Last Sabbath, an American Adventist, Brianna, visited our congregation. At the end of the service, she took a seat next to a Dutch pianist, her boyfriend. There was no large stage, no elaborate announcement, just a piano and a voice. Then she began to sing I Will Be There by Sela.
I didn’t know the song yet. After just a few lines, something happened that music can occasionally do. The melody slowly faded into the background, and the lyrics began to demand my full attention.
“Your name is ‘I Am’ and ‘I will be there.'” This one sentence stuck with me. The words took me back to Exodus 3, where Moses, at the burning bush, asks who he should tell the people who sent him. Many Christians know the answer by heart: “I AM WHO I AM.” Yet, a second layer is hidden within the original language of this book, Hebrew. God’s name refers not only to His eternal existence. It also carries a promise within it: I will be there.
That difference seems small, until it becomes personal. Anyone looking back on their life often discovers that faith does not develop solely through moments when everything came naturally. It is precisely the periods in which plans changed, expectations fell apart, or answers failed to materialize that, in retrospect, turn out to add another layer to that faith. The questions do not always disappear. Circumstances by no means always change immediately. Yet, somewhere along the way, a different kind of trust grows.
The past few years have regularly challenged me. My walking tour for Walking for Humanity included days when the next stage seemed further away than the previous one, and every day it was a tense moment wondering whether I would find food, drink, or shelter. Relationships changed, farewells came closer than expected, and new encounters required trust anew. The restrictions on LinkedIn affect my work, my visibility, and my ability to participate in conversations that are important to me. At such moments, attention easily focuses on what is missing or what seems to be getting lost.
Yet I notice that my faith has slowly shifted precisely during that period.
In the past, I primarily sought answers. I wanted to understand why certain events occurred and what intention lay behind them. Nowadays, I notice that a different question has become more important. Not so much why something happens, but who walks with me while it happens.
That sounds simpler than it is.
We live in a time where much revolves around control. We want to predict, plan, limit risks, and organize certainty. As soon as that certainty falls away, it quickly feels as if the ground is disappearing from under our feet. Faith is then easily seen as a “guarantee” that everything will ultimately turn out according to our expectations.
However, I recognize that thought less and less.
When I look back, I do not see a life in which every door opened. Nor do I see a life in which every prayer was answered exactly as I had hoped. I do see a path on which I could move forward time and again. And not because all obstacles disappeared, but because the strength to continue proved to be present time and again.
That is precisely why that song touched me so deeply. “Your name is ‘I Am’ and ‘I will be there.'”
Suddenly, God’s name felt much less like a theological description and much more like a personal promise.
He not only says who He is, He also says how He wants to be present.
That changes the way you look at difficult periods. Faith then no longer revolves solely around the expectation that circumstances will change. It increasingly involves the conviction that you do not have to walk any path alone. Like the beautiful poem “Footprints.” That realization does not take away the pain, nor does it completely remove uncertainty, nor does it solve complex issues on its own. Yet, this creates a peace that is difficult to put into words.
Remarkably, I also see that insight reflected in encounters with other people. Often, in retrospect, we do not remember the one who had an immediate solution for every problem. We remember the one who remained seated when it became quiet. The one who listened without haste. The one who remained present when words failed. How, for example, on my walk every day a solution presented itself… no day was the same, but always born of a kind of love. Presence has a special power; that applies to people and, according to Exodus, it applies to God as well.
The song by Sela, sung by Brianna, gave words to something I have been experiencing for quite some time, without having been able to articulate it so clearly myself. In recent years, my faith has become less focused on finding all the answers. Instead, it has increasingly come to rest on the trust that God’s presence is not dependent on my understanding of the situation. What might be seen as ironic is that, in that certainty, I am on a journey of discovery. A journey of discovery through my life, my past, and my future. A journey of discovery into who I am and, above all, who I want to be.
That is precisely why that one sentence kept ringing in my head all week, giving me strength and confidence:
“Your name is ‘I Am’ and ‘I will be there.'”
Some songs are beautiful because the music touches you. Other songs stick with you because the lyrics open a door at exactly the right moment to an insight that has been waiting for you for quite some time. For me, this became such a song; Brianna, thank you!!
And as I listened, the realization slowly grew that God’s name is much more than a description of His essence. It is simultaneously a promise for the journey.
Not every day can be understood.
Not every struggle has an immediate outcome.
Yet the confidence can grow that the One who revealed His name at a burning bush still fulfills that same promise today.
“I will be there.”
That is a name that goes with you…
