Have you ever woken up in the morning, rays of sun falling gently on your pillow, those few seconds of quiet, those few seconds of peace, before you remember that something horrible has happened?  And then your stomach sinks and your body tenses, and feel that awful hole in your heart, and all you want to do is go back to sleep, where you can forget that you have lost something, that you have lost someone, that your world is forever changed.

            Those few seconds, the morning after a tragedy, where you are not fully awake, where you have forgotten the pain for just a moment.  And then it floods back and you just want to be unconscious again.

            Maybe it hasn’t happened to you, that deep desire to escape the pain in life – to go back to sleep, to run away, to numb the agony with work, or food, or alcohol, or drugs, or even death. 

            But it did happen to Elijah. This flooding fear, this boiling pain, this searing despair, that compelled him to finally cry out, “Enough.  Enough.  I cannot stand it.  I want to die.”  

            And so he goes to sleep.  And he does not want to wake up.  He doesn’t want to open his eyes and remember that his world is forever changed, that he is all alone, that his heart feels empty, with a pulsing, aching hole.

            That would be a pretty terrible end to his story, don’t you think?  Up until this point, we have seen Elijah perform miracles, raise the dead, stand up for justice, risk his life for God.  The Elijah we met earlier in the Bible is a man of courage, faith, and faithfulness.  But the man that we see now is broken, scared, and ready to die.

            It happens, you know. Sometimes it is just the last straw, the final wound, and we just feel broken and defeated.  Elijah has finally revealed God’s glory in front of hundreds of people; he believes he has finally defeated the evil ways of Ahab and Jezebel, but no.  Instead, Jezebel sends a messenger to Elijah, a messenger of death.  I will kill you, she says.  Believe me, by this time tomorrow, you will be dead.

            And so Elijah runs away, but he is just done.  Too broken, too discouraged, too disappointed, to afraid.  Jezebel wants to kill me.  Well, fine.  God, just take my life right now.

            But God has a different type of messenger on the way; our scripture translates this as “angel,” but the Hebrew word mal’āk simply means messenger.  In fact, it is the exact same term for the messenger that Jezebel sent to Elijah.  For here God sends a different type of messenger, a messenger of life who approaches Elijah with food, with water, with grace.  This messenger of God begins to fill the hole in Elijah’s heart; I am here, I will feed you, I will get you through this.

            Elijah’s vitality begins to return.  He rises, he eats, he drinks, and he goes.  Where does he go?  He goes to Mount Horeb.  Now Mount Horeb is another name for Mount Sinai, the mountain most associated with the presence of God.  He travels for 40 days and 40 nights; for a very long time, and then he gets there.  He arrives at the place where he will once again encounter God.

            Elijah spends the night in the cave, and in the morning, he does not wake up in pain and agony.  Instead, he wakes up to the voice of God.  “What are you doing here, Elijah?”  And in this response, which we hear repeated twice in just this scripture, we hear the reason for his despair.  “I have been doing everything I am supposed to do.  I have served you, but everyone else is doing horrible, horrible things.  My friends have been killed, and now, I am the only one left, and they are trying to kill me.”

            God’s response to Elijah is simple.  “Go and stand on the mountain, and you will see me.”  And we know what happens – there is wind, there is earthquake, there is fire.  But God is not in those things.  God comes in the sound of sheer silence.  And Elijah stands there, in the sacred and holy presence of God, who asks again, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”  And again we hear the same response, “I’m doing what I am supposed to be doing, but everyone else is committing murder.  My fellow prophets have been killed, I am all alone, and now they want to kill me.”

            And this time, God responds with a different approach.  Go, back, Elijah, to your life.  Go, back, Elijah, to your work.  You are not alone; not only do you have me, your Lord, and your God, there are also seven thousand people in Israel who will walk with you, who will do this work, as well.  You are not alone.  I will get you through this and I will send others to walk with you, too.  You are not alone.

        This story calls out to all of us who are worn-out, fearful, or in need of renewal. It suggests a way forward—eat and drink of God’s life-giving sustenance, return to the deep wells of faith, listen for God’s still small voice.  That may be the way to find new energy, new vision, and a new sense of purpose.  That may be the way to fill that aching, lonely, scared hole in our hearts.  In fact, some people call it a God-shaped hole.
        When we feel most alone, we are not.  God is there in the still small voice, God is there in the food we eat, God is there in the people who walk with us, God is there to get us through.  

            But what does it mean to really believe this?  To really believe in God?  For many of us, we are far more comfortable talking about a story we heard on NPR that discussing our faith in God.  Often, like Elijah, we are comfortable standing up for justice, fighting for the oppressed, and speaking out against oppressive rulers, leaders, and systems.  Like Elijah, we can identify all that is wrong in the world, all the ways that people are killing one another, all the ways that we are mistreating our universe. 

            In fact, just like Elijah, sometimes we can make the same complaint, “We’re doing what we are supposed to be doing, but everyone else is committing murder, committing injustice, destroying the world.  I feel all alone, like there is nothing more I can do.”

            We can repeat what we hear on NPR word for word sometimes; there is so much that is wrong with the world.  But often, this focus on the pain, this focus on oppression, this focus on injustice leaves a hole in our hearts.  Because we have forgotten to focus on God.  We are paying attention to everything but the presence of the holy.

            We do everything we can do, everything except spend time with God, everything except nurture our faith, everything except talking about Jesus.  And so we sometimes get to that point, alone and scared and miserable, with a hole in our hearts, wishing desperately for salvation, salvation for ourselves, salvation for the world, and we forget that it is already here.  Already here in that still, small voice, that whispers.  I am here, I will feed you, I will get you through this.

            There is a reason that we sometimes fall into despair.  Deep within ourselves we know that everything we value, everyone we love, every single thing that matters to us can be lost.  All of the things which we hold on to, so very tight, can slip through our fingers.  And some of us have experienced that pain, that agonizing horror of loss.

            But the one thing, the only thing, that we can never, ever lose, is God.  The one presence, the only presence, that will be with us always, no matter what, is God. 

            Is it rational, is it smart, is it logical to nurture our relationship with God, to spend time with Jesus, to understand prayer, to seek out the presence of the holy and divine in our everyday life?  Yes, of course it is.  Because that is the only thing that we can never lose – no matter what.  God in the silence.  God in the still small voice.  God in our lives. 

            We don’t need to make a choice between being smart and being religious.  In fact, being religious, spending time with God, is most logical way that we can truly care for ourselves.  For God is here.  God will always be here.  And it is God who will see us through on those mornings when we wake up, and all we want is to be unconscious.  I am here, I will feed you, I will get you through this.

        A popular story goes something like this, “Imagine a family of mice who lived all their lives in a large piano. To them in their piano-world came the music of the instrument, filling all the dark spaces with sound and harmony. At first the mice were impressed by it. They drew comfort and wonder from the thought that there was Someone who made the music--though invisible to them--above, yet close to them. They loved to think of the Great Player whom they could not see.

         Then one day a daring mouse climbed up part of the piano and returned very thoughtful. He had found out how the music was made. Wires were the secret; tightly stretched wires of graduated lengths which trembled and vibrated. They must revise all their old beliefs: none but the most conservative could any longer believe in the Unseen Player. Later, another explorer carried the explanation further. Hammers were now the secret, numbers of hammers dancing and leaping on the wires. This was a more complicated theory, but it all went to show that they lived in a purely mechanical and mathematical world. The Unseen Player came to be thought of as a myth. But still the pianist continued to play.”

            In so many ways, we have rationalized faith.  We have figured out how the world works, so even though we may believe in the Unseen Player, we no longer let the music move us, we no longer let God fill our dark spaces with sound and harmony.  Instead, we present theories of faith, rational justifications of what we do and do not believe, practical ways to live out justice and peace, and we speak of the importance of community.  And, of course, all of these things are vitally important. 

But behind it all, the Unseen Player blesses us with music – and we have to take the time to listen, to let it fill us, to breathe in the depth and beauty and glory and love of God.  We have to pay attention, to listen for, the music that God makes.

            For when we face loss, when we face pain and despair, when we don’t know if we can go on, the pianist continues to play; God continues to send music and grace and love.  But we need eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts in tune with God’s melody. 

            We can choose to numb our pain with a whole variety of substances; we can choose to be unconscious.  Or we can choose to fill that God-shaped hole with God’s very self.  And find the wholeness that gets us through, again and again and again. For if we look, we will see.  And if we listen, we will hear.  I am here, I will feed you, I will get you through this. 

            Thanks be to God.