience.

More than that, God was preparing Moses.

Before Moses could deliver Israel, God had to deliver Moses — from pride, impulsiveness, and self-reliance.

Sometimes the delay isn’t God’s reluctance; it’s God’s preparation. God had many things in the works.

And sometimes, God allows sin and injustice to reach full measure before His judgment comes.

Genesis 15 illustrates this principle. God tells Abraham that his descendants will go into slavery, but that in His time, God will bring them out of captivity and set all things right.

In Genesis 15:16 (NIV), God says to Abraham, “In the fourth generation, your descendants will come back here, for the sin of the Amorites has not yet reached its full measure.”

God’s justice is never rushed, but it’s always sure.

And then Scripture makes a stunning parallel to Advent in Galatians 4:4, “But when the right time came, God sent his Son, born of a woman, subject to the law.”

In other words, God hears — and He responds at exactly the right moment.

Not late. Not early. Right on time.

Israel’s cry led to a burning bush.

The world’s cry led to a manger in Bethlehem.

And this isn’t just something we see in Exodus. The whole sweep of Scripture shows us that God is a God who hears—deeply, personally, faithfully.

Take Psalm 56:8. The psalmist says, “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.” (NLT)

Do you hear what that means? He keeps track of every restless night, every tear that falls when no one else sees.

Then look at Romans 8:26, which tells us that when we don’t know what to pray for, “the Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words.” (NLT)

There are moments in life when we don’t even know what to pray. We can’t form the sentence. We can’t articulate the need. All we have is a sigh… a groan… a wordless ache. And the Holy Spirit picks that up and carries it straight to the Father.

So even when you don’t know how to pray…
even when the only prayer you can offer is a tear or a groan…
God hears the cry beneath the prayer.

The Incarnation of Christ is God’s ultimate answer to those cries. There at Bethlehem’s manger, the eternal Son of God took on human flesh, stepped into our world, and became one of us. God didn’t send help from a distance — He came Himself. He entered our pain, our weakness, our humanity, so He could save us from the inside out.

That’s the Incarnation — God coming down in person—in the person of Jesus.

He didn’t answer from afar.

He came down in flesh.

He entered the darkness.

He stepped into the ache.

The manger in Bethlehem is God saying to the whole world:
“I hear you — so I have come down.”

I’ve worked a little bit as a hospital chaplain. Among the patients I provided coverage for, some were considered “fall risks.” So, the hospital staff put alarms on the beds of those patients—alarms that would notify them immediately if a patient might have fallen from their bed.

And when that fall alarm went off, it was loud and urgent. It didn’t matter if the nursing staff was busy, tired, or down the hallway. That signal said, “Someone needs help right now.” And the staff moved urgently to address that need.

That’s Exodus 3. That's Advent.

God is saying, “I heard every cry. Every distress signal reached me.”

Israel’s cries were not background noise in the universe. And neither are yours. Heaven hears the alert.

Maybe you’ve been praying for something so long it feels like your prayers are just bouncing off the ceiling—a loved one, a broken relationship, a burden that won’t lift. Hear this: God hears you. Hear this: God hears you.

Your tears are counted.
Your prayers are collected.
Your cries matter.

And Advent — this season we’re in right now — is God leaning close to whisper to your weary heart:

“I hear you.
I have not forgotten you.
And I am moving.”

Exodus 3 has already shown us something beautiful: a God who sees us long before we ever see Him, and a God who hears us long after we think our prayers have faded.

But the story doesn’t stop there.

Because the God who sees and the God who hears is also the God who moves. The God who enters in. It happened at the burning bush… and it happened again at Bethlehem.

And that leads us naturally to see in Exodus the same God we see in Jesus: 

God Comes Down to Deliver

Exodus 3:8–15

We’ve witnessed a God who sees, and a God who hears. So, this final point reveals the natural and inevitable next movement of God’s heart:

“So I have come down to rescue them…”

This is the hinge of the entire passage.
And this is the heartbeat of Advent.

Because the story of Scripture is not the story of humanity climbing its way to God…

It’s the story of a God who comes down to us.

The phrase “I have come down” appears at key moments in the Old Testament whenever God personally intervenes:

In Genesis 11, God “comes down” to Babel in judgment.

In Exodus 19, God “comes down” on Sinai to give the Law.

In Psalm 18, God “comes down” to rescue David from his enemies.

But here in Exodus 3, God comes down not in judgment, not in law, but in deliverance.

God doesn’t shout instructions from heaven.
God doesn’t just stand off and observe suffering.
God moves toward His people in their pain.

Exodus 3 is God stepping into the story of Moses and of Israel—and it points to how He would one day step into all of humanity’s story in the person of Jesus Christ.

We need to be honest here:

Moses probably thought deliverance was impossible.
Israel probably thought God had forgotten them.
After centuries of brutal slavery, it would have been easy to believe God was silent.

But deliverance—true, deep deliverance—is never about human ability. It is about divine proximity. Salvation doesn’t start with us climbing up. It starts with God coming down.

Now, maybe you’re reading this and you’re asking:

“If God really comes down… why do I still struggle?

Why doesn’t deliverance happen immediately?”

A fair question, and one about which Scripture gives us clarity:

First, God’s deliverance is often progressive.

Israel wasn’t delivered in a single moment. God brought them out step by step. The plagues unfolded over months. The Red Sea required faith before it ever parted. And the wilderness—forty years of learning to trust God day by day. Their deliverance came, but it came in stages, as God led them, taught them, and prepared them for what was ahead.

Second, deliverance isn’t just escape — it’s formation. That takes time.

God wasn’t only freeing Israel from Egypt; He was shaping them for Himself. The rescue was the beginning, not the end. God was forming their identity, their trust, their obedience. Deliverance isn’t just getting out of bondage — it’s becoming the kind of people who walk with God afterward.

And we ought to recognize this: That even after deliverance, God calls His people to walk with Him daily.

Freedom isn’t a one-time event; it’s an ongoing relationship. Israel was set free, but they still had to follow the cloud by day and the fire by night. They had to trust God for manna each morning. Deliverance didn’t end their dependence on God — it deepened it. God frees us and then invites us to keep walking with Him, step by step.

Advent reminds us that God’s deliverance is both instantaneous and ongoing.

It’s instantaneous in justification — the moment you trust Christ, you are fully forgiven, fully accepted, fully made right with God. Bound for Heaven. That part is immediate.

It’s ongoing in sanctification — God keeps shaping you, growing you, healing you, and forming Christ within you day by day. This is the Spirit’s work of making us holy in heart and life. God doesn’t just forgive us; He can cleanse us deeply, purify our motives, and fill us with perfect love.

Deliverance continues as God works in you over time, freeing you not only from the guilt of sin, but from the power of sin, until your heart is fully yielded to Him.

And God’s deliverance is completed in glorification — the day Jesus returns and every trace of sin, suffering, and struggle is finally gone. That’s the final deliverance still to come.

Israel’s story points forward to that larger rescuing—a rescue we celebrate at Christmas, when God Himself came down to begin the work of making all things new.

This is where Exodus meets Bethlehem.

John 1:14 declares: “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”

That’s God’s “I have come down” in human form.

Luke 1:68 says: “He has come to His people and redeemed them.”

Just as the burning bush was the place where God met Moses, Bethlehem becomes the place where God meets humanity.

God is again stepping into human history.

Philippians 2:6–8 (NLT) tells us this about Jesus: “Though He was God… He gave up His divine privileges… he took the humble position as a slave… was born a human being.. and humbled himself in obedience to God”… all the way to the cross.

Jesus is the ultimate expression of God’s saying, “I have come down.”

In Exodus, God descends in fire. At Bethlehem, God descends in flesh.

In Christ, God becomes our Deliverer—not from Pharaoh, but from sin, death, shame, and spiritual bondage.

The Incarnation is God’s final, full declaration: “I have come down to rescue you.”

Maybe you’ve seen those television shows about missions with the U.S. Coast Guard. I like those shows because, in the Navy, I worked closely with the Coast Guard—even supported a few rescues. Some sea stories for another time.

But whether you’ve seen those shows or not, you can probably picture a rescue diver launching from a helicopter into violent waters.

Those divers don’t hover overhead yelling instructions like, “Swim harder! Try more! Save yourself!” I’ve never seen that happen!

No—they leap into the chaos.
They plunge into the waves.
They wrap their arms around the drowning person.
Their descent is the rescue.

That’s a great picture of the Incarnation.

Jesus didn’t shout advice from heaven.
He didn’t stay above the storm.
He entered it. He stepped in. He came down.

For you. And for me.

So let me ask you directly—because this is where the text gets personal:

Where do you need deliverance today?

Maybe it’s an addiction you can’t break. You’ve tried to stop more times than you can count, and every time you think you’ve got your footing, it pulls you right back under.

Maybe it’s a fear that keeps tightening its grip. A fear about the future, or your kids, or your health… a fear that whispers in the dark and robs you of peace.

Maybe it’s shame that follows you into every room. Something from your past that still speaks louder than God’s forgiveness, a memory you can’t seem to outrun.

Maybe it’s anger you can’t control. It flares up before you even realize it, leaving hurt in its wake—hurt you never intended.

Maybe it’s depression that simply will not lift. You smile in public, but the heaviness returns the moment the door closes behind you.

Maybe it’s a hidden sin nobody knows about. Something you’ve buried so deep you’re not sure how to talk about it—something that feels like chains around your soul.

Or maybe it’s a place of bondage only God and you can see. A place in your heart you’ve never spoken out loud, but you feel trapped there, stuck there, longing for someone to pull you out.

Where do you need deliverance today?

Hear this clearly:

You can’t deliver yourself.
You were never meant to.

The message of Advent is this:

God comes down into the places you can’t climb out of.
He comes not to condemn you,
but to carry you out of bondage and into freedom.

He came down for Israel.
He came down in Bethlehem.
And He comes down into your life today.

Deliverance is not something you achieve.
It’s something—and Someone—you receive.

So what does this mean for us, here in the opening week of Advent?
Israel’s story is not just their story—it’s our story.
The God who came down for Moses… the God who came down in Bethlehem… is the same God who comes down into our lives today.
So let’s bring this home and ask what that means for us.

Hope Has Come Down

When Moses stood before that burning bush, he learned something about God that would echo all the way from Midian to Bethlehem.
He learned that:

A God who sees isn’t indifferent. He doesn’t overlook you. He doesn’t ignore you. He sees every tear, every burden, every wilderness moment.

A God who hears isn’t silent. Your cries aren’t lost in the wind. Your prayers aren’t dismissed. Heaven has heard every word.

And a God who comes down isn’t far away. He moves toward His people. He steps into their suffering. He brings deliverance with Him.

That’s the message of Advent. That’s the hope of Christmas.

The God who came down in Exodus…came down again in Bethlehem —
not in fire this time, but in flesh.

He came so you could know Him.

He came so you could be delivered.

He came so you could walk in hope.

He came so you could say with confidence, “My God sees me. My God hears me. My God has come down for me.”

So let me ask you one last question: Where do you need God to come down in your life? Where do you need His rescue? His presence? His deliverance?

Would you turn aside—even for a moment—to see the “burning bush” in your own wilderness?

Would you listen for the God who calls your name with intensity and affection?

Would you open your heart to the God who says, “I have seen… I have heard… so I have come down”?