May 9, 2009 | Editor’s note: Faith & Leadership offers sermons that shed light on issues of Christian leadership. This sermon was preached at the Duke Divinity School baccalaureate on May 9, 2009.

2 Kings 2.1-14

There’s a story about a famous preacher who was a bit of a fraud, because the sermons were great but no one ever realized that in fact they’d all been written by the staff assistant. Finally the assistant’s patience ran out, and one day the preacher was speaking to thousands of expectant listeners and at the bottom of page two read the stirring words, “And this, my friends, takes us to the very heart of the book of Habakkuk, which is…” only to turn to page three and see nothing but the dreaded words, “You’re on your own now.”

Here we are in a great celebration of the life of the church and our beloved divinity school, thronging our graduates with congratulation and benediction; but at the back of every single graduate’s mind right now is the lurking fear that what today really means is, “You’re on your own now.”

“You’re on your own now.” Just what Elisha felt the day Elijah departed to heaven. Just what the disciples felt at Jesus’ ascension. “You’re on your own now.” In England they say, “That makes me feel somewhat uncomfortable.” In North Carolina we say, “Yikes.” I’m going to read the story of Elijah’s departure into heaven three times this evening, once as a very human story in the lives of Elisha and the company of the prophets, once as a theological story in the hands of the early Church, and a third time as a word from God to those graduating from Duke Divinity School this weekend.

So let’s begin with the very human story. I wonder whether you’ve ever found it difficult to let go. I wonder if you’ve ever said, or thought, or sung, “I can’t live, if living is without you.” I wonder if you recall a goodbye where one person, or maybe both, have held the hug a bit longer than you’re supposed to, long enough to say, “This isn’t just a hug” -- making it clear they had no real strength to let go. There was really nothing to say, and maybe tears, maybe platitudes, maybe silence didn’t so much fill the need for an epitaph as amplify the hug. Maybe that’s how you feel right now.

It’s a tough call whether it’s harder to be the one leaving, or harder to be the one left behind. The one leaving is heading into the unknown; the one left behind is returning to the known, but without the person who makes the known make sense. Maybe it’s a goodbye of a parent to a child. Maybe it’s a goodbye of two lovers, or two friends. Or maybe, as in this case, it’s the departure of a man who drew back the veil between heaven and earth. Elijah had opened heaven to earth, and that’s why he was known as a prophet -- one of the greatest; one of the best. And now Elisha is facing the question, “Where is the Lord, the God of Elijah?”