"What are you doing here?" | Rev. Ashley Higgins preaching | 08.09.26

"What are you doing here?" | Rev. Ashley Higgins preaching | 08.09.26

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We are knee deep in the story of Elijah, where our second scripture picks up this morning. To this point, Elijah has been called by God to face King Ahab and the false prophets of Baal, the god they worship. Elijah defeats their prophets and a dramatic display of fire and rain from heaven. Queen Jezebel and a rage calls for the execution of Elijah, and he flees, terrified. He travels a long day's journey, stops under a tree, and asks God to die, saying, It is enough, Lord, take my life, for I am no better than my ancestors. After falling asleep, an angel of the Lord wakes him with food and water. He eats and goes back to sleep. The angel wakes him again and says, Keep going. He then travels 40 more days, about 100 miles, and finds himself on Mount Horeb, also called Sinai, the mountain where Moses met God in the burning bush, and later received the Ten Commandments. When we pick up here, first Kings 19, verses 9 through 18. Hear the word of God. At that place he came to a cave and spent the night there. Then the word of the Lord came to him, saying, What are you doing here, Elijah? He answered, 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. God said, Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by. Now there was a great wind so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. And after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire, and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. Then there came a voice to him that said, What are you doing here, Elijah? He answered, 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 a sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life to take it away. Then the Lord said to him, Go, return on your way to the wilderness of Damascus. When you arrive, you shall anoint Hazael as king over Aram. Also you shall anoint Jehu, son of Nimshi, as king over Israel. And you shall anoint Elisha, son of Shaphat of Abel Mahola, as prophet in your place. Whoever escapes from the sword of Hazael, Jehu shall kill, and whoever escapes from the sword of Jehu, Elisha shall kill. Yet I will leave seven thousand in Israel, all the knees that have not bowed to Baal, and every mouth that is not kissed him. The word of the Lord. Last week's scripture opened with the beheading of John, John the Baptist, and Jesus retreating to be by himself for a bit. This week we encounter another going-away story. And at first glance, this feels like a different kind of going away story, a running away story, even. So I wonder how Elijah felt when he got to Mount Koreb, and God tells him to come out of the cave because the Lord is about to pass by. Certainly Elijah knew here where he was on this sacred mountain. I'm betting he was even hoping for an encounter with God. He knows what has happened here. You know, in scripture, to meet God was a powerful, potentially dangerous experience. In Exodus 33, Moses asks to see God's glory on this very mountain, and God responds, I will pass by, but put your face in the cleft of that rock because you cannot see me and live. God speaks to Moses on the mountain when imparting him with the Ten Commandments. And the Israelites down below are terrified at the commotion happening up there. So we're used to the whirlwind, the power of God when God is present. And now God is calling Elijah out of the cave to meet God, which knowing these stories of people meeting God would have scared the daylights out of me if I had been Elijah. And seemingly Elijah expects that because he covers his face. And because after every loud and powerful moment, we read, but God was not there. God was not in the great wind, so strong it was splitting mountains, not in the earthquake, not in the fire. If we mistake loud for meaning. God had recently been very loud in defeating the false prophets of Baal. Loud itself isn't bad. It's just that loud isn't all there is. And it seems that in this passage, God wants us to know that. A few weeks ago, Donovan preached on making something out of nothing and making nothing out of something. The kind of making something out of nothing loud seems to be the kind of loud in a lot of the world these days. It would like your attention, your energy, it would love for you to react. It would like you to adopt it and become a brand ambassador, spreading that loud to anyone who will listen. So we have to be tempted to think: how does the church compete unless we're allowed back? In this moment, God doesn't compete with the loud. And that itself is powerful. First, God asks Elijah why he's here alone, 100 miles from where he's supposed to be. And Elijah responds, I'm alone, everyone has turned from you. I've been faithful, and they're trying to kill me for it. It's as if Elijah is saying to God, It's just you and me left, God. And that's not enough for me. So God responds, Go and stand on the mountain before the Lord, because the Lord is about to pass by. Now there was a great wind so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks and pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. And after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake, and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire, and after the fire a sound of sheer silence. What does sheer silence sound like? And does the silence itself say as much about God as the word that God speaks? Did you know that if you're in a really loud room, the best way to hear someone else is to actually get close and speak in a normal voice rather than yell. It's counterintuitive, but our ears hear one another better that way. Better than if you were to try and shout over the noise. So rather than making more noise in Elijah's already loud brain, God quiets the noise, the storms outside and inside of Elijah's body and asks him again in the sheer silence, what are you doing here? This is the climax of the whole encounter. We know how a story goes. It all hinges on this moment. What are you doing here, Elijah? And then Elijah repeats the same answer to God's repeated question. You can imagine God saying, Okay, a moment's past. Here's the game plan. Go back to Damascus, anoint a new king here, another new king here, Elijah as the prophet in your place. Oh, and by the way, there are 7,000 Israelites living from one faithful day to the next in worship of me. Off you go. Sometimes when we are struggling, we need God to be like the coach who calls a TV time out, rounds up the players, and says, All right, guys, take a breath, slow down, let's regroup. Remember, we're a team. We got this, ready break, high fives all around, get back out there. Other times when we are struggling, we need God to stop us, bid frenzy. Take our face in God's hands, look us in the eyes, and say, You are not alone. You are mine. And with me comes all of those who belong to me. You are not alone. Maybe God is doing both in this sacred moment with Elijah. When Elijah responds to God, it's just you and me, and that's not enough. God finds the most beautiful way to say, I know it feels like that, but that is not true. Elijah's desperate for something to hold on to. We are too. It's called hope. But hope doesn't happen in a vacuum, it happens in deep relationship with God and with others, and it just might be the antidote to the loud chaos of our days. Anglican priest Tish Harrison Warren has just written a book called What Grows in Weary Lands. Here are some of her reflections. In 2021, Adam Grant wrote in the Times about a phenomenon that he says is neither burnout nor depression. He called it languishing. He described it as a feeling, quote, somewhat joyless and aimless, with a sense of stagnation and emptiness, as if you're muddling through your days. It's the void between depression and flourishing. In a TED talk, he called languishing the dominant emotion of our time. Journalist Ezra Klein called burnout an omnipresent diagnosis of modernity. It seems as though a pall of collective exhaustion and despondency has settled over our society. The rhythms and habits of our society, everything from how cities are designed to how we raise our children to how most of us spend an average weekend, make connection with others more difficult. Psychiatrist Kurt Thompson said that as a culture, we have been practicing isolation for much longer than we know. We build it into our daily routines, we build it into our social media behavior. We have practiced liturgies of isolationism. And in an interview for the New York Times, Thompson linked our ability to heal from burnout, from languishing, with the ability to connect with other people who love us. Quote, we know that the brain can do a lot of really hard things for a long time, as long as it doesn't have to do them by itself. My mom is in town, and we went to the Ryman Thursday night to hear Vince Gill. Mom and I find our seats, which were in the very middle of our row. So she goes around and slides in from one side and I go from the other, which for me involves scooching past four women who, by the looks of their tastefully sparkly tops, were clearly together, one of whom wasn't very mobile. So I say to her, I think I can step over your legs without embarrassing myself. You just sit right there. Her friend beside her says, Come on, honey, I'll hold down the bottom of your dress. So I somewhat gracefully get to my seat. Mom gets to hers and we sit down. And at the ryman, you know that this means you're almost sitting in your neighbor's lap or they're almost sitting in yours. The man sitting beside my mom says, I'm sorry we're so close. To which my mom replies, Well, we're just gonna be friends tonight, aren't we? I'm Suzanne Coase. I'm here with my daughter. I'm from Smithfield, North Carolina. He introduced him and his wife, tells her they're from Ohio, and off they go in conversation. I'm on the other side of her and quickly realize, well, I've lost her to those folks. So I turn to the lady on my other side and say, Where are y'all from? And she says, Well, this is my sister. We're from Ohio. This is our group of friends, many of whom have been friends since first grade. Some live in Kentucky. Now she's from New Jersey. This one's from Florida. They're from Evanston, Indiana. We started with seven of us, but now there are 11 of us. A woman, one row up and a little down, turns around and says, Did you say you're from Evanston, Indiana? She says, No, but they are. Well, we're from Evanston. I'm simultaneously going, Mom, mom, your friends are from Ohio. These ladies are from Ohio. So now my new friends are talking over me to mom's new friends. Oh, we're from a small town, Ironton. You've never heard of it, she says to me. Then she says, Where'd they say they're from? She pulls up her maps app on her phone, looking to see how far these people are from her. We just keep going. I tell her my sister-in-law is from Magnolia, Ohio. I have no idea where that is. She says, Oh, Magnolia, what a sweet little name of a town. Types it in her maps app. She sands it over to me and she says, Okay, look, that's here between Cincinnati and Canton. Okay, so now when you tell somebody that, you just tell them she's from in between Cincinnati and Canton. I've still lost my mom to her new friends. And at one point, I sit back and just watch strangers across three pews, talking over one another, pulling up map apps to figure out where they live in relationship to one another. These ladies are talking about how they've been friends for 65 years. My mom is just short of giving her address to people we've never met. And I am so full. Why? Because we are not alone. And we are hardwired for community, for connection, for meaning, which comes from relationship with God and with one another. It's as if our lives depend on it. I had this sermon on my brain. And in that moment, it was as if God was there whispering, see. We meet in Elijah in 1 Kings 19, who is done. He has literally asked God to take his life. He has run for 40 days, about 100 miles, with a companion who he leaves at some point. He is alone. He meets God in the sheer silence on Mount Horeb, and that God responds to his languishing and his doubt. I am enough. You are not alone. Go back to my people and live. Get to work. Warren in her new book writes, If hope is to grow in us, it will be sown and nurtured together in community with other people. Particularly when we are tired, we cannot take up hope on our own. So as Christians, we learn to hope through the beauty and frailty of a local congregation. A community of real people right around us, who doubt and believe, who delight or annoy us, who can pray for us and wrestle with our questions right alongside us. So the obvious question to ask from up here is what are you doing here? I don't know all of the answers present in this room, but I do know what you're being invited to this year in this community. In this place, you're being invited to taste and see that the Lord is good. To taste and see the fullness of God and wonder together what that matters for your life, for our life, for all of the life outside of these walls. It's an invitation to belong, to quit looking for the loudest, most chaotic, sometimes angry, and hopeless voices to tell you who God is. To be looked in the eye and reminded you belong to God. You are not alone, and that is enough. Pats on the back all around. Let's get out there.