‘Good morning, Elisha.’
I was woken from sleep, as so often, by God’s voice, speaking to me, inviting
me into another day. Not an audible voice, of course; but a whisper that I have
come to recognise as not being my own thoughts. Elijah trained me to hear and
recognise that voice. And this morning, he – the Lord – woke me to tell me that
today he would come and take Elijah from us, take him to his side. And how am I
supposed to respond to such news?
Elijah
himself – my master, my mentor – said nothing of this. But as we went on our
awkward way, he instructed me to stay where we were, while he went on an errand
for the Lord to Bethel. I would not have it: if this was to be our final day
together, he was not walking out as if it were any other day; I would accompany
him, come what may.
And
so we set out. As we walked, in silence, my mind went back seven, eight, years,
back to the day we first met [1 Kings 19:19-21]. I had been ploughing my
father’s field. He was a wealthy man, a man of standing. Twelve pairs of oxen
pulled our ploughs – a sign of his status – and on that day I was overseeing
the whole operation. Elijah, the man of God, simply walked up to me, threw his
mantle – the sign of his status – over my shoulders … and just kept walking,
without a word. It was a call, to follow him; my commissioning, to succeed him
as God’s prophet. It was irrevocable; and yet, I ran after him, called out, ‘Let me kiss my father and mother, and then
I will follow you!’ – for I knew that to follow the call would cost me
everything.
He
cried out, in pain; for he realised that he had been so caught up in responding
to God’s call on his life that he hadn’t considered mine. ‘Go back again;’ he said, ‘for
what have I done to you?’ I went back, said my farewells; slaughtered the
pair of oxen I had been walking behind, broke up the plough to make a fire to
roast them for the whole village. To celebrate a new status for my family; and
ending, and a beginning.
I
guess it would be fair to say we had an awkward meeting, Elijah and I; and now,
these years later, an awkward parting. There is a symmetry to that, for sure;
though, does it best reflect all that we have been through between?
I
wasn’t the only one Elijah trained to hear God’s voice, to speak for God. Yes,
he trained me to listen, and to speak, for the nation, before kings and other
such important figures. But he trained countless other men and women, to
listen, together, for their communities, for their neighbours, learning to
weigh what they heard and how they might best deliver the news. It was to the
company of prophets at Bethel that God had sent Elijah today – to tell them
what he could not bring himself to speak of with me. Out of respect, I waited
outside. Out of concern, they came out to me: did I know? Of course I knew. ‘Keep silent.’
Elijah
would have me stay with them, while he went on to Jericho. But I would not have
it: I had said what I had said, and I would stand by it. He knew that I knew.
Was he seeking to shield me from pain? Was he seeking to shield himself from
pain? Was I seeking to shield myself from pain, refusing others the mercy of
being able to speak of the unspeakable burden on their hearts for me? So much
pain. And where was God in the pain? Was he silent? Was that why words were not
to be trusted here? Was silence the deeper communion?
At
Jericho, again, I stood outside while he broke the news and said his farewells
to those he had invested in. Once again, they came out to me. Once again, I
told them to be silent. Shut up the mouth of God. His word is too hard to
endure. I should rather remain in this moment of glory, stretched out
endlessly, than have it end, and return to something … something less.
Elijah
would have me stay with them, while he went on to the Jordan – not very far at
all. But I would not have it: for I knew that our time to part was drawing very
near now. The others sensed it too, sensed the new weight on my shoulders; they
followed us at a respectful distance: there for me, even if I could not welcome
it.
As
we walked, my thoughts turned to what I might say, in parting, what blessing I
would ask of this man who had become … who had become like a father to me. A father. That’s what I
would ask.
Still
silent, he took his mantle, rolled it up, and struck the water with it. The
water parted, and we walked across on dry ground. That should have been
something like no other, an entering into the stories I have known since my
childhood, of seas and rivers parting and God’s people walking out of slavery
and in to their inheritance. But we were walking in the wrong direction: out of our inheritance. This was just
wrong.
Only
then did he speak. Only then, symbolically cut off from the past I had left
long ago, did he enquire what he might do for me before he was taken from me.
Dare I ask? I looked into his eyes, and found the courage I needed: ‘Please let me inherit a double share of
your spirit.’ A double share. The share of the oldest son, or daughter. I
know that I am already to be your successor, to inherit your mantle as the man
of God, as the overseer of the companies of the prophets. But a servant can
inherit, as Eliezer of Damascus stood to inherit Abraham’s estate. Let me be
counted as your son, as your first born son over all these other
children, these other prophets. Will you claim me as your own? Will you declare
yourself to be my father, in place of the father God took from me? Let my
offspring by counted as yours.
His
response was measured – and rightly so: ‘You
have asked a hard thing; yet, if …’ Yet, if. For to be father and son and
to be parted is to inflict pain on one another and to endure pain far greater
than even the loss of a mentor and master or of a faithful servant. So let us
place ourselves in God’s hands.
And
that is what we did, and having done so we walked on our way, freed to talk,
somehow lighter even despite the weight lying on our hearts. And then, all of a
sudden, we were separated – the chariot of heaven, burning with fire yet not
consumed, like the bush from which God spoke to Moses, sweeping Elijah up,
carrying him away. I stood and called after him, as I had done on that day
years ago, that day when I had set plough and ox alight to burn and be
consumed. But now I did not cry out, ‘Let
me kiss my father!’ but ‘My father!
My father! Farewell, my father! Farewell!’ For today, Elijah became my
father; and I became his son.
When
he was hidden from my sight, I took hold of the garment I was wearing and tore
it in two, from the neck down, right down the middle of my chest; for I was
undone, I was torn in two. And in that moment, in that place of pain, after the
fiery chariot and horses, the hoof-shaken earth, and the whirlwind – after the
recollection of the day God told Elijah to anoint me as prophet in his place [1 Kings 19:1-18] – in the sheer silence, God spoke to me. I wrapped myself in
Elijah’s fallen mantle, and stepped forward into the unknown.
Step into silence, and listen
…
