Is It a Good Day to Be a Prophet?

It’s been a rough week. A lot has happened. A lot of violence. A lot of ugly, A lot of grief. And the Church must decide what it sees, and what it says. Because if we are willing to see clearly, and speak truthfully, then whether we like it or not, we’ve stepped into the work of the prophets.

Is it a good day to be a prophet?

That work has never been easy.  Jeremiah was thrown into a cistern and left to die. Amos was told to go back home and stay silent. John the Baptist lost his head for telling the truth. And Jesus was driven into the wilderness, hunted by Herod, betrayed by his own, and crucified by Empire. Some of you have heard me say that the Bible isn’t always a “how to” book.  Just as often it’s a “how not to” book.  I’ll attribute that idea my Old Testament & Hebrew professor from my seminary days. I feel like this passage from Kings is some of both.

Elijah told the truth to power. He called out injustice, corruption, and idolatry. He exposed the lies that propped up the regime. And it worked…for a moment. The fire fell. The crowd shouted. The truth was undeniable. But then Elijah killed the prophets of Baal. He thought it would finish the job, end the corruption, break the spell, and change the people. But the system didn’t fall. Jezebel was still in power. The people’s hearts remained unchanged. There’s a subversive message here: violence doesn’t transform. God doesn’t restore the world with spectacle or sword. The fire gets attention, but it’s not where the healing happens. That comes later, after the collapse, after the fear. Not in the wind. Not in the earthquake. Not in the fire. But in a still, small voice. A whisper. A presence. A God who meets the prophet, not in triumph but in tenderness.

This is what happens when you speak the truth and power doesn’t like it. You are no longer a prophet. You are a fugitive. You are a threat. You are alone. Jezebel doesn’t care about fire. Empire doesn’t care about spectacle. She sends a messenger, not an army, just a threat. And it’s enough to send Elijah running into the wilderness. He collapses under a broom tree and begs God to let him die. But God doesn’t let Elijah die. God doesn’t shame him for collapsing. God doesn’t call him weak. God lets him sleep. And in the four verses the lectionary didn’t ask us to read today, when he wakes, there is bread baking on stones. There is water. No scolding. No commandments. Just nourishment. Just care. Just mercy. Because God is not the oppressor. God does not discard the exhausted. God feeds them.

 Elijah is not restored by fire. He is restored by rest. By food. By silence. That’s where prophetic courage begins, not in triumph, but in tenderness. But rest alone doesn’t cure despair. And food doesn’t erase fear. The journey is still long. The ache is still real. And the Psalms give it voice: “My soul is heavy within me.” “Why have you forgotten me?” “My tears have been my food day and night…” “While my enemies say to me all day long, ‘Where now is your God?’” These words could just as easily have come from Elijah’s lips. Or from the lips of every parent in detention, every child waiting to be reunited, every soul who still believes in God but wonders if God has left them behind.

These psalms are not just about sadness. They are songs of exile, cries from detention, prayers from the border, laments from inside the chain-link fence. This is what it sounds like when a soul thirsts for God but has been driven from the sanctuary; when the memories of worship are still alive, but the doors are shut, the choir is silent, the community is gone. And still, somehow, this voice sings:“Put your trust in God; for I will yet give thanks” Not because justice has come. Not because the suffering is over. But because hope itself is an act of resistance. To sing like this, to cry out from detention, from exile, from under a broom tree, is to preach with your whole body that domination does not have the final word.

And these cries are not confined to scripture. We are hearing them again today in the silence that follows gunfire, in the stunned grief of families whose loved ones were murdered for serving faithfully in public office; in the fear of those who’ve been named, stalked, and marked for death simply for speaking what they believe. These are not isolated acts. They are the fruits of a world where grievance is baptized in holy language, where violence is sanctified, where lies are weaponized to stir fear and justify bloodshed. We are not just witnessing suffering. We are witnessing a rising willingness to kill for power. And if that doesn’t drive us to our knees, to the altar, to the Scriptures, if that doesn’t propel the Church, then we are not hearing what the psalmist was crying out about. And if the Church does not act now, if we do not say “This is not the Gospel,” then we are not just passive. We are complicit.

The cry of the psalmist still echoes from Elijah’s cave, from the border cell, from the family left behind.  And it’s into that cry, into that wilderness of despair and dispossession, that Jesus steps. He doesn’t wait for the broken to come to him. He crosses the water. He enters the tombs. He meets the scream head-on. He steps onto foreign, occupied land. A man comes out of the tombs. Naked. Wounded. Raging. Alone. He has no name left, only the one his possessors gave him: Legion. Not a name, but a number. A force. This isn’t just about illness. It’s about systemic violence, about someone chained, cast out, called dangerous by the very people who abandoned him. He is what Empire always makes of the vulnerable: a problem to manage, a body to control, a presence to exile.

 But Jesus doesn’t flinch. He restores him. He clothes him. He gives him back his place in the world. And when the man begs to follow, Jesus says: “No. Return to your home. Declare what God has done for you.” And that’s how the first apostle to the Gentiles is made: Not a scholar. Not a priest. Not a pillar of the community. But a man once possessed. Once exiled.  Once chained. This is what holy authority looks like: Not control, but restoration, not silence, but testimony.

Paul, writing to a divided church, says: “As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is no longer Jew or Greek, slave or free, male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” Paul doesn’t say these differences don’t exist. he says they no longer divide us.  Not in Christ. Not in the Church. Not in the kingdom of God. If we believe that, then we cannot sit silently when the world strips people of their humanity, when families are separated, when children are detained, when neighbors are disappeared.If we believe Galatians, family separation cannot be reconciled with the Gospel. Exile, imprisonment, and fear cannot be reconciled with the Gospel.

So—is it a good day to be a prophet?

If it means being safe, no. If it means being praised, no.

But if it means being faithful, if it means God still speaks and still saves, then yes. It is a good day to say: this neighbor is sacred, this child belongs, this family is not disposable. It is a good day to stand between the powerful and the vulnerable, and say: Not today. Not in Christ’s name. Not on our watch. Not safe. Not easy. But holy.

And in this church, in this wounded and wondering world, it is a very good day to be a prophet.

Amen.

 

The Lectionary readings for the second Sunday after Pentecost are:

1 Kings 19:1–15a

Psalm 42–43

Galatians 3:23–29

Luke 8:26–39