Sermon — What are you doing here? -

(I preached this sermon for the Harrisburg Conference meeting of ELCA clergy on Tuesday, February 17, 2026. The sermon is in response to 1 Kings 19:9–18. It is the story of Elijah in the cave)

There is a video I’ve seen circulating online where a group of classically trained actors each deliver the same line from Shakespeare:

“To be or not to be, that is the question.”

Each actor places the emphasis somewhere different.

Same sentence. Same words. Yet the meaning shifts depending on what is stressed, what is heard, what is assumed.

And I find myself wondering about God’s question to Elijah.

“What are you doing here, Elijah?”

Where is the emphasis?

What are you doing here?

What are you doing here? What are you doing here? What are you doing here?

And perhaps most importantly, how did Elijah assume the question was asked before he truly listened?

Because Elijah already has his answer prepared. His speech was ready. His despair was rehearsed. His isolation had become a narrative he could repeat without thinking.

“I have been very zealous.” “I alone am left.” “They seek my life.”

God lets him speak.

Then comes wind that tears mountains apart. Then shaking earth. Then fire.

Power. Violence. Spectacle. The kind of displays that usually convince humans that something divine must be happening.

But God is not there.

Instead there is sheer silence.

Not emptiness or absence. Not abandonment.

Stillness that cannot be manipulated. Stillness that interrupts performance. Stillness that makes listening unavoidable.

And again God asks:

What are you doing here, Elijah?

Colleagues, I suspect that question echoes through our vocations more often than we like to admit.

What are we doing here?

We shepherd congregations navigating polarization. We hold space for grief, anger, fear, and suspicion. We are told we are too political, or not courageous enough — sometimes all in the same sermon. We carry institutional anxiety and pastoral exhaustion. We scroll through outrage cycles designed to provoke reaction instead of reflection.

There are forces that intentionally flood the zone, overwhelm attention, and exhaust discernment. They are doing exactly what they were designed to do. And we pastors stand right in the middle of that current.

So we develop our own rehearsed speeches.

Why ministry feels impossible. Why nothing seems to change. Why we are alone in this work.

Elijah had his speech. We have ours.

And God, in mercy, does not debate those speeches.

God invites silence.

Because it is only in silence that we can hear the question again, not as accusation but as invitation.

What are you doing here, pastor?

I find myself asking that question regularly.

When I sit in a medical outreach clinic waiting room holding a sign that says “Free Prayer,” I ask what I am doing here.

Sometimes the answer comes when someone sits down next to me and shares their fear to God.

When I listen to nurses who carry invisible burdens, I ask again — what am I doing here?

And the answer comes in the simple act of presence.

When I stand before people who approach the Lord’s table in tears, I ask again — what am I doing here?

And there I remember.

I am not generating grace. I can’t. I am not manufacturing holiness. I don’t have that either. I am not sustaining the church through my effort.

I am witnessing what God is doing.

Bread placed into hands that did not earn it. A cup lifted toward lips that did not qualify for it. Words spoken that carry promises I did not author.

This is not pastoral achievement.

This is divine action.

In Word and Sacrament, God remains the primary actor. God gathers. God forgives. God nourishes. God transforms.

We preside, but God provides. We administer, but God acts. We speak, but God creates faith.

The sacraments form us to recognize this truth again and again.

Water poured over a head declares identity before effort. Communion feeds people who cannot fix themselves. Absolution releases burdens no discipline could erase.

Grace does not depend on our effectiveness. We should all be grateful for that. The church does not survive on our competence. We’d all be in trouble if that was the case. The gospel does not advance through our stamina. If that was the case, it would have collapsed long ago.

God is faithful.

That is the center that silence restores.

And so the question returns.

What are you doing here?

You are not holding the church together by force of personality. You are not sustaining faith through strategic brilliance. You are not rescuing the gospel from cultural decline.

You are being placed where God is already at work. And you are sharing that with people. People who are often hurting. People who put on a façade of having it all together while they fall apart underneath. People in fear. People who have mistaken their identity in other things. People who have given up hope.

People who surprise you. People with wounds that reveal Christ. And in moments where resurrection shows up unannounced.

Like Elijah, we discover we are not alone. God’s work continues beyond our perception. Grace extends beyond our awareness. A remnant remains, seen and unseen.

Today we sing hallelujah one last time before Lent quiets our voices.

And perhaps that word matters more than ever for those entrusted with shepherding others.

Because hallelujah is not praise for our productivity. It is not applause for our endurance. It is not relief that we have succeeded.

It is trust in God’s action.

Hallelujah because God still calls. Hallelujah because God still gathers. Hallelujah because God still feeds. Hallelujah because God still speaks in silence.

So hear the question again.

Not as judgment. Not as pressure. Not as a performance review of your ministry.

Hear it as grace.

What are you doing here?

We are standing inside God’s ongoing work of redemption. We are witnessing mercy that does not originate with any of us. We are participating in grace that does not depend on any of us.

And when exhaustion comes, when doubt rises, when noise overwhelms, remember this:

The church does not belong to you and me. The call did not begin with you or me. It started long before us. The future does not rest on you and me. It will keep going well after we are gone.

God is the one acting. God is the one sustaining. God is the one finishing what God begins.

And that is reason, even now, even on the edge of Lent, even in uncertainty,

to say with full voice,

Hallelujah.

Thanks be to God.

Originally published at https://pastormatthewbest.com on February 17, 2026.