Sermon: What Are You Doing Here?

Sermon preached by Rev. Emily Tanis-Likkel, Eagle Harbor Church                     June 24, 2007

1 Kings 19:1-15

              The Stranger, Seattle's weekly progressive newspaper, recently featured an article that I think is crucially important for churchgoers in the Pacific Northwest to know about.  This is how it begins:                                                            

“Seattle is godless.  We are, rather famously, one of the least churched cities in North America. It seems that most of us have better things to do on a Sunday morning than go to church. Seattleites would rather take a hike. Or nurse a hangover. Or fire up the bong.  We're just not that into Him.  But look around. There are churches (practically) everywhere in this town—old churches, new churches, mega churches, mini churches. And just what, we wondered, is going on in all those churches? What are they saying? What are they doing? What are they plotting?  Last weekend, we sent 30 writers into 30 houses of worship to find out. We packed a month's worth of worship into a single day so that we could report back to you, our readers, about just what the Seventh-day Adventists, the Presbyterians, the Methodists, the Catholics, and the Jesus freaks at Mars Hill are up to. We also snuck into a mosque, a synagogue, and Sea-Tac's meditation room. We took a look inside their sanctuaries, we took in their sermons, we took Communion, and we took notes.  The Stranger gets religion.”             What are they doing?  The reporter Dan Savage asked his readers.  What are you doing here? he might ask you.  It's the question that God asked Elijah in the text that we heard this morning.  “What are you doing here, Elijah?”  Elijah had just completed a momentous victory, by defeating the prophets of Baal.  But then he was on the run, the Queen threatening to take his life.  He felt completely alone, depressed, and was in despair.  He'd been wrung out to dry.  He was done.  The great prophet of God had become pessimistic, cynical, and was spiraling down fast.  He fled to the wilderness, where he prayed that he would die.  He went to sleep, and hoped he would never wake.  But an angel woke him, saying “Get up and eat.”  He ate and drank the nourishment provided, and fell asleep again.  “Get up and eat,” the angel said again, “otherwise the journey will be too much for you.” He got up, and ate and drank; then he went in the strength of that food forty days and forty nights to  Mt. Sinai., the place where Moses had received the 10 Commandments.  After all that hiking, he spent the night in a cave.  God came to him and asked, “what are you doing here, Elijah?”  He answered, “I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of hosts; for the Israelites have forsaken your covenant, thrown down your altars, and killed your prophets with the sword. I alone am left, and they are seeking my life, to take it away.” This lament is the longest sentence attributed to Elijah in the Bible.   He sounds completely exasperated, believing that he is done being a prophet of God. 

              The writers who went to church that recent Sunday morning were trying to answer the question, “What are they doing here?”  I wonder if they felt as if the question were turned around to them, by the people in the pews, or by God.  As they entered houses of worship after so many years had gone by, their hearts pounding, did they ask, What am I doing here?  What am I doing as I make my way into church after a very long time, if ever?  How do I feel?  What do I think?  This was not an easy assignment!  Many reporters had negative connotations with church, considered themselves atheist, and were fearful and very uncomfortable.  The journey to a Baptist Episcopal Church for writer Chris McCann may not have taken 40 days like Elijah's hike, but it may have felt like it.  Here is his story:

              “I'll admit it—I was a little nervous.  I was going to church with my dad, an Episcopalian minister, for the first time in more than 15 years. When I was young, Sunday mornings always brought out the same feelings—dread, anxiety, and unbearable fatigue. When we walked in to St. John the Baptist church, I was 11 again—palms sweaty, shrinking behind my father, who was happily greeting the greeters. It seemed that church was church, unchanging and eternal, no matter how old you were.           But then something changed. The first chords of the processional echoed in the cavernous, not-nearly-full hall, and I calmed down. Perhaps it was the chorus of voices lifted in song that was at least aspiring o melody. Or the down-to-earth, funny, and actually rather thought-provoking sermon, delivered by a visiting Lutheran bishop. Or maybe it was simply the dappled light, shining down onto the altar.  The words from prayers I thought I'd long forgotten rose to my lips unconsciously and there was something soothing in the familiar rise and fall of the language, the shared murmuring, and the—shudder—community of it all. I'd expected to feel a lot in my return to church—hypocrisy, boredom, and unease at least. What I hadn't expected was the sense of calm and goodwill that enveloped me the rest of the afternoon.  Nostalgia? Father-son bonding? That delicious BLT I had at our postCommunion lunch? I don't really know, and I don't think I'll go next Sunday, but now I'm wondering if church might be something more than church after all.”                                                       Chris' cynicism gave way to something larger.  He began the service in dread, anxiety and fatigue, but by the end he had a sense of calm and goodwill.  In his childhood there were many things about church that he simply didn't connect with.  On this morning he opened himself enough to hear God – or at least church – in a compelling way.  His story reminds us that God may surprise us by speaking in a language that we understand, if we are open enough to hear.                                       One thing many of the reports on Sunday services had in common was how quickly they fled for the parking lot following the benediction.  They weren't exactly staying around sipping coffee with churchgoers.  I wonder what would have happened if they had.  Would it have intensified their cynicism or offered some hope?  Elijah was fleeing his calling mid-service.  Elijah's meal in the desert was not his final meal but the sustenance for the beginning of a hike.  He was preparing for death, but God had news for him:  this was just a stop along the way. He would no longer be able to flee into wilderness, but was to follow where God is leading.  In light of the UCC's 50th anniversary, Barbara Brown Zikmund wrote, “The walk of the United Church of Christ is not a stroll.  It is more like a hike along an unmarked trail.  Some would say it is a marathon.”   The call to stick it out and follow God's calling is not always the simple way.  You may feel that you are following God's call in your life, but also asking “What am I doing here?”  What are we doing here – in worship, in our lives?  What foundation are we operating from?  Is it God's love, or something else?                                    God responds to Elijah's cynicism by having him go and stand on the mountain, because God was going to pass on by. God wants to give him some insight on who God is, why God is calling him.  The text reads, “Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence.  God communicated in an unexpected hushed sound.  God tried to get a different answer out of him when he asked a second time, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”  But his answer was the same squeezed out of all hope cry. “I am very zealous for the Lord,” – complain, complain, despair.                                                                    Common themes of the Stranger reporters are fear,  (sweaty palms, stomach pain), flight, and doubt.  Another theme is the preference for subtlety.  Many of the writers reported a distaste for churches who were “trying too hard,” with huge expensive sanctuaries, JumboTrons, and Christian rock bands.  One writer wrote a scathing report of the megachurch that he visited, saying that the pastor preaches prosperity: Saying “This Hummer of a church, with its coffee shop and valet parking and banners proclaiming "desire," "worship," and "attitude"(?!), is already a testament to all things smug and ugly about America.”  They rolled their eyes when they heard a rainstorm and felt an earthquake, but many connected to the quiet prayer, simple songs, and hushed sound.  Anna Maria Hong appreciated the Methodist church that she visited.  It was simple and genuine, and the sermon leaned to a progressive theology. God spoke to Elijah in a fine silence – an oxymoron so profound and mysterious, it is a fitting way for God to speak.  God said, “Go, return on your way to the wilderness of Damascus; when you arrive, you shall anoint Hazael as king over Aram.” God gave Elijah instructions, let him know that he was not going to abandon him to walk out on his job, and surely not to die.       Many of the writers for the Stranger may have felt like they went far enough. Hopefully for some, it could be a new beginning.  When we let God ask the question, “what are we doing here?”  It gives us a chance to assess our priorities, our intentions, and our faith.  As some of you prepare to leave on a mission trip, I challenge you to hear the question, “what are you doing here?”  What does God have in mind for you as you travel, during your work in Wapato, and what may God be saying in the hushed silence – especially in that cave you’ll be exploring?

              Emmaus Road is a small congregation that meets at the New Horizons drop-in center in Belltown, and my brother-in-law is the pastor.  They received one of the most positive reports of the 30 churches.  Tom Nissley wrote “The texts of the day are Elijah and Jesus' raising of the dead, but Pastor Eric, dressed down and playing sax and flute with the band, with hair even messier than mine, quickly moves from the literal to the metaphorical. "What is dead in you that can be brought to life?" he asked us. Here are some words that have been dead to me for some time: worship, ministry, scripture, fellowship, prayer.  This morning, though these words were bent to a belief I don't buy, I could see the life in them, in greetings that met a stranger more than halfway, an acceptance of disorder in ritual, and the most diverse Seattle crowd I've seen outside a bus. But I ducked out at the end of the service, declining further fellowship in a mild antisocial and nonreligious panic.”  He still fled the service, but also connected with it.  His answer to the question “what are you doing here?,”  may have gone beyond, “Just research.” 

              What are you doing here?  Our reasons are varied for being here in this room right now.  Some are here because it's what they've always done.  Some are here to support who they are with, or came to see how their friends are doing.  Maybe someone is doing research.  Others are here because they were guided here, perhaps called to be here.  Some may be here because doubt has crept in over the years, but the time seems right to figure out if doubt can give way to faith.  Theologian Martin Copenhaver wrote, “I hope that you will not conclude that any doubts you might have disqualify you from a life of faith.  Believe in as much God as you can.  Work from whatever corner of belief you have. Any of us could spend our lives focused on the doubts we have, but most of us have enough beliefs to keep us busy for a lifetime.”

              John Olson, who nervously visited a Presbyterian church, wrote, “The magnitude of devotion in the hymns was daunting. But when the time came to get up and sing, I stood. My voice emerged from its lair and blended with the other voices. Everyone was singing—I mean everyone. The Presbyterians were emphatic about participation. The prompting was warm and welcoming but impossible to ignore. Earlier in the program, everyone was urged to get up and greet the people sitting nearby. The sense of community was acute. The detachment I had brought with me, and was so carefully trying to preserve, detached, and hung around my ankles as I arose to sing "Open the eyes of my heart." May we all be so open.  May our cynicism give way to hope.  May we hear in hushed silence just what it is that we are doing here.

June 13, 2007. http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/Content?oid=242675

      UCC @ 50: our history—our future.

Martin Copenhaver and Anthony B. Robinson.  Words for the Journey: Letters to our Teenagers about Life and Faith.