"Turning Battlefields Into Banquets" (August 9, 2026 Sermon)

Turning Battlefields Into Banquets

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing·August 9, 2026·Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

11th Sunday after Pentecost (Year A)

2 Kings 6:8-23

Once when the king of Aram was at war with Israel, he took counsel with his officers. He said, “At such and such a place shall be my camp.” But the man of God sent word to the king of Israel, “Take care not to pass this place, for the Arameans are going down there.” The king of Israel sent word to the place of which the man of God spoke. More than once or twice he warned a place so that it was on the alert.

The mind of the king of Aram was greatly perturbed because of this; he called his officers and said to them, “Now tell me: Who among us is betraying us to the king of Israel?” Then one of his officers said, “No one, my lord king. It is Elisha, the prophet in Israel, who tells the king of Israel the words that you speak in your bedchamber.” He said, “Go and find where he is; I will send and seize him.” He was told, “He is in Dothan.” So he sent horses and chariots there and a great army; they came by night and surrounded the city.

When an attendant of the man of God rose early in the morning and went out, an army with horses and chariots was all around the city. His servant said, “Alas, master! What shall we do?” He replied, “Do not be afraid, for there are more with us than there are with them.” Then Elisha prayed, “O Lord, please open his eyes that he may see.” So the Lord opened the eyes of the servant, and he saw; the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha. When the Arameans came down against him, Elisha prayed to the Lord and said, “Strike this people, please, with blindness.” So he struck them with blindness as Elisha had asked. Elisha said to them, “This is not the way, and this is not the city; follow me, and I will bring you to the man whom you seek.” And he led them to Samaria.

As soon as they entered Samaria, Elisha said, “O Lord, open the eyes of these men so that they may see.” The Lord opened their eyes, and they saw that they were inside Samaria. When the king of Israel saw them he said to Elisha, “Father, shall I strike them? Shall I strike them?” He answered, “No! Would you strike those whom you have taken captive with your sword and with your bow? Set food and water before them so that they may eat and drink, and let them go to their master.” So he prepared for them a great feast; after they ate and drank, he sent them on their way, and they went to their master. And the Arameans no longer came raiding into the land of Israel.

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So, how many of you know how to play chess? I’ve played chess my entire life. I’m not that great at it, but I’ve started to pick it back up and learn more. When Hazel Grace started the Spanish immersion program at Jones Elementary School, Tricia and I both downloaded the Duolingo app so we could try to get ahead of the time when the two of them can conspire in another language. I downloaded the Duolingo app to learn Spanish, but, as it turns out, you can also learn chess with Duolingo. So that’s what I’ve been doing the past month or so — relearning chess. And I’ve found something that’s actually quite annoying: as I get better, the app keeps giving me an AI opponent that gets harder and harder. It’s quite rude. I’m getting to the point where I feel like my AI opponent knows what I’m about to do before I even do it. I have a very particular way I like to open my chess game — I try to control the center of the board immediately, getting the pawns to the center and the knights out. If I’m feeling particularly frisky, I’ll try to get my queen into the action really soon to put my opponent on the defense early. But lately, that particular opening hasn’t been working for me because my AI opponent knows I’m about to do it. It’s quite frustrating. Is it going to make me a better chess player? Yes. It’s still really annoying.

The King’s Growing Suspicion

I’m guessing that's how the king of Aram felt at the beginning of today's passage. You may remember that last week we talked about the story of an unnamed slave girl owned by a general named Naaman, who served in the Aramean army — another word for Syria, modern-day Syria. They were the primary antagonists to the Israelites at this point in 1 and 2 Kings. As Elisha’s prophetic ministry gets underway, the Israelites and the Arameans are trading hostilities. But the king of Aram — we don’t know his name, the text doesn’t tell us — is getting really annoyed that whenever he tells his troops, “We’re going to do such and such,” he finds the Israelites already know the game plan. It happens once, and he thinks, okay, that’s a coincidence. It happens twice, and he thinks, okay, maybe that’s bad luck. And then it happens seventeen times, and he goes, okay, something’s going on here.

So he gathers all his generals and reaches the only rational conclusion most people in that position would: we’ve got a spy. Someone is feeding the Israelites intelligence. He gathers his generals and says, “Okay, which one of you is spilling the beans to the Israelites?” They all look at each other sheepishly, and then one general raises his hand and says, “Actually, Mr. King, it’s not us. It’s that Elisha dude. He knows everything. By the power of the Israelites’ God, he knows what you say when you are alone, sleeping at night.”

Well, I don’t know about you all, but that’s rather disconcerting. So the king of Aram says, “Okay, bring me this guy so I can kill him.” And that’s exactly what he does — he sends the Arameans to capture Elisha. They gather intelligence and figure out that he’s in a relatively small city in northern Israel called Dothan. So the Arameans send their army to surround Dothan in the middle of the night. Early the next morning, Elisha’s servant gets up, leaves the apartment, and goes outside to grab a cup of coffee and a newspaper at the bodega around the corner. He notices that there is a whole army surrounding Dothan.

So he goes and finds his master, wakes him up, and says, “Excuse me, Mr. Elisha — we have a small, small problem. There’s an army surrounding us.” But Elisha isn’t too concerned. He’s still kind of sleepy — acting kind of like Jesus does in that boat story you all know from the Gospels. Elisha says to his servant, “It’s fine. We outnumber them.” The servant’s like, “What are you smoking?” But Elisha says, “No, trust me — go out and look again.” And the servant goes out and sees something different this time. He sees the whole army, but around the Arameans’ army, he sees a heavenly, angelic army with horses and chariots of fire. The authors of 1 and 2 Kings really like chariots, and they really like them on fire — I don’t know why, but it’s pretty catchy. In this moment, Elisha’s servant recognizes that they’re not alone. Elisha finally wakes up, goes out, joins him, and says, “Hey, watch this.” And he calls on God to strike the Arameans blind.

So — God strikes the Aramean army with blindness, and Elisha captures the very army that was sent to capture him. Very ironic! Elisha takes the army captive and says, “Okay, follow me,” and they have no choice but to follow him. Elisha leads the army into Samaria, the capital of Israel. Elisha knocks on the door of the king of Israel and says, “Hey, look what I found.” The king of Israel says, “That’s awesome! Thank you — let’s kill them all,” because, you know, we’re in a time of war, and that makes sense when your enemy wanders helplessly into your arms. But then, as you heard Bob read for us, Elisha does a remarkable thing. Elisha says, “No — these are not your captives; these are my captives. I don’t want us to fight them. I want us to feed them.” And that’s exactly what happens. The blindness lifts from the Aramean army. They look around in panic, as any of us would, but that panic is short-lived, because shortly after, the Israelites set a table in the presence of their enemies. Have you ever heard that line before? After they’ve had their fill, Elisha and the Israelites send the Arameans home unharmed. It’s a remarkable story.

From Battlefield to Banquet

It’s remarkable because you and I are living in a very pugilistic culture right now. I know that’s a big word — does anybody know what a pugilist is? It’s an old term for a boxer. We are taught, in all corners of our culture, it feels, never to turn the other cheek but instead to fight, fight, fight. And yet in this story, Elisha says, no — now is the time to feed, feed, feed. So I invite us all to be curious together about what it might look like — what the world might look like — where we no longer bomb our enemies but feed them.

A Pastoral and Prophetic Balance

Now, whenever I have a sermon where I critique our country’s obsession with military violence, I think it’s very important to acknowledge that we can critique our culture’s obsession with military violence while not disparaging our men and women of the armed forces. I did three funerals this week — two here at Guilford Park, one down at Forbis and Dick — and two of those three folks I helped sing to heaven were servicemen, combat veterans. So whenever I preach sermons like this, I always admit that I’m not in the military, I don’t come from a military family, I don’t know what that sacrifice takes. And I think it’s really important that we hold that balance together.

One of my favorite preaching heroes was Harry Emerson Fosdick, the founding preacher of Riverside Church on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. He was a noted pacifist who frequently criticized the military-industrial complex from that pulpit. But every week, when he learned there were servicemen and women in worship at Riverside, he took time out of his busy schedule to write each of them a handwritten note of gratitude for their service. I love that pastoral-prophetic balance, and I want us to have the same vibe here together today as we express wonder at this inexplicable story about feeding our enemies instead of bombing them.

And it’s fitting that I mention Harry Emerson Fosdick, because I believe our closing hymn today is “God of Grace and God of Glory,” in which Fosdick famously wrote, “Cure thy children’s warring madness.” So together, I invite us all to wonder what it might look like if we fed our enemies instead of bombing them. And I mention our courageous servicemen and women because I believe they would be the first among us to long for a world in which all battlefields become banquets.

So I don’t have all the answers. I’m not the president of the United States or the commander of the military — I don’t know what it’s like to make those calls, and I’ll freely admit that. But you and I are stewards of a radical story like this one, which compels us not to accept warfare as the only option. Elisha’s servant looked out and thought warfare was the inevitable option. The king of Aram looked out and thought warfare was the only option. The king of Israel looked out and thought warfare was the only option. But the God whom you and I dare to call the Prince of Peace called a prophet named Elisha to expand the moral imagination of the Israelites — and of all of us — to reimagine the battlefield as a banquet.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s beloved children, say: Amen.

"There Was a Girl..." (August 2, 2026 Sermon)

There Was a Girl

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing·August 2, 2026·Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

10th Sunday after Pentecost (Year A)

2 Kings 5:1-4, 9-14

Naaman, commander of the army of the king of Aram, was a great man and in high favor with his master because by him the Lord had given victory to Aram. The man, though a mighty warrior, suffered from a skin disease. Now the Arameans on one of their raids had taken a young girl captive from the land of Israel, and she served Naaman’s wife. She said to her mistress, “If only my lord were with the prophet who is in Samaria! He would cure him of his skin disease.” So Naaman went in and told his lord just what the girl from the land of Israel had said.

So Naaman came with his horses and chariots and halted at the entrance of Elisha’s house. Elisha sent a messenger to him, saying, “Go, wash in the Jordan seven times, and your flesh shall be restored, and you shall be clean.” But Naaman became angry and went away, saying, “I thought that for me he would surely come out and stand and call on the name of the Lord his God and would wave his hand over the spot and cure the skin disease! Are not Abana and Pharpar, the rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? Could I not wash in them and be clean?” He turned and went away in a rage. But his servants approached and said to him, “Father, if the prophet had commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it? How much more, when all he said to you was, ‘Wash, and be clean’?” So he went down and immersed himself seven times in the Jordan, according to the word of the man of God; his flesh was restored like the flesh of a young boy, and he was clean.

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Our passage today begins with a name; a name of a man who was healed of his leprosy by dipping himself in the Jordan seven times. His name, in Hebrew, meant “pleasant,” “delightful,” or “gracious.” Those monikers stand in stark contrast to the brutality with which he and his band of raiders pillaged and plundered the countryside and those who inhabited the lands of Israel, the northern kingdom that had split off from the southern kingdom of Judah. He was a commander in the army of the Arameans, a Semitic people whose nation bordered Israel to the east and the north. The text tells us that he was a “mighty warrior,” a “great man,” who was held in “high favor.” He had the credentials. He had the glory. He had the victories.

An Unnamed Girl

But womanist scholar Dr. Wilda Gafney, in a sermon I watched last week, challenges the use of the term “victory.” Because “victory” is the language of the conquerer, and never the conquered. What the conquerer calls “victory,” she preaches, the conquered call “slaughter.” And if we peel back the layers of this text that would have us give our undivided attention to him, we might adjust our gaze upon an unnamed character who was the collateral damage of his conquests. You and I aren’t privy to her name, as the text doesn’t deem her significant enough to be given such dignity. She was a slave-girl who had been abducted from her home in Israel, taken from her family, and forced to a life of servitude to the wife of the man with the “pleasant” and “gracious” name that begins this story.

I wonder if you and I could use our sanctified imagination to step into her shoes for a moment. Because there have been plenty of sermons that focus on the man she was forced to call “Master.” There are plenty of sermons, such as the one I gave last week, that focus on Elisha, whose healing authority the man sought to rid him of his disease. But there are precious few sermons by comparison that focus on the girl whose suggestion of Elisha’s prophetic power led the man to seek his counsel in the first place.

Rev. Dr. Jaqui Lewis once said, “There is always a girl.” Dr. Gafney says the following: “And while the scriptures speak most often to men, in the voices of men, there are still all of these girls. All of these girls who will not go away. They may be edited out of lectionary readings, cut out of the genealogies of the children to whom they give birth, erased from the stories that take place in their own homes, deprived of the dignity of names, silenced while text after text legislates their body and who has access to it…On the page, between the lines, behind the story; there is always a girl.”

The Girl Speaks

And in today’s story, there is a girl, a caged bird who sings of a God whose power is channeled through a prophet named Elisha. The girl wisely placed herself within earshot of her master’s complaining. A subtle but subversive observation in this text is that this man, lauded as a fierce and powerful soldier, a warrior of great strength and cunning, is helpless to help himself! Instead, he is so desperate to rid himself of this scandalous condition that he is forced to rely on the wisdom of the very girl he has claimed as property for his wife’s every need.

And this girl is given one line and one line only in this story: “If only my lord were with the prophet who is in Samaria! He would cure him of his skin disease.” It’s almost casual in tone: “if only my lord were with the prophet…”. It’s the kind of line you feed to someone who you know will want to know more once you tease them with hope. She has something, a knowledge, a trust in the God whose power the prophet proclaims, that she knows is something that her master can’t win in battle or negotiate in the king’s court. She knows of where he can find relief, and she makes herself useful.

And making oneself useful is not simply something to be commended in this text; it is instead something that needs to be named as a survival tactic by a little girl whose body didn’t belong to herself. Making oneself useful is a technique of subversive power wielded by the oppressed to reclaim agency in an agency-denying power dynamic. It was the same tactic employed by Esther, as she used her status in the king’s court to manipulate her husband, Ahasuerus, and his Gestapo advisor, Mordecai. It’s the same playbook as Rahab, the woman in Jericho who cleverly used her position to negotiate safety for her household before the city’s collapse. It’s the same game plan as Shiprah and Puah, the Hebrew midwives in the Book of Exodus who deny Pharaoh his murderous campaign to make Egypt great again by slaughtering all those Hebrew boys.

And so, we may not know the name of the little girl in today’s passage, but she’s in good company! Esther, Rahab, Shiprah, and Puah all knew the complexities of being a woman in a man’s world, and they knew a thing or two about how to exploit the powers of patriarchy to provide safety and security for the vulnerable around them. And their “good trouble” lives on in this unnamed girl who navigates her enslavement to express trust in the power of her God over and above the power of her enslavers.

As the father of two young girls, I want to lift up these stories so that they, and other girls like them, may come to know that their stories matter. That their agency matters. That their bodies matter. That their safety matters. That their dignity matters. The name of the girl in this story may be lost to history, but it is not lost to the God whose authority parted the very river whose waters cleansed the man of his leprosy. And lest we think that focusing on such marginalized characters in the Biblical narrative is a waste of time, consider this: the girls among us are listening. There are girls in our churches who are listening to how the men around them speak of them. There are girls in our world who wonder if their worth is nothing more than whatever makes the men around them happy or satiated or comfortable. There are girls in our homes, in our schools, in our workplaces, who are listening to how their fathers speak of them, how their pastors speak of them, how their President speaks of them, who deserve to know that they are more than simply a plot device meant to steer our attention to the men who get the privilege of being the center of attention.

What the Margins Reveal

Because if we do that work of lifting back the layers of the text to see where God is working in the margins, other revelations are sure to follow. For example, the girl who told her enslaver where to find help is not alone in this text — just verses later, it's his own servants (who may very well have been girls or women themselves) doing the same thing, in the same posture, and getting the same result: he listens to someone he outranks, and it saves him.

He arrives at Elisha’s house; he is offended that the prophet doesn’t even meet him, but instead sends a message that he is to dip himself seven times in the waters of the Jordan. His ego is bruised. He wanted the fanfare, the pomp and circumstance befitting a man of his stature, but instead he gets a sticky note with instructions to jump into muddy water. Yet it is his servants who compel him to set aside his ego and do what the prophet said. Once again, the man who is ostensibly all-powerful is dependent on the wisdom of those around him whom he is subjugating.

So he goes down to a muddy, unremarkable river he'd already insulted as inferior to the waters back home. Six times, nothing happens. By the seventh dip, soaked and humiliated in front of the very servants who talked him into this, I imagine something in him has already given way — because this healing was never going to happen to him from a distance. It only happens because a commander, a “great” man, a man in high favor, is willing to keep lowering himself into the water on the word of people he outranks. And perhaps that’s the true miracle of the story. Not the cleansing itself, but what it cost him to get there: he had to let a slave girl and his own servants be right and him be wrong, in front of everyone.

And so, let us give thanks for the unnamed women and girls in today’s text. Let us give thanks to the God whose authority and power were channeled not through a mighty warrior like the man whose name opens today’s text, but through those whose value he recognized only insofar as they served him. And let us give thanks to Jesus Christ, whose Spirit draws our attention to the margins of scripture, where we are far more likely to find God than in the centers of power we erect for ourselves.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

"The Mantle and the Question" (July 26, 2026 Sermon)

The Mantle and the Question

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing·July 26, 2026·Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

9th Sunday in Lent (Year A)

2 Kings 2:1–15

Now when the Lord was about to take Elijah up to heaven by a whirlwind, Elijah and Elisha were on their way from Gilgal. Elijah said to Elisha, “Stay here, for the Lord has sent me as far as Bethel.” But Elisha said, “As the Lord lives and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.” So they went down to Bethel. The company of prophets who were in Bethel came out to Elisha and said to him, “Do you know that today the Lord will take your master away from you?” And he said, “Yes, I know; keep silent.”

Elijah said to him, “Elisha, stay here, for the Lord has sent me to Jericho.” But he said, “As the Lord lives and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.” So they came to Jericho. The company of prophets who were at Jericho drew near to Elisha and said to him, “Do you know that today the Lord will take your master away from you?” And he answered, “Yes, I know; keep silent.”

Then Elijah said to him, “Stay here, for the Lord has sent me to the Jordan.” But he said, “As the Lord lives and as you yourself live, I will not leave you.” So the two of them went on. Fifty men of the company of prophets also went and stood at some distance from them, as they both were standing by the Jordan. Then Elijah took his mantle and rolled it up and struck the water; the water was parted to the one side and to the other, and the two of them crossed on dry ground.

When they had crossed, Elijah said to Elisha, “Tell me what I may do for you before I am taken from you.” Elisha said, “Please let me inherit a double share of your spirit.” He responded, “You have asked a hard thing, yet if you see me as I am being taken from you, it will be granted you; if not, it will not.” As they continued walking and talking, a chariot of fire and horses of fire separated the two of them, and Elijah ascended in a whirlwind into heaven. Elisha kept watching and crying out, “Father, father! The chariots of Israel and its horsemen!” But when he could no longer see him, he grasped his own clothes and tore them in two pieces.

He picked up the mantle of Elijah that had fallen from him and went back and stood on the bank of the Jordan. He took the mantle of Elijah that had fallen from him and struck the water. He said, “Where is the Lord, the God of Elijah? Where is he?” He struck the water again, and the water was parted to the one side and to the other, and Elisha crossed over.

When the company of prophets who were at Jericho saw him at a distance, they declared, “The spirit of Elijah rests on Elisha.” They came to meet him and bowed to the ground before him.

The last time we were together, we were near the end of 1 Kings. Elijah — not to be confused with Elisha today — had just had that epic showdown with the prophets of Baal at Mount Carmel, and then fled the scene because King Ahab and Jezebel were none too pleased about it. Then came that moment when God found Elijah: the whirlwind, but God wasn’t in the whirlwind; the fire, but God wasn’t in the fire. God came to Elijah in the silence and said, in effect, “Elijah, take a nap, get a snack, go back to work — and call another prophet, Elisha, to take over once your ministry has concluded.” That’s where we pick up today, in the book of 2 Kings.

But before we get going, I want to invite you into a brief exercise. Think of someone you loved dearly who is no longer with us — someone who, as Mr. Rogers would say, “loved you into being.” Someone who taught you a great deal, someone whose advice you wish you could still ask for. Let’s spend thirty seconds in silence together, thinking of who that person is for you. And then I asked several of you to share, in a single word, what you were feeling: peaceful, sad, grateful, light, appreciative, proud, happy. Quite a range of emotions — and I expected that, because I wanted us to sit for a moment in what Elisha might have been feeling as he prepared to say goodbye to his mentor, Elijah.

A Farewell Journey

Elisha knew the time was coming. He and Elijah set out on something of a farewell journey, and all along the way, companies of prophets kept trailing alongside them. We don’t know their names, but they keep approaching Elisha and asking, “Do you know that today the Lord will take your master from you?” And Elisha says, “Yes, I know. Be quiet.” That’s the “Stephen Fearing paraphrase” of the passage — but you can hear the sadness in it. He’s essentially saying, “Yes, yes, I know it’s time to say goodbye, but I’m not ready yet.” I think we all know that feeling, when we know a goodbye is coming and we don’t want it to.

Eventually Elijah and Elisha come to the banks of the Jordan River, and I think Elisha knows this goodbye cannot be put off any longer. Elijah says to Elisha, “What is it you want from me?” — not unlike what God once asked Solomon back in 1 Kings. And Elisha says, “I want a double portion of your ruach — your breath, your spirit.” It’s the same word used for the Spirit of God that hovered over the waters of creation. Elisha is essentially saying to Elijah: “Whatever measure of God’s presence you carry, I want that — and then I want even more of it.” It’s a bold ask, but a wise one, not unlike what Solomon asked God for: not wealth or long life, but a lev shomea — a listening heart.

Crossing the Jordan

Elijah doesn’t give an easy yes. His answer amounts to: “That’s a good thing to ask for, but it isn’t exactly mine to give — it’s God’s. If you see me as I am taken from you, though, I think it will be granted.” And then Elijah takes off his mantle and, on the banks of the Jordan, strikes the water with it — the way a toddler might slap a pool noodle against the surface of a pool. And the water parts, and the two of them walk across on dry ground — calling to mind, of course, another story of parted waters: the Red Sea.

Once they’ve crossed, Elijah is taken up, and his mantle falls. Now — what took Elijah up into heaven? A chariot? Not quite. If you read the text carefully, it doesn’t actually say Elijah rode in the chariot. Sorry to ruin that for everybody. What it says is that Elijah was taken up into heaven, and that a chariot of fire came between him and Elisha. Does that distinction really matter? Either way, Elijah receives an extraordinary send-off, more dramatic even than the one Moses received! And as the chariot disappears, and Elijah disappears with it, Elisha cries out, “Father! Father!” The text isn’t entirely clear whether he’s calling out to God or to Elijah as a father figure, but either way, it’s clear that in this moment of transition, Elisha is mourning the departure of someone who meant everything to him.

And then — silence. We know that silence. The silence after we say goodbye to someone we love, a mentor, a guide. And then comes that “okay, now what?” moment. Elisha picks up Elijah’s mantle, which he realizes now belongs to him.

The Second Strike

Here’s a detail I think I’ve overlooked in past times I’ve preached this text: Elisha is now on the opposite side of the Jordan from where he needs to be, and the water has closed back up behind him. He has to part it again himself. So he takes the mantle that is now his, strikes the water — and nothing happens. Nothing. If you read carefully, he has to try twice. The first time, he strikes the water, and it stays as it was.

How many of us know that moment — when the mantle has been passed to us, and we step into the work we’ve been trained for, and it just... doesn’t work? I recently got back from a hymn-writing conference in Princeton, New Jersey, and I found myself thinking about a mentor of mine, an Elijah of sorts — Michael Morgan, who taught me how to write hymns, and who died three or four years ago. This past week, I went back through the hymns I’ve written over the last ten years, separating the “wheat” from the “chaff.” Some are good. Some are genuinely terrible, and will never see the light of day — which is probably for the best. But we all know what it feels like to realize, “okay, this is mine to carry now,” and have it fail the first time.

So Elisha strikes the water, and nothing happens. And then — in that moment of frustration, maybe even failure, though I’m not sure it was — he asks, “Where is the Lord, the God of Elijah?” And he strikes the water again. And this time, it parts, and he walks back across.

Where Is God?

What I want to leave us with today is that question. Because when someone who taught us so much about the love of God, about justice and kindness, has departed, it’s tempting to ask, “Where are they now?” It’s good to remember the people who loved us into being — that’s why I began this sermon the way I did. But notice: Elisha doesn’t ask, “Where is Elijah?” That’s a question that looks backward. Instead, he asks, “Where is God?” Where is God now? Where is God leading me now? I think that’s the answer Elijah, from heaven, would give if he could: Don’t ask where I am. Ask where God is.

This church is in a season of transition. We’ve said goodbye to some remarkable pillars of this congregation. And individually, I know many of you are in your own liminal moments, having said goodbye to people you’ve loved deeply. So what I want to lift up today is this: it is okay to be sad. It is okay to grieve. It is okay to feel gratitude for those who have gone before us. And those people — whoever they are for you — are cheering us on from heaven, saying: ask the right question. Don’t ask about us. Ask how God is moving here and now.

So together, as the mantle is passed to all of us, may we ask that question continually — in our grief and in our gratitude: Where is God? Because, friends, God is on both sides of the Jordan as we cross it again.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s beloved children, say: Amen.