"From the Caves We Hide In to the Christ Who Finds Us"
Readings: 1 Kings 19:1-15a; Psalm 42 & 43; Galatians 3:23-29; Luke 8:26-39
Have you ever felt so exhausted, so spiritually depleted, so overwhelmed by life that you wanted to disappear-to-to—hide under the covers and pretend the world outside didn't exist? One preacher tells the story of a little boy who, after losing a race at school, went home, crawled under his bed, and told his mother, “Tell the world I’ve moved to Narnia!”
Many of us can relate. And so can Elijah.
This Sunday, our Scriptures speak of people on the run—from fear, shame, society, or even themselves. But more importantly, they speak of a God who finds us, transforms us, and sends us back into the world we were afraid to face.
In 1 Kings 19:1-15a –We meet Elijah not at his most triumphant, but at his most vulnerable. This is just after the great showdown on Mount Carmel (1 Kings 18), where Elijah called down fire from heaven, defeating the prophets of Baal. You’d expect him to be on a spiritual high. Instead, Jezebel threatens his life, and Elijah flees.
Why? Because even prophets burn out. Even the strongest people crack. He runs to the wilderness and prays to die. “I’ve had enough, Lord.” (v.4)
Many of us today live in what sociologists refer to as “burnout culture.” The Elijah Syndrome is alive: even after successes, we feel empty. God’s prescription is pastoral: rest, food, and renewal. It’s also prophetic: “Return,” God says—not just geographically, but vocationally.
God responds not with a rebuke, but with rest: “Eat and sleep.” The angel’s ministry is one of kindness. No fire. No thunder. Just fresh bread and water.
Later, in the cave at Horeb (Mount Sinai), God passes by—not in the wind, earthquake, or fire, but in the “still small voice” (Hebrew: demamah daqah, literally “a sound of thin silence”).
We often expect God to speak in fireworks. But sometimes, He comes in the silence of a hospital room, the quiet of a tearful prayer, or the stillness of fatigue. And like Elijah, many of us today—ministers, parents, caregivers, refugees—are saying, “It’s too much.” But God’s whisper can reach us even there. Someone once said, “If you want to hear God, get off social media, turn off your phone, and maybe even your mouth.”
These Psalms 42 and 43 (originally one poem) are written from exile, likely by a Levitical singer now far from Jerusalem. Refrains repeat:
"Why are you cast down, O my soul?" (Ps 42:5, 11; 43:5)
This is a soul in depression, a heart yearning for the presence of God, but distant from the Temple.
“As the deer pants for water…” – Not a gentle image. It’s a desperate thirst. This is not the deer on a postcard. It’s the deer in a drought. Like Elijah, the psalmist is spiritually dry and physically far.
These Psalms express the inner conflict between faith and doubt. They teach us how to speak to ourselves in distress:
“Hope in God; for I shall again praise Him.”
Preach to yourself! When life goes dark, keep singing—even if it’s off-key. That’s the heart of worship.
In Galatians 3:23-29, Paul is writing to Galatian Christians—Gentiles—being pressured by some to adopt Jewish law (circumcision, food laws, etc.) to be “truly” Christian.
Paul argues: Before faith, we were 'imprisoned under the law.” But now that Christ has come, we are justified by faith.
Today, many are still imprisoned—by racism, classism, sexism, and tribalism. But in Christ, we are not reduced to our category. We are not what others label us; we are what Christ clothes us to be. Paul writes:
“There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.”
When Paul wrote these words to the Galatian churches, he was addressing deep divisions in identity—ethnic, cultural, gendered, and religious. The early Church was wrestling with what it meant to be “God’s people” in a world of deep inequality, suspicion, and historical pain.
And what Paul said was radical then—and still radical today: in Christ, we are no longer defined by the borders, bloodlines, or political walls we build. We are one.
Today, as we watch the unfolding heartbreak in places like Israel and Iran—with the involvement of great powers like the United States—this verse calls us not to take sides, but to take heart.
Because war makes victims of everyone—some by wounds, others by guilt, others by silence.
Who Are We in the Midst of War? Galatians does not deny our differences. There are still Jews and Greeks. Still, Persians and Americans. Still, Palestinians and Israelis. Still Christians, Muslims, and Jews. But Paul insists—these identities must not be used as weapons. Not to divide. Not to dehumanize. Not to destroy.
Because in Christ, the labels fade and the faces remain—the faces of families hiding in bunkers, children orphaned by airstrikes, refugees on boats, and soldiers far from home wondering if they’ll see their families again.
In Christ, we do not ask: “Whose side are you on?”
We ask: “Who is bleeding? Who is mourning? Who needs healing?”
The cross of Christ stands not in one capital, but above every battlefield. And its message is not conquest, but compassion.
In times of war, Galatians 3 calls the Church to: Pray not for victory, but for peace. See not enemies, but suffering souls. Defend not ideologies, but the image of God in every human being.
So when you see the headlines, the rockets, the blame games, remember this: There is no longer Israeli or Iranian, Arab or American—only God's children, wounded and waiting for peace.
The Church is not called to pick a side in war.
The Church is called to stand in the crossfire with compassion, holding Galatians in one hand and the wounds of the world in the other.
Let us clothe ourselves with Christ—so we don’t just cry for peace, but live it. A priest once told a confirmand who felt too broken, “Don’t worry about the holes in your soul. That’s where Christ fits best.”
In Luke 8:26-39, Jesus crosses into Gentile territory (the Gerasenes). Here, He meets a man possessed by demons, naked and isolated, living among the dead. He is what society fears and rejects.
The demon's name themselves Legion—a military term. This is occupied land. The presence of pigs (unclean animals) also shows this is a non-Jewish area. Jesus heals him and sends the demons into the pigs—symbolizing liberation from oppressive, dehumanizing forces.
The people respond… not with joy, but fear. Why? Because healing disrupts the status quo. Because a changed man challenges our comfort.
The man wants to follow Jesus, but Jesus sends him back:
“Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you.”
We all carry chains—trauma, addiction, anger, fear. Sometimes we hide it in tombs of silence. But Christ sees us, speaks into the chaos, and sets us free.
And once freed, we are not called to flee—but to testify. “I once was lost, now I’m found… but sometimes I wander off again. Thank God He has a GPS: God Positioning Spirit.”
Indeed, God Meets Us Where We Hide. Elijah is in a cave. A psalmist in exile. Gentiles under the Law. A man among the tombs.
Each reading shows us a person trapped by fear, depression, oppression, or possession. And each shows us a God who crosses boundaries, breaks silences, restores dignity, and clothes us with identity.
Friends, whether you are in a spiritual drought or among metaphorical tombs, this is the good news: God knows where to find us. He comes not just in fire, but in whispers. Not just to fix us, but to restore us. Not just to call us, but to send us. Amen