Eat and Drink

1 Kings 19:1-15a

Elijah was terrified.  And no wonder.  The King and the Queen’s henchmen were after him.  Elijah had humiliated and then killed their prophets.  He and the prophets of Baal had played an honor game with the stakes of life and death.  It was their god of Baal verses Elijah’s God of Israel.  To make the story short:  Elijah’s God won.  But King Ahab was present for the entire episode.  He saw with his own two eyes how Elijah made his prophets look stupid in front of all the people, his people.  So he immediately went back and told his wife.  Moving quickly, the Queen sent Elijah a message—you are a dead man. 

 Her threatening words pierced Elijah’s heart.  And from what follows, it appears that Elijah reached his boiling point.  Fear and fatigue feasted on his spirit, pushing him past the point of burn-out.  Elijah fled from the mountaintop, from the city, from the victory, from the one who traveled with him.  He fled with his heart in his throat and his eyes blinded by terror.  He fled into the wilderness all by himself and sat down under a solitary broom tree.  “Just let me die,” Elijah whispered to God.  He was so sick of the arguing, the conflict, the violence.  He was too tired to be a prophet anymore.  God’s call on his life was too hard.  He simply could not live it anymore. 

 Perhaps Elijah had heard that platitude, “God never gives you more than you can handle,” but Elijah no longer believed it.  God had seemed to give him WAY more than he could handle and he was done.  He wanted out.  In today’s vernacular, we would say Elijah was deeply depressed.  He had fallen so deeply into the pit of despair that all he could see was divine absence.  He could no longer see a future.  So Elijah just wanted to sleep.  He just wanted to curl up and never open his eyes again.

 A pastor friend of mine answered the phone in his office.  “I cannot do this anymore,” the caller said.  The caller was a young man who had been married for three years when his wife suddenly died.  After the caller spoke his initial sentence, all my friend could hear was his weeping.  He was weeping because their life together was not supposed to have turned out like that. 

 And, as if that betrayal were not enough, he was so numb he could no longer find words for prayer.  “People tell me God is with me,” he spoke, spitting out the words.  “That God will get me through it, that God does not give me more than I can handle.  They are lying.  I do not feel God.  If God is there, then God should not have taken her.”

 He went on to tell my friend that his parents and his friends were beginning to grow a little impatient with his grief.  It had been six months, after all.  So he tried to put on a brave face, but he could not stop crying.  He could not pull himself up out of his pit.  He was feeling more and more alone.  He had wandered out into the wilderness of grief and loss.  In his too quiet house, he sat by himself under the solitary broom tree and pleaded with God to make it all stop.  He could no longer imagine a future.  He just wanted to curl up, fall asleep, and never open his eyes again. 

 Some years ago, a teenage girl in Texas also did not know what she would do.  Every day after basketball practice was over, she went home, walked up the stairs to her room, and cried.  She did not understand what she had done wrong.  Her body was not working correctly.  Her grades were plummeting.  All of the doctors, and there were so many, simply told her and her parents that it must be stress-related. 

 Her parents tried to keep their frustration and anger in check, but they could not help but wonder if she could not just get over it.  The kids at school were starting rumors and no one wanted to be around her anymore.  She felt on the edge.  In her wilderness of illness and betrayal, she sat by herself on her childhood bed under the solitary broom tree and pleaded with God to make it stop.  She could not longer see a future.  She just wanted to curl up, fall asleep and never open her eyes again. 

 Elijah sprawled out underneath that tree and gave into the luxurious temptation of numbing sleep.  He slept for what felt like days.  Deeper and deeper he fell.  The lines between reality and the dream world blurred.  But suddenly, he felt an unmistakable tap on his shoulder.  He sat up, shaking off the grogginess.  He heard a voice telling him to get up and eat.  “What?” he thought, “Am I dead yet?”  But right there in front of him sat a cake on hot stones and a jar of water.

 Tentatively, he reached out and took the cake.  He ate it quickly and drank down the cool refreshment of the water.  But he was still so tired.  Pretty soon, the drowsiness crept back upon him again and he fell asleep.  But after what only seemed to be a few minutes, the tapping was back.  “Get up and eat, otherwise the journey will be too much for you.”  “Journey?” Elijah must have thought.  “There is no journey anymore.  I am done.”

 But he was awake so he sat up again.  And again, a cake cooked on hot stones next to a jar of water.  He ate and drank  But this time, instead of feeling drowsy and defeated, Elijah felt a new surge of energy.  He felt nourished, almost.  Perhaps he could walk on a little while longer.  Perhaps he could make it a bit more until he stopped.  God seemed to be keeping him alive for some reason.  The least he could do was walk on the way a bit longer, listen, and find out.

 And as Elijah started walking again in the wilderness, he realized something.  He had come to the wilderness to be alone and to die, and yet, neither was happening.  He realized he was not really alone.  The nourishment gave him that assurance of presence.  Food and drink appeared out of nowhere, just for him.  It hit Elijah that God was not going be discouraged very easily.  God was not going to let him go without a fight.  God was going to offer him nourishment and presence, even when Elijah demanded the opposite.  With that newfound revelation rattling around in his mind, Elijah walked on, becoming more expectant with each step.  What was God up to now?  Why would God not just let him go?

After listening to the caller cry and talk for a while longer, my pastor friend asked to meet with him face to face.  Together, they cried and talked for a long time.  My friend was not a therapist, nor did he try to be, but he was a good listener.  When his congregant had cried all he could for a while, my friend talked with him about a Hospice grief group.  “There, you will be surrounded by people who understand on a sensory level how you feel.  Just try it for a few times to see if it can make a difference.”  The man was skeptical, but he went.  And he realized his pastor was right.  Every week, he was surrounded by people who got it.  They understood.  He did not have to put on a brave face, or act happy, or apologize for his tears.  He could just be and that was fine.

 The group was a faith-based group, so they began and ended each meeting with prayer.  Prayer began to soak into his spirit again.  He realized that he was starting to talk to God again.  But this time, he was determined to lay it all out there—his anger, grief, sense of betrayal.  And through his tough honesty, he started to feel nourished again.  It was a food and a drink he never would have predicted.  He had no idea how it got there, but there it was.  He began to sense that God was not going to let him go so easily.  In a way he did not understand, he was not travelling through his wilderness of loss alone.  He was being nourished through the voices and presence of others.  It was completely unexpected and completely welcomed.  Perhaps God had another step for him to take.  He became determined to find out.

 Even in the middle of her depression and grief, the teenage girl knew there was one place where she was safe.  Church.  Whenever she walked into that old wooden sanctuary, with its uncomfortable pews, stained red cushions, and musty smell, she could breathe.  The organ would play and she would feel okay.  It was home for her.  Her youth group friends never repeated the rumors they heard at school.  They just treated her as they always had—with love and care.  She did not talk about what was happening with them, but they knew.  And they loved her anyway.

Slowly, she felt nourished enough by worship and her youth group to tell her parents everything.  She told them about the rumors and the anger.  She told them about her sense of isolation and her deep, bone-deep sadness.  The food and drink of her church home nourished her into honesty.  Her parents wept with her and hugged her with all the strength they could muster.  And through their acceptance and nourishment, the girl discovered prayer again.  All the voices of shame, all the voices of absence, all the voices of grief, slowly started to fade away. 

She discovered a nourishment that was completely unexpected.  And as she at the food of worship and drank the refreshment of acceptance, she began to sense that God was not going to let her go so easily.  She had gone to the wilderness to be alone, but she realized she was never alone.  God does some of God’s best work in the wilderness.  So slowly, she opened herself up to wonder if God had some other steps for her to take, another call for her on the way of discipleship.

 Elijah, the man, the girl, all discovered something powerful.  The journey of life so often leads us into places of profound wilderness—moments when we feel completely alone, ready to give up.  Moments when we only felt divine absence instead of divine presence.  Moments when we just want to curl up, shut our eyes and never open them again. 

 And yet, just as we assume we will meet only death in our wilderness, more often than not, we encounter new life.  We all find completely unexpected nourishment—sustenance to keep us going.  Even in our moments of profound crisis and despair, even if we plead for God to just leave us alone because the way of faithful living seems like too much, God refuses to let any of us go. 

God simply provides food and drink, the energy to keep going, and small glimpses of hope when we are ready to see them.  And like Elijah, the man, the girl—all of us can rediscover the grace-filled reality that the One who knows us the best—who knows our wilderness, who know our despair, who knows what makes us afraid or tired or ready to give up—is the same One who loves us the most.  Loves us too much to simply leave us underneath the solitary broom tree in the scorching sun.

 Take, eat.  This is my body, broken for you.  Otherwise the way will be too much for you.  Take, drink.  This is the cup of the new covenant.  The cool refreshment of baptismal waters.  Nourishment for your journey.  Sustenance on the Way.  Even in the wilderness.  Especially in the wilderness.