Sermon Delivered at The Local Church
February 23, 2025
Scripture: 1 Kings 19:1–18

2025-02-23 Sermon

So here's a fun fact about me: When I was a kid, I had the hardest time tying my shoes. To be sure, there was a lot I could do. I could read by the time I was three. (Thanks, Sesame Street.) I could hit a baseball. I could create elaborate storylines for my collection of WWE action figures. But for the life of me, I couldn't figure out how to tie my shoes. Much to their dismay and frustration, I was dependent on my grown-ups to help me. And, in fact, I was so insecure about it that for as long as my parents would let me, I wore those Keds brand canvas slip-on shoes—just so I could avoid the embarrassment of admitting that I didn't know how to tie my shoes.

Eventually, I learned how. My parents were so relieved. I wouldn't say proud—that ship had sailed—but they were relieved. And I was thinking about it this week because this is what growing up is all about, isn't it?

We enter the world as helpless, dependent creatures who can't do anything all on their own—totally reliant on parents and caregivers to feed them. Bathe them. Clothe them. Change them. Tie their shoes. But then, little by little, we figure out how to be independent. We learn how to do things all on our own. Anyone who's ever experienced a toddler's "I can do it by myself" meltdown and lived to tell about it knows what I'm talking about.

When we're kids, every milestone is more or less the next step on the journey toward independence. Self-sufficiency. Even now, my kids beg me to open up a new document on the computer so they can type out their "important work." They have pretend jobs. When we're at Jersey Mike's picking up lunch, they want to use my debit card to tap to pay.

I remember doing much the same thing. I couldn't wait for the freedom of being a grown-up. I could go to bed when I wanted. I could eat all the junk food. No one could tell me what to do. When we're kids, all we want is that sense of independence and self-sufficiency. We want to do it all by ourselves.

But then, we do grow up. And I know I don't have to tell you that those fantasies we have when we're kids quickly give way to paying bills and navigating insurance and scheduling appointments and listening to hold music and cleaning the gutters and facing the Sunday Scaries and trying to decide, again, what we're going to have for dinner this week. The joys of adulting, am I right?

And once we get here? To adulthood? We realize we've made a terrible mistake. We'd give anything for someone else to handle the bills, the scheduling, the responsibilities.

And here's the thing: From childhood to adulthood, this singular message of self-sufficiency is reinforced over and over again. We're taught that strength means handling things on our own and that asking for help is a weakness.

And if we have eyes to see it, we'll notice a darker undercurrent beneath this "I can do it all by myself" mentality: It's all up to you. You're on your own. It's you against the world.

And herein lies the problem: This drive for independence is great—until it isn't, until the weight becomes too much, until we start to believe the lie that we have to hold it all together on our own, that no one understands, that there's no one else. And this feeling is lonely.

And it's here—in this isolation and loneliness—where anxiety finds fertile ground.

And that's exactly where we find Elijah today, too—overwhelmed, exhausted, barely holding it together, and convinced he's all alone. But what if he isn't? And what if you aren't either? And what if that's some good news in this anxious time?

It feels like we're living in an anxious time. I rattled off a few statistics last week. Here's one more I found this week. It's from Jonathan Haidt's book, The Anxious Generation. It shows the percentage of adults in the United States reporting high levels of anxiety by age group. (Source: U.S. National Survey on Drug Use and Health.) Notice the increases. If you're over 50, according to this study, your anxiety has decreased—but all of this was before Covid, so I'm wondering if that's still true.

We're going to seek some good news here and ask what our faith says about living in an anxious time—not in a quick-fix, flippant, or disingenuous way, and not in a "just pray harder" way, as if you're the problem—but in a way that feels honest and hopeful, trusting in the God in whom, as Paul writes in Colossians, all things hold together—even as we're trying to hold it together ourselves.

A few disclaimers:

First, I'm a pastor and not a mental health professional. I'm working hard to stay in my lane here, though I have consulted some trusted mental health professionals who've graciously shared their wisdom for this series. I want to be clear that this does not (and should not) replace psychotherapy—which I highly recommend. It's one of the best things I've ever done. I've been seeing my therapist about every other week since 2016, and it's been a game-changer. If you're feeling nudged to take a step in that direction, I'd be happy to share more about my experience and help you get connected.

Second, anxiety is not inherently bad. It can alert us to what matters, signal when something needs our attention, and even sharpen our awareness. But, left unchecked, anxiety can shape our decisions, hijack our thoughts, and keep us stuck. And so this series isn't necessarily about getting rid of anxiety but working with it—not letting it drive—so that we can continue to respond to our world with clarity and faith.

This morning's scripture comes from the book of 1 Kings in the Old Testament or the Hebrew Bible. It tells the story of God and God's people before Jesus enters the picture. 1 Kings is a book about the rise and fall of rulers, the consequences of faithfulness and unfaithfulness, and God's continued presence amid upheaval. 

To set the scene here, you've got the prophet Elijah. And prophets, remember, aren't necessarily fortune tellers as much as they are truth-tellers. A prophet is someone who speaks truth to power. Who calls people to a new way of living and moving in the world. Who offers a vision for what God will do in the future.

In the previous chapter, Elijah has this dramatic and triumphant moment. The rulers of the time, King Ahab and Queen Jezebel, led God's people into idol worship. They abandoned their identity and turned from God to worship a god named Baal, and all the people of Israel seem to have done the same.

And so Elijah, a prophet of Yahweh, challenges the prophets of Baal to this contest to ultimately prove whose God is real. So both Elijah—the lone prophet of Yahweh—and the 450 prophets of Baal set to work building altars, sacrificing a bull, and then calling on their respective gods to bring down fire to settle, once and for all, which god is real. The prophets of Baal go first, calling on their god, but there's no response. And Elijah throws some shade here. He says:

At noon Elijah mocked them, saying, "Cry aloud! Surely he is a god; either he is meditating, or he has wandered away, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is asleep and must be awakened" (1 Kings 18:27).

Many scholars believe that the line "wandered away" is a euphemism for going to the bathroom. 

Then Elijah calls on Yahweh, and God sends fire from heaven in a mighty show of force. The prophets of Baal are defeated and then executed, and a three-year drought ends. It's a complete victory. And you'd think that Elijah would be living the dream at this point. You'd think everyone would be worshipping Elijah's god. Throwing parties. Organizing parades. Or, at the very least, repenting.

But instead of repentance, Queen Jezebel is furious. She sends a message to Elijah, vowing to kill him within 24 hours. She's mad. So Elijah makes a run for it.

And that's where the story picks up today—with Elijah on the run. Coming off the high of a victory, here he is at his lowest point. You can imagine, can't you, that he feels disoriented. Isolated. When it feels like the rest of the world has gone mad, he feels all alone. Helpless. Vulnerable. We can hear it throughout the passage . Here's verse 4:

But he himself went a day's journey into the wilderness and came and sat down under a solitary broom tree. He asked that he might die, "It is enough; now, O Lord, take away my life, for I am no better than my ancestors." (1 Kings 19:4)

He begs God to take his life. And then later in the chapter, after he's continued to wander in the wilderness, he finds his way to a cave to spend the night, and the word of the Lord finds him there and asks, "What are you doing here?" Here's Elijah's response:

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." (1 Kings 19:10).

He repeats this same thing just a few verses later—reinforcing his loneliness. His agony. The agony of someone who feels like everything is lost. Who feels like no one else could possibly understand what he's going through. Who feels like his life's work has been stripped away, and he's left with nothing and no one. Who feels like it's all on him. "I alone am left," Elijah says.

I wonder if we know something about this, too. "I alone am left."

Maybe you show up for justice and liberation, but it feels like nothing changes. Maybe you're parenting alone, convinced everyone else's kids are ahead. Maybe the interviews keep coming for everyone—except you. Maybe you're scrolling Instagram, seeing highlight reels or the event you weren't invited to. Maybe no one sees how hard you're struggling—or if they did, they wouldn't understand. Maybe your community, your tribe, or even your church feels distant. Maybe you're carrying invisible burdens—aging parents, making ends meet, holding it all together. Maybe, as the world moves on, you're the only one still trying to figure it out.

"I alone am left," Elijah says.

We've talked a lot about it here, but the former U.S. Surgeon General, Vivek Murthy, has declared loneliness an epidemic. According to a paper published by the Surgeon General's office in 2023, approximately half of all adults in the United States report experiencing loneliness. And among young adults, the rate of loneliness has increased every year since 1976. Thanks to social media and 24-hour news, we're more connected than ever, and yet, year after year, we feel more and more alone. In fact, research suggests that social media increases our perceived isolation. And it comes at a significant cost. Not only does it affect our mental health, but I learned recently that a lack of social connection can increase the risk of premature death as much as smoking 15 cigarettes per day.

And now, it turns out that Elijah's response—and perhaps our own—to pull back, retreat, and isolate—is pretty natural.

In moments of stress, grief, or anxiety, our natural tendency is often to pull away. This is self-preservation. In other words, we further isolate ourselves. We convince ourselves that no one understands. We make up stories that reinforce that loneliness. But here's the thing: Those stories aren't true. And as Brené Brown reminds us, they can actually be dangerous.

We feel shame around being lonely (as if feeling lonely means there's something wrong with us), even when it's caused by grief, loss, or heartbreak. This isn't just sad—it's actually dangerous. We've evolved to react to the feeling of being pushed to the social perimeter by going into self-preservation mode: when we feel isolated, disconnected, and lonely, we try to protect ourselves. That means less empathy, more defensiveness, more numbing, and less sleeping. In this state, the brain ramps up the stories we tell ourselves about what's happening—narratives that often aren't true and exaggerate our worst fears and insecurities.

And that's actually by design. These forces of isolation and fear aren't just personal struggles—they're systemic. The Apostle Paul called them "powers and principalities"—forces that work against God's vision of connection and community by keeping us divided and alone. Think about it: If people are isolated, they can't organize. If they feel alone in their struggle, they won't resist. If they're divided, they won't trust each other enough to work toward change. The more disconnected we are from each other, the less hope we have. The more isolated we feel, the less likely we are to resist, to organize, to work in solidarity. These powers thrive on our loneliness.

"I alone am left," Elijah says. The powers have him right where they want him. Anxious. Hopeless. Despairing.

But let's take another look at the story. In the midst of his loneliness and isolation, the God we know as Trinity—Parent, Spirit, Son—whose very nature and being is community, is connection, draws near to Elijah in three particular and surprisingly practical ways: moving toward him and nudging him toward connection.

First, notice that when Elijah begs God to take away his life, God doesn't scold him. God doesn't say, "Get it together." Here's what happens instead.

Then he lay down under the broom tree and fell asleep. Suddenly an angel touched him and said to him, "Get up and eat." He looked, and there at his head was a cake baked on hot stones and a jar of water. He ate and drank and lay down again. (1 Kings 19:5–6)

God cares for him. Nourishes him. God gives Elijah a snack and a nap. Sometimes, the connection we need isn't interpersonal. Sometimes, it's biological. Before anything else—before any words are spoken—God meets Elijah's exhaustion and disorientation with nourishment. With food. With rest. With care. It'd be like God dropping off a casserole or sending somebody some DoorDash.

And then, when he's still lonely, God doesn't try to talk Elijah out of it. God doesn't force Elijah out of isolation. Instead, here's what happens.

He said, "Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by." 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. (1 Kings 19:11-12)

God simply offers presence. The sound of sheer silence. God comes to Elijah but doesn't try to fix it. Doesn't tell him he's wrong. God draws near. Healing often comes in these small, quiet moments of connection.

And it's only then that God disrupts the lie of isolation. Here's the final verse :

Yet I will leave seven thousand in Israel, all the knees that have not bowed to Baal, and every mouth that has not kissed him." (1 Kings 19:18)

God says, "It's not just you. I know it feels like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. I know it feels like you're the only one trying to hold it together, and even though you've felt alone, the truth is that there are 7,000 others who are with you. Seven. Thousand. You're not alone. You never were.

Against despair and isolation and division, to those powers and principalities, God says, "No." Amidst despair, God offers nourishment. Amidst isolation, God offers presence. Amidst division, God shows Elijah the community he didn't have eyes to see.

And maybe this is what we need, too. Because we are hardwired for connection. As those made in the image of God whose very nature and being is community, we most fully live into that image when we are with. When we move toward connection. Toward one another. And when we move toward one another, we're moving closer to the heart of God. This is why Jesus—God with us—comes to us. Good news with skin on. Love made local. God doesn't stand far off. God comes near in Jesus. And when anxiety festers in loneliness, this is the antidote. This is how we find healing. Moving toward. Whether that's moving toward our faithful ancestors whose stories continue to guide us, moving toward one another with presence or nourishment, or moving toward the thousands upon thousands who also need reminding that they're not alone. This is how we are healed.

It reminds me of the moment in Divinity School when my Church History professor, on the last day of class, told us that when we become pastors, we might feel vulnerable, exposed, and lonely in the pulpit. But when we put on our stoles, we take on the mantle of the thousands who have come before us and have steadfastly pointed to hope, good news, and liberation.

It makes me think of the dear friend here who, one Sunday morning, in a moment when I was feeling alone, metaphorically took my head in her hands and told me to look around at all the people who were helping to set up for another service—all the people who had found a home here.

And when hope feels elusive, and I feel like no one else is doing anything, it makes me think of this line I read this week from writer Lyndsey Medford:

The Montgomery bus boycott wasn't about not getting on the bus. It was about helping each other get to work without the bus every single day for months on end. The Freedom Rides and marches on Washington weren't about speeches and parade routes. They were about the preceding years spent mobilizing student groups and neighborhoods in small, regular collectives of everyday activists.

She goes on.

Knowing your neighbors' names, dog-sitting for them, bringing casseroles—these do not make for good content. They are non-controversial. They are made of things with substance. And I am begging you to remember that that is what makes them so powerful.

Because in the face of isolation, disconnection, and the forces that tell us we're on our own, what changes the story isn't doubling down on our self-sufficiency or trying to do it all ourselves. It's the small, sustaining mercies of moving toward. Of connection. The meal shared. The presence offered. The reminder that we don't have to hold it all together—because we're already held.

And maybe that's the real sign of growing up. Not that we figure out how to do it all on our own, but that we learn, finally, that we don't have to. That we were never meant to.

In the name of the one in whom all things hold together. Amen.