2 Kings 2: 1-15
Steve Lindsley
The two journey together, as they have been doing for a while now. They go wherever it is that God leads them. And just as important, they go together. Always together.
And in all the time they’ve been together, they’ve been comfortable and at ease with each other, like an old coat that’s been worn so many times it just fits right. So they support one other – even if they don’t always agree. They look out for each other – even if they don’t always see eye-to-eye. They know each others’ strengths, they know each others’ weaknesses. And without a word they know when to lead and when to follow, like a dance.
But on this day, the music has changed. And it is a new sound they hear; a strange and unfamiliar song, one they’ve not heard together before, until this day. And the song leads them where they must go – although they go hesitantly, because in their hearts they know where this will take them.
And so Elijah and Elisha journey together into the wilderness, where Elijah tries to brush Elisha off – three times, in fact. But Elisha will have none of it. He will not let Elijah go into this new thing alone. They cross the Jordan River together; and Elijah asks Elisha what he can do for him. And Elisha says he would like to be blessed as if he were Elijah’s only son. And that is when the chariot descends from the heavens and takes Elijah with it. So that now it is only Elisha there; and he turns and crosses back over the Jordan River, and the kingdom-building work continues on.
This is our scripture today. It is a story of transition. Of change. Of something in the process of becoming very different. Of how one can never fully move into their future by trying to stay in the past. A story that holds a good bit of uncertainty.
Sound familiar?
I’ll be honest with you – as we’ve gotten closer to this day, there’s definitely been a part of me that’s wanted to go hide in a corner somewhere. Kind of ironic, right, for this extrovert here? But over the past few weeks, I’ve definitely felt a little out of my element, being the center of attention. Which, listen, I know what you’re thinking and I readily admit, it’s my own fault!
I guess I cannot help but feel a certain kinship with Elijah here; the way he keeps trying to avoid the inevitable, soften the blow. Telling Elisha: Just stay here, I’ll be back, don’t worry…. Thinking he could just slip away, the same way that dying people wait until everyone has left the room so as not to have an audience.
Elisha, though, has other plans: Nice try, bub, but I’m not letting you off the hook that easy. We are going to face this thing, and we are going to face it together.
And so this morning, I want to thank you all for many, many things; not the least of which is that right now you are facing this particular thing with me. Because that’s what you do with people you love – and let there be no doubt, there’s a lot of love between us. You’ve helped me treasure every conversation over the past six weeks, every phone call and hospital visit and lunch and coffee; every question you’ve asked, every hug you’ve shared. And on top of that, you’ve reminded me of the immeasurable joy we have experienced together on our journey across the Jordan for many years prior.
There’s a name I gave this journey in my very first sermon here, eleven years and six weeks ago. I called it a “partnership in ministry” – a beautiful, unfolding adventure between pastor and congregation. We began that adventure on December 1st, 2013. And since then it has been a rich partnership, full of expected and unexpected moments, each showing us something new about how to grow, how to serve, how to lean into God’s calling, and how to love. I said then, and I say it again now: this partnership in ministry has never been about what I can do or any one of you can do. It is all about what we can do – have done – together, with God’s help, as a community of faith, as a church.
The title of that sermon eleven years and six weeks ago was “And So It Begins” – an appropriate first sermon title. But you know what hit me the other day as I was thinking about this day? It struck me that transitions like the one you and I are in the thick of right now are not just about endings, as we’re often inclined to think. They are also very much about beginnings. And beginnings, wherever we find them, are always full of promise. They remind us that every ending we face opens the door to something new, something God is calling us toward. And we do not find that new thing by living in the past. We find it by moving into the future with open minds and open hearts.
The problem, of course, is that rarely are we able to see the beginning until the ending has come. And the time right before all that can be a scary time. I’ll never forget what someone said soon after my announcement in an authentic moment of clarity: “Steve, I’m scared, because I don’t know what’s coming next.” And I told them that we could be scared together, because in a sense I don’t fully know what’s coming next, either.
And that’s the trick of this, isn’t it? We cannot fully embrace the beginning that God has for each of us until we get to the other side of this ending. The bad news is that, any way you cut it, this ending is a hard thing. This is a hard thing we’re doing here. The good news – and yes, there is good news – the good news is that getting from this ending to that new beginning requires, in the words of the apostle Paul, just three things: faith, hope, and love.
And Trinity, I am here to tell you that you have these three things in spades:
Faith – faith in a God who is always working for the healing and restoration of the world, and of each of you. Faith that this God has plans for your welfare, your flourishing, your thriving, and is not interested in you all just “getting by.” Faith in the iron-clad truth that the church never finds its God-given future by trying to relive the past.
And hope – hope in what is to come, despite how things might seem to be now. A stubborn, persistent hope; one that refuses to be defined by a mindset of scarcity and the wilds of the wilderness, and instead chooses to see and embrace the vast abundance, the lush green grass that surrounds you. A “Village of Trinity” kind of hope, one might call it. A hope that always, always trumps fear.
And love – oh my gosh, such love! Love for Jesus, love for each other, love for this church. A love that assumes the best and not the worst in another. Love that binds you to your calling to create a place that forever strives, as you’ve put it so well, to grow together and welcome all.
Y’all, never underestimate the massive abundance of faith and hope and love that’s already within you.
Elisha didn’t. I have to think that’s what compelled him to reach down and pick up that mantle lying on the ground. Remember the mantle? It had belonged to Elijah, slipping off the prophet’s shoulders as the chariot careened upward; floating down, down, down to the ground, like a feather. It was the cloth that Elijah and all prophets wore – a garment to protect them from the elements, but also a symbol of their prophetic authority to embody faith, hope, and love. Thousands of years later, clergy from all different denominations wear what we call a “stole,” as Rebecca and I and all previous ministers here have worn.
It was that mantle, that stole, that Elisha reached down and picked up off the ground and draped over his own shoulders. I have to think it felt weird doing that. Felt heavy – uncertain, new things can sometimes feel that way. I have to think it was a surreal sort of moment, wearing this garment of authority that had long rested on the shoulders of his close friend.
And later, back at the edge of the Jordan River, I imagine his heart racing as he faced the deep waters Elijah had parted not long before with a slap of that mantle. What went through Elisha’s mind as he raised that stole high? Did he hesitate, fearing that what worked for Elijah might not work for him? Did he doubt whether a beginning could truly come out of an ending?
See, that’s why I love this story; loved it enough to make it the scripture for my last Sunday with you. Because for all this transition story entails – prophets, desert, reluctance, persistence, parted waters, chariots – for all of that, this story is really about the mantle. A mantle that reminds the one wearing it that they are named and claimed by God, that they will find their future by not trying to return to the past, and that endings always lead to beginnings.
That’s precisely what it did for Elisha. And the rest of the book of Second Kings is a testimony to that – how he ministered to the needy, helped the orphan and widow, fed the hungry, spoke truth to power – all the things he had done with Elijah, he was now doing without him. In some instances, he was even doing it better.
If I were a seamstress and had unlimited amounts of fabric and time, I would’ve loved to have stitched each of you your own mantle. Your own stole. I would’ve brought them all up here with me and at the appropriate time – which is now – would’ve thrown them from this chariot of sorts so they could fall in front of each of you. So that you could bend down and pick yours up and put it on your shoulders. Feel the weight of the challenges that face you, the fears and anxieties that seek to consume you, the amazing opportunities that await you, the faith and hope and love that defines you.
Sorry I didn’t get around to making you one. But you still feel it, right? You feel it on your shoulders. A little heavy, a little different. Can I let you in on a little secret? It’s always been there. It is your mantle, it is your stole, because this is your church!
Endings always lead to beginnings. My dear friends, may we both go into our respective beginnings, wearing the mantle of faith and hope and love, building God’s kingdom on earth, finding our future in the future, doing great things. Doing great and wonderful things!
In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, thanks be to God – and may all of God’s people say, AMEN!
* Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation, the written accounts occasionally stray from proper grammar and punctuation.