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?”

And so three times, three times in six verses, Elisha says to Elijah, “I will not leave you.” Elisha maybe still isn’t quite clear exactly who Elijah really is and what his presence among the Israelites truly means, but he knows that Elijah has the words of eternal life and so he’s sure he’s going to stick like a limpet wherever Elijah goes. And then we get this little detail. “Fifty of the company of prophets also went, and stood at a distance.” It seems that whenever it’s time to say one of those big goodbyes, there’s someone else watching. You’re in a parking lot, and cars driving past linger for a bit of human interest. You’re in a hospital ward, and the next-door bed is breaking world records for the number of visitors. You’re in an airport, and the person checking the boarding passes has no eye for passion or tragedy, only for whether you have more than two carry-on items and your toothpaste in a small transparent bag. Well, Divinity class of 2009, the company of the prophets has sure showed up today. And there’s a whole lot more than 50 of them -- look around and see.

Now the company of the prophets in the story have done CPE. They know how to be really, genuinely, exquisitely insensitive. They keep rubbing it in to Elisha that this is the day to say goodbye to Elijah -- and Elisha each time says, “I know: shut up.” It’s one thing to say a difficult goodbye, it’s another to be in the glare of public attention and be asked every few moments, “How do you feel?” Well, we get a good sense of how Elisha feels. His master disappears in a whirlwind, and he tears his clothes in two pieces. If you don’t have many clothes, that’s a big deal. Read “tosses away the photo albums”, “burns the mattress,” or “smashes up the computer” -- whatever is your gesture of finality and despair, that’s where Elisha is. “The big man… The big man… is gone.” You can see the tears. They don’t need to be in the story.