1st Kings 19:9-13
There he came to a cave, where he took shelter. But the word of the LORD came to him: Why are you here, Elijah? He answered: “I have been most zealous for the LORD, the God of hosts, but the Israelites have forsaken your covenant. They have destroyed your altars and murdered your prophets by the sword. I alone remain, and they seek to take my life.” Then the LORD said: Go out and stand on the mountain before the LORD;* the LORD will pass by. There was a strong and violent wind rending the mountains and crushing rocks before the LORD—but the LORD was not in the wind; after the wind, an earthquake—but the LORD was not in the earthquake; after the earthquake, fire—but the LORD was not in the fire; after the fire, a light silent sound.
When he heard this, Elijah hid his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. A voice said to him, Why are you here, Elijah?
Stunned by
what happened on Friday morning in Newtown, I wanted to be like Elijah and go
up to the mountain and hide in cave. Not because my life was threatened. Not
because I have been called to be a prophet to deaf people in a time of danger.
I wanted to hide away because now we have been forced to have hard
conversations about important things that will further detract from our ability
to speak to each other without giving way to red zone anger. We have to have
these conversations because terror has been loosed on the one segment of our
society we cherish the most. I wanted to hide from the grief that every parent
who has lost a child feels when they learn of the death of another child. Even
now several days later, I still want to go hide in a cave rather than face the
national outpouring of grief that is everywhere around me. I know, however, there
is really no place to hide. I still went into the cave.
The verse
from Kings that has moved me to write this came to me yesterday as I struggled
to imagine how we can begin to communicate with each other and to share with everyone else in our society the
profound sense of loss that radiates from appears to have been an idyllic New
England town.
Elijah
learned that he could not hide away. The Lord found him there and called him
out.
The message,
though, is greater than just learning there is no where we can hide that the
Lord cannot find us. Eventually we painfully learn that when we hide, we hide
only from ourselves and so the attempt to hide is pointless. The great thing is
to recognize how the Lord spoke to Elijah because it is how he speaks to us all.
The Lord was not in the wind, the earthquake or the wind. His voice was not one
of drama and awe that thundered down from heaven across the lands. His voice
was in the silent sound.
It is not
possible to explain a silent sound but once you understand it you know
instantly who is speaking to you. God’s voice does not peal like a Cathedra bell
or echo across hills like thunder. It is the tiny, light voice that whispers in
your soul, urging you to do the right thing or, sometimes to do nothing but
listen to him.
So where
then is the voice of the Lord today? I can’t hear him the voices I hear that
shout in rage demanding change. I can’t hear him in defensive reaction of those
who don’t think that change will prevent will prevent another Newtown,
Columbine or Aurora. I hear his voice as I think about parents who have
suffered the one thing no parent should ever have to face – the senseless death
of a child. I hear his voice in those
who offer consolation and compassion. I hear his voice in the anguish of every
single person I have encountered in the past days. I hear his voice in those
who call for prayer and calm.
The silent
sound reaches to deepest part of the cave. The voice asks me why I am the cave.
The voice calls me out. The voice compels to come out of the cave and do all
that I can do at this moment on this day from where I am right now. All I can
do is pray. The voice has clearly told
me to be still and know that he is God. Please hear my voice now. Be still and encounter
the silent sound that is the voice of God and pray with me. All of this far too
big for us but it is not too big for him.
