Marco, our little cocker spaniel, and I have recently discovered a night path. It’s the walk we take in the evening, after dark, around part of Sunshine lake. There are no lights, except the soft glow from the windows of neighbouring homes. It’s quiet, this walk we take, except for the jingling of Marco’s tags and the calming sound of the lake’s fountain. There is an absence of brightness, an absence of noise, an absence of other humans and their dogs. The night walk is still, peaceful, and sometimes a little eerie. This is the quiet where there’s space and time for me and God and, one of the best places that provides enough emptiness for me to hear God’s question…. just like the one God posed to Elijah: What are you doing here?
There are no rock-splitting winds. There is no quaking earth or fiery inferno on my night path—thankfully. But how often do we mistake these mighty cataclysmic events as somehow being the voice, judgement or will of God? Yet, the writer of 1 Kings makes it quite clear that despite hurricane force winds that tear off roofs or split brick walls, or earthquakes that collapse buildings, or forest fire infernos that consume everything in their path or powerful floods that wash parts of our way of life… God is not in any of that kind of power, despite what divine meaning we try to attach to nature’s way. God is not in any of those catastrophic forces. I find that interesting. Instead God is in a sound of sheer silence. And in the sheer silence the penetrating question about our existence comes to be. God asks, “What are we doing here?”