Anyone else wake up this morning confused about what time it actually was? Between the Halloween sugar crash and this morning’s time change, many of us are probably feeling a bit disoriented. There’s something oddly fitting about feeling off-balance on All Saints Sunday—a day when we straddle the line between remembering those who’ve gone before us and stumbling forward ourselves. We honor the past while navigating an uncertain present, holding memory and hope in the same breath.
Two days ago, kids transformed into superheroes and princesses, knocking on doors expecting dramatic treats. Today, we gather expecting God to show up in equally dramatic ways—perhaps in the powerful notes of organ and praise team, the moving prayers of remembrance, or the sermon’s profound insights that will change everything.
But what if, like our mixed-up clocks this morning, we’re looking for God at the wrong time and in the wrong way? What if the divine shows up not in the earthquake of our expectations but in the whisper we almost miss? Today’s scripture teaches us that sometimes God’s most powerful presence comes in the quiet moments we nearly overlook.
Throughout our “Called to More” series, we’ve been discovering how God disrupts our expectations about divine calling. Two weeks ago, we met young David, the forgotten shepherd boy whom nobody expected God to choose—the runt of the litter who wasn’t even invited to the prophet’s visit. Last week, we watched Solomon transform his father’s dream into reality, building the magnificent temple David had envisioned, showing us how calling can span generations. Today, we encounter a dramatic shift. After all that building and achievement, we find the mighty prophet Elijah exhausted and hiding in a cave, ready to quit. From shepherd fields to temple courts to a wilderness cave—this progression shows us that being called to more sometimes means being called to less: less noise, less drama, less of our own expectations about how God should work. Sometimes the journey of faith leads us not up the mountain but into the quiet valley.
The movement from Solomon’s temple to Elijah’s cave reminds me of something we’ve all probably experienced. Imagine this: It’s 2 AM and a smoke detector starts chirping—that piercing beep that somehow only happens in the dead of night when every store that sells batteries is closed. You stumble out of bed, determined to fix it. Standing on a wobbly chair, flashlight in hand, you finally locate the offender. “Got it!” you declare, installing a fresh battery from your emergency stash. You crawl back into bed, pull up the covers, settle into your pillow, and then… chirp. Different detector.
For the next hour, you become increasingly frantic, replacing batteries throughout the house. You check the hallway, the basement, even the garage. With each false victory, your frustration grows. Finally, exhausted and defeated at 3:30 AM, you trace the sound to the attic. There, in a box of things meant for donation, lies an old detector from your previous house—not connected to anything, just crying out from its forgotten corner, powered by a dying battery.
Sometimes we exhaust ourselves addressing the loudest alarms while the real issue whispers from a place we’ve forgotten to check. Elijah discovered this same truth in his wilderness cave.
Elijah, like someone chasing phantom chirps through the house, was responding to the loudest threat while missing what really mattered. Our story unfolds around 850 BCE in ancient Israel, during King Ahab and Queen Jezebel’s reign—a power couple who make today’s political scandals look tame. This was a time when worship of the Canaanite god Baal competed directly with faith in Israel’s God. Prophets weren’t just preachers standing safely behind pulpits—they were revolutionaries who risked everything confronting corrupt rulers, often paying with their lives.
Just before our passage, Elijah had orchestrated the ultimate spiritual showdown on Mount Carmel. Picture this: one prophet against 450, calling down fire from heaven that consumed a water-soaked altar—not just damp but drenched with twelve large jars of water. Total victory. The crowd that had been wavering fell on their faces declaring, “The Lord is God!” Yet one death threat from Jezebel—“May the gods kill me if I don’t kill you by tomorrow”—sends him running 200 miles south into the scorching wilderness. He collapses under a scraggly broom tree—imagine the only shade for miles in 100-degree heat—and begs God to let him die. “I’ve had enough, Lord,” he says. “Take my life.”
The author deliberately mirrors Moses’ story here. Elijah flees to Mount Horeb, the same mountain where Moses met God in the burning bush, also called Mount Sinai. Both prophets spend forty days in the wilderness. Both encounter God on this sacred peak. But while Moses witnessed thunder, lightning, and divine fireworks that made the people tremble, Elijah experiences something radically different.
The Hebrew phrase is nearly untranslatable—a voice of thin silence, a sound of sheer stillness. After wind that shatters rocks, earthquake, and fire, God arrives in what barely exists. The divine presence comes not in the spectacular but in the almost imperceptible.
This whisper reveals something John Wesley, who founded the Methodist movement in the 1700s, understood deeply. Wesley taught that God’s grace works like a gentle magnet on our hearts—always pulling us toward love, never forcing or overwhelming us. He called this “the grace that comes before”—God’s quiet work in every person before they even know to look for the divine. It’s why sometimes you feel drawn to pray even when you don’t believe, or why kindness toward a stranger feels so right even when it costs you something.
Wesley also discovered what he called “channels of grace”—everyday practices where we encounter God’s presence. Think of them as spiritual Wi-Fi spots where the divine signal gets stronger. Simple things: reading scripture even when it feels dry, sharing communion even when you’re distracted, praying alone or with others even when words won’t come, and having honest spiritual conversations with friends even when you’d rather keep things surface-level. These aren’t dramatic mountaintop moments but quiet, consistent ways we tune our hearts to hear God’s frequency.
This shapes how we understand spiritual growth. Transformation doesn’t require lightning-bolt conversions. Instead, it happens through patient attention to God’s quiet work—like plants growing so slowly you can’t see it happening, but one day you notice everything has changed.
This truth about God’s quiet presence speaks directly to three struggles many of us face right here in McPherson. First, consider those drowning in exhaustion—the teacher grading papers at midnight knowing tomorrow brings another stack, the construction worker pulling overtime to cover rising grocery costs, the grandmother raising grandchildren she never expected to parent while her own health declines. Like Elijah saying “It’s too much,” you’re not failing when you admit you’re overwhelmed. God’s first response to Elijah wasn’t criticism but care—food, water, rest. That friend who texts to check on you, the neighbor who mows your lawn without being asked, the moment of unexpected peace during chaos—these might be divine whispers saying, “I see you. You matter. Rest is holy too.”
Second, think about those facing crossroads—the senior at McPherson High choosing between the practical degree everyone expects and the passion that makes them come alive, the couple in counseling deciding whether their marriage can heal or if it’s time to lovingly let go, the retiree wondering what purpose looks like when the career that defined them for forty years is over. We want skywriting from God, step-by-step instructions, a divine GPS. But Elijah’s story suggests guidance often comes as quiet knowing that grows clearer as the noise fades. Pay attention to doors that close easily without forcing, paths that open unexpectedly without manipulation, and the deep peace that settles in your chest when you imagine one particular choice.
Third, many wonder why their faith feels so ordinary compared to others’ dramatic testimonies. You sit in church hearing about miraculous healings, life-changing visions, and Damascus Road conversions while your spiritual life feels like watching grass grow in August. But Elijah—fresh from calling down heaven’s fire—encountered God in nearly inaudible stillness. Your quiet, steady faith might be exactly where God is most present. Sometimes the most profound spiritual experiences leave no spectacular stories to tell, just a quiet knowing that you’re held.
The good news is that God actively pursues us even when we’re running in the wrong direction. Elijah fled to the wilderness convinced he was alone, a failure, better off dead. Yet divine grace arrived as bread and water, as rest for his weary body, and finally as presence itself—not overwhelming or demanding, but gentle enough for an exhausted prophet to receive.
This reveals something profound about God’s character. While humans often try to outshout each other for attention, the Creator of the universe chooses to whisper. This isn’t weakness but supreme confidence—the assurance that when all other voices fade, truth remains. Jesus embodied this same principle, demonstrating that kingdom power flows not from force but from patient love that honors our ability to choose.
Perhaps most remarkably, God’s response to Elijah’s despair included a revelation that transformed everything: seven thousand others remained faithful. You think you’re alone, but heaven sees differently. Right now, across McPherson and around the globe, millions of quiet acts of faith are unfolding—prayers whispered in hospital rooms, forgiveness offered in kitchens, justice pursued in courtrooms, hope shared in classrooms. The kingdom advances not only through spectacular miracles but through an invisible network of ordinary people experiencing extraordinary grace. You’re already part of something bigger than you know.
This week, I invite you to experiment with listening for God’s whisper through practices that might feel uncomfortable at first but could become life-giving. Try creating a five-minute pocket of complete silence each day—during morning coffee before you check your phone, during lunch break in your car, or before bed after you’ve turned everything off—with no agenda except listening. Notice what rises when the noise falls away. Or identify your loudest “smoke detector,” that urgent problem consuming all your energy, and ask whether God might be speaking somewhere quieter that you’ve been ignoring. Consider texting someone who seems isolated, reminding them they’re not alone in this journey of faith and doubt. And if exhaustion has become your normal, if you can’t remember the last time you felt truly rested, accept divine permission to rest without guilt. God’s whisper often arrives disguised as the grace to be human.
Like chasing chirps through the house at 2 AM, we often exhaust ourselves fixing the wrong problems while God whispers from unexpected corners. This All Saints Sunday, we remember that the faithful before us discovered God not in spiritual earthquakes but in quiet moments of grace. Called to the quiet doesn’t mean called to less—it means called to listen differently. God’s whisper changes everything.
Will you pray with me?
God of the gentle whisper, quiet our hearts to hear you. Grant us rest when we’re weary and remind us we’re never alone. Through Christ, Amen.
In crafting today’s sermon, I employed AI assistants like Claude and Apple Intelligence, yet the ultimate responsibility for its content rests with me. These tools offered valuable perspectives, but the most influential sermon preparation hinges on biblical study, theological insight, personal reflection, and divine guidance. I see AI as a supportive aid to enrich the sermon process while ensuring my own voice in proclaiming the Word of God.
Rev. Andrew Conard 