Post by Rabbi Neil on Nov 29, 2019 18:50:31 GMT
This sermon was delivered to First Presbyterian Church
Abraham Joshua Heschel, one of the 20th century’s greatest theologians, said that the human search for God is only half of religion – the other half of God in search of us. To Heschel, religion is not a statement, but a response – an answer to a profound question, or perhaps to put it better and in his words, religion is both God’s question and our answer. If that’s the case, what is the question? God asks it of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, with one Hebrew word – ayyeka – meaning “Where are you?” (Genesis 3:9). The same question is asked of the prophet Elijah in this week’s reading from chapter 19 of the First Book of Kings, although differing language is used. Twice God asks Elijah, “Mah l’cha fo, Eliyahu” meaning “Why are you here, Elijah?” First the question, then the answer.
In Jewish tradition, Elijah’s experience of God in this chapter is often compared to that of Moses on Sinai, particularly noted by the location – Horeb is considered to be Sinai, the idea of both men going without food and drink for forty days and nights, and both men being put in a cleft of rock or a cave as God passes by. Elijah is considered one of the greatest prophets in Judaism. He is considered to be the person who heralds in the Messiah, which means that he is present throughout Jewish life, from the circumcision ceremony to Havdalah at the end of Shabbat to the Seder table on Pesach. Yet, Rabbis such as Susan P. Fendrick suggest (The Women’s Haftarah Commentary, pp. 195-199) that Elijah actually fails profoundly in this account, a far different response to theophany than Moses’.
Let’s look carefully at the text to see why Rabbi Fendrick suggests Elijah’s failure. Elijah is fleeing for his life from Jezebel after having put the prophets of Baal to death by the sword in the previous chapter. Elijah goes a day’s journey into the wilderness and, just like Jonah, lies down under a plant and begs for his life to be taken from him. An angel touches him and tells him bluntly to get up and eat. The angel touches him a second time, this time repeating the command to get up and eat, and adding that he will need strength for his journey. Twice touched, each time hearing more from God. When he finally reaches the cave, it is not an angel that touches him but the word of God that comes to him, asking the question mah l’cha fo, Eliyahu – why are you here, Elijah? His reply is filled with zeal for God, to which God responds that he should leave the cave and stand on the mountain before God. God literally passes by. This is a staggering moment for Elijah and for us as readers, a moment of extraordinary natural phenomena which accompany God – wind, earthquake and fire. It is a terrifying scene. And after the natural entourage have passed by, finally Elijah gets to truly experience God as a soft, murmuring sound, as a still, small voice. Elijah covers his face because he recognizes the presence of God. Then a voice addresses him and asks him the very same question again - mah l’cha fo, Eliyahu – why are you here, Elijah? And Elijah, having experienced the most extraordinary theophany, gives the same answer as though nothing significant had happened! Elijah is totally unchanged by this event.
To Rabbi Fendrick, this is why God’s response, just after our reading, is for Elijah to anoint Elisha as a successor. He’s missed the point. He’s a broken man who cannot respond to the question that is continually asked of us. He has a set answer. I would say that his answer lacks kavannah, it lacks honest intention. It’s a mission statement, not a true response of the soul. It’s liturgy, not prayer. So Rabbi Fendrick says that even God recognizes that this is the end of Elijah, and it’s time for a successor who can actually respond appropriately to God.
Elijah is not Moses. Moses is a transformed man by the Divine revelation – so transformed, in fact, that beams of light radiate from his face for the rest of his life causing him to have to wear a veil over his face so as not to blind everyone who sees him. Elijah is the total opposite – this is a man who is not in any way transformed by the experience. He hears the still, small voice, but he doesn’t listen to it. God’s question to Elijah may sound the same, but it is not the same. The words are the same, but the source is different. The first time Elijah hears the question, it is the word of Adonai that asks it. The second time, it is a voice, in Hebrew, kol. This is the same word used in the phrase that is translated as “still, small voice” – kol d’mama daka. Elijah is so filled with zeal for Adonai that he cannot respond to the voice of God. God is giving Elijah an opening to see things in a different way, and he is so filled with zeal, so blinded with his religiosity, that he cannot see the opening. Elijah isn’t responding to a question, he’s not answering, he’s stating.
Elijah is, of course, us. It’s so easy for us to get caught up in our own religious practices that they become statements instead of pointers to our own theological response. If we are the same person before and after a prayer service, can we really be said to have prayed? Or have we just recited liturgy, have we just made statements to God? Moses communicates with God, Elijah speaks at God. How often in our religious lives do we think we are communicating with God but are, in fact, just speaking at God? As the world changes around us, the question to us remains the same but the way it is delivered to us differs. Every moment is a new moment and therefore every moment is laden with the same question asked differently. Mah l’cha fo – why are you here? Or, if we want to be really strict with the translation, ‘What is it to you here?’ What is it to be here, in this place of worship, or in this city, or in this state, or in this country, or in this world? What is it to be here now? The answer cannot be predetermined, it cannot be prepared, because the answer of one moment cannot be the answer of another moment. Elijah’s failure on Horeb is that he does not see the difference, he does not experience God of each and every moment. He experiences the idea of God, he is zealous for a cause. He is so wrapped up in the idea of religion that he misses the essence of religion. He is so keen to speak that he forgets to listen. The expression of religion is not just about speaking but about listening. Listening to the voice of the other, even to the Voice of God.
Back in the book of Exodus, chapter 19, God is revealed on Sinai to the people. “On the morning of the third day, there was thunder and lightning, with a thick cloud over the mountain and a very loud shofar blast. Everyone in the camp trembled.” (Ex. 19:16) The shofar, the ram’s horn, calls to the people and they tremble. It calls and they respond. But it’s easy to respond to great shows of strength and power. It’s easy to be awed by the wind, by the earthquake and by the fire. What is much, much harder is to be awed by the silence. Not awed by silence, but awed by the Presence of God in the silence. Awed by the question of every single moment. Awed by being asked.
Heschel, again, said that “prayer is our response to the inconceivable surprise of being.” As soon as we exist…. every moment that we exist, we are asked a question, a staggering question that is inconceivable in its very being. We are surprised not just at the question, but at the fact that we can hear the question and respond to the question. Mah l’cha fo? Why are you here? Why do you exist? And where is here, anyway? Ayyeka – where are you? Here, I believe, is wherever we can find the still, small voice. It’s not a physical place, but a state of being. Elijah is so invested in place that he ignores the moment. God called [to Elijah], “Come out [of the cave] and stand on the mountain before God.” (I Kings 19:11) Elijah stands on the mountain, he affixes himself to place. But that is not the point of God’s call to him. The point is not to stand on the mountain, but to stand before God. This is why I agree with Rabbi Fendrick that, despite the Jewish tradition’s history of seeing this as a glorious moment of prophecy, it is, in fact, a staggering moment of religious failure. To Elijah, the question Mah l’cha fo – why are you here – is a question about place. What brings you here, to this place? As if God didn’t know that already! It makes me think of a Rabbi approaching someone new to services, and asking, “What brings you here?” and the visitor responding, “My car.” That’s not what’s being asked!!!
Our task, our religious duty, is to respond in every moment to the still, small voice that asks a question of our very being. We have to seek out that voice, not in the grand gestures and in the significant moments of our lives, but in the darkness, where we would not expect to hear it. God searches for us and hopes that we simultaneously search for God.
May we, then, go beyond our set, predetermined answers to a question that asks the same of us, but in a different way in every moment. May we think beyond place, beyond seeing God’s glory in the magnificent moments of life, and may we open ourselves to not just hear, but also listen to, the still, small voice that eternally calls to us. May we quieten ourselves and hear that which always is, and will always be – a question to each and every one of us – why are you here?
Abraham Joshua Heschel, one of the 20th century’s greatest theologians, said that the human search for God is only half of religion – the other half of God in search of us. To Heschel, religion is not a statement, but a response – an answer to a profound question, or perhaps to put it better and in his words, religion is both God’s question and our answer. If that’s the case, what is the question? God asks it of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, with one Hebrew word – ayyeka – meaning “Where are you?” (Genesis 3:9). The same question is asked of the prophet Elijah in this week’s reading from chapter 19 of the First Book of Kings, although differing language is used. Twice God asks Elijah, “Mah l’cha fo, Eliyahu” meaning “Why are you here, Elijah?” First the question, then the answer.
In Jewish tradition, Elijah’s experience of God in this chapter is often compared to that of Moses on Sinai, particularly noted by the location – Horeb is considered to be Sinai, the idea of both men going without food and drink for forty days and nights, and both men being put in a cleft of rock or a cave as God passes by. Elijah is considered one of the greatest prophets in Judaism. He is considered to be the person who heralds in the Messiah, which means that he is present throughout Jewish life, from the circumcision ceremony to Havdalah at the end of Shabbat to the Seder table on Pesach. Yet, Rabbis such as Susan P. Fendrick suggest (The Women’s Haftarah Commentary, pp. 195-199) that Elijah actually fails profoundly in this account, a far different response to theophany than Moses’.
Let’s look carefully at the text to see why Rabbi Fendrick suggests Elijah’s failure. Elijah is fleeing for his life from Jezebel after having put the prophets of Baal to death by the sword in the previous chapter. Elijah goes a day’s journey into the wilderness and, just like Jonah, lies down under a plant and begs for his life to be taken from him. An angel touches him and tells him bluntly to get up and eat. The angel touches him a second time, this time repeating the command to get up and eat, and adding that he will need strength for his journey. Twice touched, each time hearing more from God. When he finally reaches the cave, it is not an angel that touches him but the word of God that comes to him, asking the question mah l’cha fo, Eliyahu – why are you here, Elijah? His reply is filled with zeal for God, to which God responds that he should leave the cave and stand on the mountain before God. God literally passes by. This is a staggering moment for Elijah and for us as readers, a moment of extraordinary natural phenomena which accompany God – wind, earthquake and fire. It is a terrifying scene. And after the natural entourage have passed by, finally Elijah gets to truly experience God as a soft, murmuring sound, as a still, small voice. Elijah covers his face because he recognizes the presence of God. Then a voice addresses him and asks him the very same question again - mah l’cha fo, Eliyahu – why are you here, Elijah? And Elijah, having experienced the most extraordinary theophany, gives the same answer as though nothing significant had happened! Elijah is totally unchanged by this event.
To Rabbi Fendrick, this is why God’s response, just after our reading, is for Elijah to anoint Elisha as a successor. He’s missed the point. He’s a broken man who cannot respond to the question that is continually asked of us. He has a set answer. I would say that his answer lacks kavannah, it lacks honest intention. It’s a mission statement, not a true response of the soul. It’s liturgy, not prayer. So Rabbi Fendrick says that even God recognizes that this is the end of Elijah, and it’s time for a successor who can actually respond appropriately to God.
Elijah is not Moses. Moses is a transformed man by the Divine revelation – so transformed, in fact, that beams of light radiate from his face for the rest of his life causing him to have to wear a veil over his face so as not to blind everyone who sees him. Elijah is the total opposite – this is a man who is not in any way transformed by the experience. He hears the still, small voice, but he doesn’t listen to it. God’s question to Elijah may sound the same, but it is not the same. The words are the same, but the source is different. The first time Elijah hears the question, it is the word of Adonai that asks it. The second time, it is a voice, in Hebrew, kol. This is the same word used in the phrase that is translated as “still, small voice” – kol d’mama daka. Elijah is so filled with zeal for Adonai that he cannot respond to the voice of God. God is giving Elijah an opening to see things in a different way, and he is so filled with zeal, so blinded with his religiosity, that he cannot see the opening. Elijah isn’t responding to a question, he’s not answering, he’s stating.
Elijah is, of course, us. It’s so easy for us to get caught up in our own religious practices that they become statements instead of pointers to our own theological response. If we are the same person before and after a prayer service, can we really be said to have prayed? Or have we just recited liturgy, have we just made statements to God? Moses communicates with God, Elijah speaks at God. How often in our religious lives do we think we are communicating with God but are, in fact, just speaking at God? As the world changes around us, the question to us remains the same but the way it is delivered to us differs. Every moment is a new moment and therefore every moment is laden with the same question asked differently. Mah l’cha fo – why are you here? Or, if we want to be really strict with the translation, ‘What is it to you here?’ What is it to be here, in this place of worship, or in this city, or in this state, or in this country, or in this world? What is it to be here now? The answer cannot be predetermined, it cannot be prepared, because the answer of one moment cannot be the answer of another moment. Elijah’s failure on Horeb is that he does not see the difference, he does not experience God of each and every moment. He experiences the idea of God, he is zealous for a cause. He is so wrapped up in the idea of religion that he misses the essence of religion. He is so keen to speak that he forgets to listen. The expression of religion is not just about speaking but about listening. Listening to the voice of the other, even to the Voice of God.
Back in the book of Exodus, chapter 19, God is revealed on Sinai to the people. “On the morning of the third day, there was thunder and lightning, with a thick cloud over the mountain and a very loud shofar blast. Everyone in the camp trembled.” (Ex. 19:16) The shofar, the ram’s horn, calls to the people and they tremble. It calls and they respond. But it’s easy to respond to great shows of strength and power. It’s easy to be awed by the wind, by the earthquake and by the fire. What is much, much harder is to be awed by the silence. Not awed by silence, but awed by the Presence of God in the silence. Awed by the question of every single moment. Awed by being asked.
Heschel, again, said that “prayer is our response to the inconceivable surprise of being.” As soon as we exist…. every moment that we exist, we are asked a question, a staggering question that is inconceivable in its very being. We are surprised not just at the question, but at the fact that we can hear the question and respond to the question. Mah l’cha fo? Why are you here? Why do you exist? And where is here, anyway? Ayyeka – where are you? Here, I believe, is wherever we can find the still, small voice. It’s not a physical place, but a state of being. Elijah is so invested in place that he ignores the moment. God called [to Elijah], “Come out [of the cave] and stand on the mountain before God.” (I Kings 19:11) Elijah stands on the mountain, he affixes himself to place. But that is not the point of God’s call to him. The point is not to stand on the mountain, but to stand before God. This is why I agree with Rabbi Fendrick that, despite the Jewish tradition’s history of seeing this as a glorious moment of prophecy, it is, in fact, a staggering moment of religious failure. To Elijah, the question Mah l’cha fo – why are you here – is a question about place. What brings you here, to this place? As if God didn’t know that already! It makes me think of a Rabbi approaching someone new to services, and asking, “What brings you here?” and the visitor responding, “My car.” That’s not what’s being asked!!!
Our task, our religious duty, is to respond in every moment to the still, small voice that asks a question of our very being. We have to seek out that voice, not in the grand gestures and in the significant moments of our lives, but in the darkness, where we would not expect to hear it. God searches for us and hopes that we simultaneously search for God.
May we, then, go beyond our set, predetermined answers to a question that asks the same of us, but in a different way in every moment. May we think beyond place, beyond seeing God’s glory in the magnificent moments of life, and may we open ourselves to not just hear, but also listen to, the still, small voice that eternally calls to us. May we quieten ourselves and hear that which always is, and will always be – a question to each and every one of us – why are you here?