11.2.25 – Sermon written and preached by Leigh Rachal @ FPC Abbeville, LA

Before the First Reading (1 Kings 19:1–18):

Last week, we reflected on the glorious temple built by Solomon. Unfortunately, after Solomon’s reign, the kingdom divided. The northern part of the kingdom became Israel and the south became Judah, and faith in God grew fractured. By the time of the prophet Elijah, King Ahab and Queen Jezebel were ruling Israel and had led the people deep into the worship of Baal. Just before the passage we’re about to read, Elijah had confronted hundreds of Baal’s prophets on Mount Carmel, calling down fire from heaven to prove that the Lord is God. But that moment of triumph quickly turned to danger, and Elijah found himself running for his life.
Let us listen together for God’s Word, beginning at 1 Kings 19, verse 1.

Before the Gospel Reading (John 12:27–28):

As we turn to the Gospel of John, we hear another moment of weariness and resolve. Jesus has entered Jerusalem, the crowds have cheered, and the shadow of the cross is drawing near. Like Elijah, he faces the weight of fear and purpose at once.
Let us listen together for God’s Word from the Gospel according to John, chapter 12, verses 27–28.

Sermon: The Rhythm of Faith

It had been a long season of noise.

Elijah had stood on Mount Carmel before a loud crowd.

Hundreds of prophets of Baal were dancing and crying out from morning until evening,

begging their false god to set fire to the sacrifice.

When their voices failed, Elijah called on the Lord,

and fire fell from heaven. This was proof of God’s divine power.

The crowd roared its approval.

It was the kind of moment that makes headlines and wins arguments,

the kind of moment when faith feels clear and uncomplicated.

But when the fire cooled, Elijah’s anger did not. And he killed Baal’s false prophets.

Of course, the queen vowed revenge.

And the prophet ran.

So begins this story: Elijah is no longer on the mountain of victory, but now he is trudging into the wilderness.

Under the broom tree, he finally collapses.

“It is enough,” he says. “Take away my life.”

The one who had just proven that God was real,

who had just – essentially – had God at his command,

is now unsure if he can go on believing.

And God does not answer with a lecture or a command.

God sends an angel with bread and water….

simple sustenance, a small mercy.

Twice the angel says, “Get up and eat, or the journey will be too much for you.”

Sometimes that’s the gospel in its purest form:

not glory, not theological explanation, just enough for the next step.

Forty days later, Elijah reaches Horeb,

This is the mountain of God

the same place where Moses saw flame in a bush

and where Israel once met God amid thunder and smoke.

He hides in a cave, and God asks, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

It’s not a question for information.

It’s the kind that draws truth to the surface.

When God asks that question, it echoes something ancient.

It sounds like another question from long ago,

a question gently whispered in the garden after the first humans had hidden from God among the trees:

“Where are you?”

God already knew where Adam and Eve were hiding.
God already knows where Elijah is hiding.
The question isn’t about location—it’s about relationship.
It’s God’s way of saying,

I still see you. I still want to be with you.

This is who God is - not a voice that condemns us for hiding,

but one that comes looking for us when we’ve grown afraid or ashamed or tired.

When we retreat into caves of exhaustion or doubt,

God’s question still finds us: “What are you doing here?”

Not to scold, but to invite.
Not to push us away, but to draw us back toward the light.

And Elijah, like Adam and Eve before him, answers from that vulnerable place:

“I’ve done everything I could.

I’ve been faithful.

Now I’m all alone.

And they’re trying to kill me.”

It is a cry of weariness.

A confession of despair.

And still, God stays.

Then God says, “Go out and stand on the mountain, for the Lord is about to pass by.”

A wind tears through the rocks, but God is not in the wind.
An earthquake shakes the ground, but God is not in the earthquake.
A fire flashes across the ridge, but God is not in the fire.
And after the fire, a sound of sheer silence.

Silence that is not emptiness, but fullness too deep for words.
Silence that holds what the wind and fire cannot.
Silence that says, I am still here.

When Elijah hears it, he covers his face with his cloak and steps to the edge of the cave.

There are no fireworks this time, no cheering crowds, no consuming fire—just Presence.

Holy, quiet, steady.

Across centuries and desert miles, another weary soul speaks in the same tone.

“Now my soul is troubled,” Jesus says. “And what should I say—‘Father, save me from this hour’? No; it is for this reason that I have come to this hour. Father, glorify your name.”

And the voice comes—not thunder to frighten, not lightning to convince, but confirmation. “I have glorified it, and I will glorify it again.”

The crowd hears only thunder.

Some think it is an angel.

But the moment is not for spectacle. It is for those who will listen beneath the noise.

Both Elijah and Jesus stand in that threshold space between triumph and despair.

Both weary from misunderstanding,

both tempted to quit,

both sustained by something quieter than applause.

For Elijah, glory was not in the fire that fell,

but in the whisper that remained.

For Jesus, glory would not be in the parade or the miracle,

but in the cross, the love that holds fast when everything else falls apart.

God’s glory is not in domination, but in presence.

Not in the loud, but in the faithful.
Not in the proof, but in the love that stays.

There is something deeply human in Elijah’s exhaustion.

He has done what he thought God wanted.

He has poured out his passion, spoken the truth, risked his life.

And it still feels like nothing changes.

Many of us know that ache.

We know it when we pour ourselves into our work or our families

and still wonder if it matters.

We know it when we care for aging parents or grieving friends

and there’s no dramatic sign that healing has come.

We know it when we scroll through headlines

and wonder if kindness can really push back against cruelty,

if love can still mend what’s broken.

Like Elijah, we’ve all had days when we think,

I’m doing my best, and it still isn’t enough.

So God does not send Elijah a new task first.

God sends him a meal and a nap.

Because grace begins with rest.

Because sometimes holiness looks like bread baked on stones and a jar of water beside your head.

Only after Elijah has eaten and slept does God speak again.

The silence comes, and then a voice, and then a calling –

back into the same world, but not the same way.

And maybe that’s why this story feels like such good news.

It shows us that faith is not a straight line of certainty or success.

It moves in rhythm: wind, fire, silence.

Action, collapse, renewal.

The rhythm of faith is the rhythm of breathing, the rhythm of living.

We act, we fall, we rest, we rise.
We speak, we grow quiet, we listen.

God meets us in every beat of that rhythm –

not only on the mountaintop moments of triumph,

but in the stillness that follows,

when we can finally hear the heartbeat of grace beneath it all.

When we learn to trust that rhythm,

we just might begin to find peace in the pauses,

strength in the stillness,

and hope even in the dark.

There’s a line from that old Simon & Garfunkel song that started playing in my head as I wrote this sermon:
“Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again.”

It could almost be Elijah’s prayer.
He knows the darkness.

He knows the silence.
And somehow, even there, he finds that God is still listening.

The world hums with noise – or as the song says:

voices talking without listening,

hearts rushing without resting…..

And the temptation is to think that God must be found in something louder or brighter than all the world’s flashy noises and lights

But Elijah discovers that God’s glory glows quietly in the dark,

and Jesus reminds us that light shines brightest there.

When everything else has gone dim,

the smallest flame becomes a beacon.

When hope feels fragile, that’s when grace gleams most clearly.

The cross itself, the place of suffering and silence, becomes the very revelation of love.

So when we find ourselves walking through shadow,

maybe we can remember Elijah’s mountain and Jesus’ hour.

God’s light does not vanish in the darkness.
It meets us there, unwavering.

And when Elijah finally leaves that mountain,

he is not sent back to call down more fire or to stage another miracle.

He is sent to do quieter, slower work –

to anoint kings, to mentor a young prophet,

to pass the flame so that it can keep burning long after he is gone.

It is the work of sustainability, of faithfulness that endures beyond spectacle.

It is the same kind of work God entrusts to us:

to tend, to teach, to heal, to keep loving even when no one’s cheering.

That is the rhythm of faith.
That is the light that lasts.

That is the sound between the storms –

the steady breath of God within the silence,

the light that refuses to go out.

And that is good news: the light still shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Amen.