“I Am”: The myth of absolute assurance
There are few statements in Scripture more quietly powerful than the simple words, “I am.” When God spoke them to Moses at the burning bush in Exodus 3:14, it was not merely an answer to a question. It was a revelation of being. “I am who I am,” God said. Tell the Israelites, “I am has sent me to you.”
The name reveals something beyond comprehension. God exists without beginning or end. He is self-sufficient, eternal, and unchanging. In Hebrew, the phrase Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh carries the sense of continuing presence. God is not one who was or one who will be, but one who always is. For Moses and for the people of Israel, this was not a philosophical concept. It was a name that spoke of promise, presence, and power.
Centuries later, a carpenter from Galilee spoke those same words. In the Gospel of John, Jesus said, “Before Abraham was, I am.” The crowd understood what he meant. They picked up stones to kill him. Not because he spoke in riddles, but because he claimed something that, in their view, only God could claim. He was not simply saying he existed before Abraham. He was identifying himself with the very voice that spoke from the bush. He was saying, in effect, I am the same.
Throughout John’s Gospel, Jesus continues to speak in the language of “I am.” He says, “I am the bread of life,” “I am the light of the world,” “I am the good shepherd,” “I am the resurrection and the life.” These are not just poetic metaphors. They are profound expressions of identity and relationship. He is not merely offering help or guidance. He is offering himself as the source of life.
And yet, as we read further into the New Testament, we find verses that complicate this picture. In Matthew 28:18, Jesus says, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me.” In Acts 2:36, Peter declares, “God has made this Jesus, whom you crucified, both Lord and Messiah.” And in John 14:28, Jesus tells his disciples, “The Father is greater than I.”
These statements suggest something different. They speak of distinction, of submission, even of dependence. If all authority was given to Jesus, did he not always possess it? If God made him Lord and Messiah, does that imply he was not these things from the beginning? These questions have echoed through the centuries and remain with us today.
But maybe that’s the point. Not everything is easily resolved. Even in the physical world, the closer we look, the more mystery we find. Quantum physics, for instance, shows us particles behaving as waves, existing in two states at once, or affecting one another across great distances with no visible connection. These are realities that strain our human capacity to comprehend.
If the natural world, which we can observe and measure, still holds mysteries beyond us, how much more should we expect the spiritual realm to be filled with mystery too?
Jesus hinted at this when speaking to Nicodemus, a respected teacher of Israel. “I have spoken to you of earthly things and you do not believe,” he said. “How then will you believe if I speak of heavenly things?” (John 3:12). There is humility in that statement, and an invitation. Jesus acknowledges that there are layers of reality beyond what we can grasp. Yet he does not mock us for our smallness. Instead, he lifts the veil just enough for faith to begin.
Jesus does not relate to the Father as a rival, but as a Son. In Philippians 2, Paul writes that although Jesus was in very nature of God, he did not consider equality with God something to be grasped but emptied himself and took the form of a servant. He became obedient, even to death. This is not a denial of divinity, but its expression in humility.
The early church wrestled with this mystery. They spoke of one God, revealed in three persons. The Trinity was not a tidy solution, but a faithful attempt to hold together what Scripture reveals. Jesus is the image of the invisible God. He is the Word made flesh. He is with God and he is assumed to be God. And yet he prays to the Father, submits to the Father, and calls the Father greater.
This is the paradox at the heart of Christian faith. The one who said, “I am” also said, “Into your hands I commit my spirit.” The one who stilled the storm and raised the dead also knelt in the garden and wept. He spoke with divine authority yet lived in complete dependence on the Father. He claimed eternal identity yet emptied himself in sacrificial love.
We do not have to resolve every tension in order to trust. Faith is not built on perfect clarity, but on honest encounter. When Jesus speaks, we are hearing more than a wise teacher. We are hearing God in a human voice. Not shouting from the heavens, but walking among us, sharing our weakness, lifting our eyes.
In Jesus, the unknowable becomes near. The eternal becomes present. The name too holy to speak becomes a name we can call in prayer.
And still today, he says, “I am.”