Tuesday, June 22, 2010

2 Kings 2:1-2; 6-14

Standing on the Bank

There is a moment when Elisha stands on the bank of the river before striking the water. It would soon become an archetypal moment - that is to say, a beginning that will melt into all the other beginnings of Israel – the Beginning itself: the crossing into the promise. He strikes and shouts “Where is the Lord, the God of Elijah?”

But before it became an archetypal moment – a storyteller's cue installed on the page –it must have been, for somebody, a regular moment with a real question. For the recorded question feels stiffly magical. You would think Elisha didn't need any more validation. The old prophet told him if he saw him go he would have the spirit of God doubly burned into his soul. That's what he'd put in for and he got it. 

The question is the storyteller's form. It is expected in days when the sovereignty of the Lord, God of Elijah, is seriously called into question. Pure incantation, like a Baptist preacher stretching out a hefty Bible in one hand opened flat at an angle impossible for him to read, the other pointed to heaven in a near gymnastic pose. It is a prelude to the crack of the rifle through the empty air. Drowned Egyptians. Consumed prophets of Baal. Who says there is no God alive in this place! Just watch. 

Sunday after church I took a walk through town. Since I was not an archetype written into somebody's story as far as I know (Barbara Kingsolver's The Bean Trees was in my pocket), the people and places I encountered were somewhat more mundane than Elijah, Elisha and their ilk. Somewhat. Walking across the railroad trestle one of the young boys about to jump into the river invited my gray-haired 58 year old person to jump in with him! What an honor! No, let's call a miracle what it is! I should have done it. On the Greenway I encountered a troupe of medieval characters, one in dark face, brandishing swords, going to a film-promo photo shoot. One of the actors, I understand, is in the Twilight crowd. A couple of miles on I had a visit with a young man 6 months back from Iraq. He misses the desert. People see things differently out there. Still, it's 95 here, and the eve of summer solstice: if there is not enough light at this latitude today, there never will be. I feel just as blessed as the shining prophets with their fiery chariots. I tell the Lord as much. 

And a lot more. Especially that a hot Tennessee Sunday sitting on a bench in deep shade with a cool air coming off the Barren Fork is a gift beyond anything I could have invented. Or for Sabbath itself, where I can give our creator the long hours of my week's labor as a trust; to sit in this park and watch my life and the universe being completed in the dance of Queen Anne's Lace. There is, quite literally, nothing left for me to do. At this point it is being done for me.

Where is the Lord, the God of Elijah? I have been walking through the garden for 7 miles. It could be 70 times 7 for all I care. The landscape of forgiven wrongs stretches out to infinity under my feet. I could walk down to the riverbank and strike the water, but I don't need to. The boys on the trestle are taking care of that.

© 2010 Andy Gay