Advent, day 8. The Cloud and the Rain.

In the midst of all the tension of the heavenly war and the massacre of 950 men, which must have been a sure recipe for PTSD, there is a strangely calm interlude. Elijah waiting for the rain. He predicted the drought would end when the contest of the gods was over. But the sky was clear and bright. Whether he wondered about God's timing--which is a very constant issue in our century--we are not told. He simply kept sending his servant to check on the weather. The Mediterranean was easily visible from the mountaintop. Remember, breaking the drought was not Elijah's prayer; he was not awaiting an answer. Now he was verifying his own reception.

In this poem, I inserted a little of my own self-doubt: "O God, have I misread Your plan?" I don't know if Elijah had that thought or if he confidently persisted in spite of evidence to the contrary. He was definitely more sure of God than many of us are or hope to be. And the comic relief is palpable when the small cloud rises and he tucks his cloak into his belt and runs approximately a marathon distance and beats the king's own chariot.

Advent, day 8. The Cloud and the Rain.

1 Ki 18: The power of the LORD came upon Elijah and, tucking his cloak into his belt, he ran . . .

Elijah claimed the drought would break—

Then hell broke loose in the heavenly war—

And the priests of Baal lost all they’d staked:

The slaughter of them ran a river of gore.

Elijah told Ahab, “Go eat and drink,

For there is the sound of a heavy rain.”

Off in his chariot, quick as a wink,

While Elijah climbed the mount again.

With his face to the ground, down on his knee,

He waited and trusted, not sure of the plan.

Sent off his helper, “Go look toward the sea.”

But nothing was there, said the mystified man.

Go back, go back, go back again.

He told the servant seven times.

“Oh God have I misread Your plan?”

Lo, on the seventh, there was a sign:

The hand-sized cloud was the proof he felt

That the LORD was sending rain.

He tucked up his cloak into his belt

And he ran down Jezreel’s Plain.

The clouds bunched up like thick black cords

And Elijah was engulfed by the power of the LORD.

The deluge mired into such a muck

Is it any wonder if a chariot stuck?

For twenty-five miles, like a bird on the wing

The prophet afoot beat the chariot-king.