1 Kings 19:1-15
Presented June 24th, 2007, by J.D. Kline
The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost
There is a sharp disconnect between this morning’s text from 1 Kings, chapter nineteen, and the preceding chapters. In chapters seventeen and eighteen, the prophet Elijah seemingly is sitting on top of the world, a larger-than-life hero of the faith who exudes an air of confidence, faithfulness, and authority. Remarkable occurrences ensue as a result of Elijah’s prayer, as a dead widow’s son is restored to life, as the prophet accurately predicts a three-year drought, and as Elijah, challenging the prophets of Baal, calls down fire from heaven. Further, Elijah fearlessly confronts the king, urging him to return to God. Indeed, King Ahab cries out as he meets Elijah, “Is it you, you troubler of Israel?” To which the prophet counters, “I have not troubled Israel, but you have, and your father’s house, because you have forsaken the commandments of the Lord….” (1 Kings 18:17-18). And then Elijah suggests that Ahab assemble all the Israelites at Mount Carmel, along with the hundreds of prophets of the Baals, the Canaanite gods.
When the people gather, Elijah pushes them to recall the God who brought their ancestors out of slavery in Egypt. “How long will you go limping with two different opinions? If the Lord is God, then follow God; but if Baal is God, then follow Baal” (18:21). After challenging all the people, Elijah turns his attention to the 450 prophets of Baal. A sacrificial bull is placed upon each of two altars, both covered with unkindled wood, one altar for Baal, one for the Israelite God. First the 450 prophets of Baal beseech their gods, from morning until noon, to provide fire for the sacrifice. In a final frenzy, the prophets cut themselves with swords and lances, all to no avail.
In sharp contrast, Elijah calmly stands before the people, even ordering that drenching waters be poured upon the altar—not once, not twice, but three times. And then the prophet confidently prays, “Let it be known this day that you are God in Israel, that I am your servant, and that I have done these things at your bidding. Answer me, O Lord, answer me, so that this people may know that you are God” (18:36-37). And with that, the altar ignites, the sacrifice is consumed, and the gathered people cry out, “The Lord indeed is God” (v. 39).
Given all this, it’s little wonder that Jewish tradition holds Elijah as the prophet-par-excellence, the greatest of all the prophets in ancient Israel. And yet, what are we to make of the strikingly different tone that follows in chapter nineteen, as the fearless prophet becomes the fear-ridden and easily intimidated prophet? What creates this reversal?
In a sermon based on this text Peter Gomes, pastor of Memorial Church at Harvard University, reminds us that “failure is not the opposite of success; it is often the result of success.” Could it be that Elijah has crossed the line between self-forgetfulness and self-acclaim, between servanthood and self-aggrandizement? Perhaps without even being conscious of doing so, the prophet begins to bask in the glory of success’s trappings—status, acclaim, honor, prestige, position—and begins to fear that all may be quickly lost. It is a subtle shift, this movement from being in God’s presence, serving as God’s spokesperson, to doing for God in order to receive reward and acclaim. The shift, however subtle, is from God-centeredness to self-centeredness.
Jezebel, the king’s wife who is from the neighboring land of Sidon and a strong Baal worshiper, sends a menacing message to Elijah. “So may the gods do to me, and more also, if I do not make your life like the life of them [the 450 prophets] by this time tomorrow” (19:2). It is a serious threat, one magnified by Elijah’s own insecurities. Ever notice how our own successes sometimes create only more insecurity within us, only greater fear that we will not measure up in the future as we have done in the past? Distraught in fear, Elijah runs into the wilderness, where he sits and sulks under a single broom tree, asking that he might die. “I’ve had enough,” laments the prophet.
Elijah falls asleep, and dreams of an angel prodding him to get up and eat, then journey forty days and forty nights to Mount Horeb, the very mountain upon which Moses received the Ten Commandments. At the mouth of a cave, Elijah hears the voice of God asking, “What are you doing here?” Twice Elijah laments before God,
I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away (19:10, 14).
It’s a very human lament, isn’t it? Who among us has not had times when it has felt as if far too much responsibility for a particular task rests upon us, with far too many pressures and demands confronting us? At those points, it’s quite easy to take on a self-righteous tone, is it not? I alone am left; I alone am the faithful one. Drained and spent, feeling used and perhaps even abused by God and others, we retreat, sometimes into depression, frequently into anger, nursing along our frustration and resentment, our irritation and disappointment, until bitterness is the end result.
Elijah quickly becomes embittered, feeling lost and alone, angry and spent. And so he retreats. There’s nothing wrong, of course, with times of withdrawal. Indeed, our lives are enriched as we maintain a balance between times of active investment in ministry and times for quiet reflection about that ministry, times of active engagement with life’s challenging issues and times when we retreat from those issues for our own refreshment and renewal. The problem is not that Elijah withdraws to the wilderness, but that he does so for the wrong reasons. He withdraws, little seeking a fresh touch of God’s Spirit; rather, Elijah retreats in order to lament and pout and complain. But in the very midst of his bitterness, the prophet hears the challenging voice of God, “What are you doing here?”
A similar question may well come to us. What are we doing here? As a congregation, how do we understand our mission and ministry; what does it mean for us to speak of our calling to be a place to deepen faith, proclaim peace, embrace community, welcome others, and serve our neighbor, in the compassionate spirit of Jesus? Confronted by such a calling, do we trust in our own resources alone, or do we seek to draw upon the strength of God’s Spirit, the grace and peace of God’s presence, the encouragement and assurance of God’s love?
In his book The Wounded Healer Henri Nouwen reminds us,
When we are not afraid to enter into our own center and to concentrate on the stirrings of our own soul, we come to know that being alive means being loved. This experience tells us that we can love only because we are born out of love, that we can give only because our life is a gift, and that we can make others free only because we are set free by God whose heart is greater than ours.
Overcome by doubt, uncertainty, and fear, Elijah loses sight of the Spirit of the God whose heart is far greater than ours. But God does not lose sight of Elijah. God journeys with Elijah, even as Elijah seeks to escape. God whispers in the prophet’s ear, “What are you doing here?” And then God invites Elijah to stand alert, to listen anew for God’s surprising presence. God reveals God’s self to the prophet, not in the customary or expected ways, not in the rushing wind, not in the mighty earthquake, not in the raging fire, but in “a sound of sheer silence” (19:12). The traditional rendering has it, “a still small voice” (RSV), and other translations put it, “a faint murmuring sound” (REB), “a gentle and quiet whisper” (The Message), “the sound of a gentle breeze” (JB).
This God who loves us with a love that will not let us go—this God frequently chooses to speak to us, not in flashy and attention-demanding ways, but in the stillness and in the gentleness. Whether we are struggling this day with a sense of deep loneliness and alienation, a gnawing grief that appears to have no end, a troubling sense of brokenness in a significant relationship, or an overwhelming exhaustion where we had once felt excitement and peace; whether we feel called to take a stand for justice and peace, yet wonder if we have the courage and grace to follow through; whether we face confusion about the course our lives ought to take—whatever our struggle or challenge, God’s Spirit may well be whispering to us words of incredible affirmation, “You are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you.”
Elijah heard in the sound of sheer silence a renewing and encouraging word, a strengthening and refreshing word. This prophet, running for dear life because his own resources were at an end, discovers new strength, new hope, new purpose, new mission. Elijah is called back into the thick of things. God prods the prophet, “Go, for there is much yet to do. But go, remembering that you are not alone. Take heart; I am with you.”
Peter Gomes suggests to us,
One cannot stay in church all day. One cannot remain on one’s knees in constant prayer. Like must finally be lived, work done, efforts made. It is true for prophets of the Lord, it is true for students and teachers, it is true for citizens of the world. This is not, however, simply a call to work as before, as if nothing has happened. Elijah returned to his work, learning, perhaps for the first time in a long while, that it was God’s work and not his own that he was about. He learned that you cannot do unless you can be, and that doing depends upon being. Elijah was made strong in his humiliation, not because he found some new inner strength but because he found anew the strength of God, and it was that discovery that made it possible for him to go on.
With Elijah, we may well have confusing times of disconnect. Our lives are an intriguing mixture of faithfulness and unfaithfulness, courage and fear, success and failure, hope and despair. But in the midst of that peculiar mix we may well hear God’s question, What are we doing here? And in what appears to the sound of sheer silence, something markedly new may begin to emerge. New instructions. New challenges. New opportunities. New strength—the very strength of God. A fresh taste of the grace and peace, the mercy and compassion, the courage and wisdom of our God. May it be so this day, and all our days. Amen.