The Still Small Voice

He had prayed for fire and fire had come.

He had prayed for rain and rain had come.

He had outrun a chariot to Jezreel and arrived first.

But then one woman sent him a message, and everything collapsed.

He ran into the wilderness and sat under a tree and asked God to let him die.

He said: It is enough.

An angel came. Twice. Brought food. Told him to eat because the journey was too great for him.

Elijah ate. Then walked forty days to the mountain of God.

He found a cave and slept in it.

God asked him: What are you doing here, Elijah?

He said: I am the only one left.

God told him to stand on the mountain.

A great wind came. Mountain-splitting wind. But God was not in the wind.

An earthquake. But God was not in the earthquake.

Fire. But God was not in the fire.

And then.

A still small voice.

Some translations say a gentle whisper. A sound of silence. A low murmur.

And when Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle.

He covered his face to walk toward it.

Not the earthquake. Not the fire.

The voice so small it required stillness to hear.

God asked the same question again: What are you doing here, Elijah?

And this time, perhaps, Elijah had a better sense of the answer.

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