It’s my mid-week day off. The kids are at school; the house is quiet. In amongst the domestic jobs and becoming too easily distracted and absorbed by scrolling news and posts on the screen - I search out for a way to find some stillness.

In a moment of quiet, as I pause and finally stop, the image of a cave comes to mind. A few weeks ago, I’d been reading about an early holy man, Anthony, born around 251 – who gave up all his belongings and literally went to seek God in solitude, poverty and prayer. In the Egyptian desert he took up residence in a cave, which people still visit to this day.

He drew many people who were inspired and captivated by his whole-hearted devotion to seeking God, his radical life in the desert and his teaching. What stuck with me, less than the person himself, or the influence he’d had, was the image of his cave – and what this space had meant and become for him over the years he’d spent living there.

 

In my mind’s eye, this cave is dark, but not damp. It’s not poky or cramped but not cavernous either. It’s welcoming, a safe refuge.

There’s a disconnect between this space hollowed out and what is there in the world beyond. A carving out of something different. It’s a place that promotes quiet, stillness, silence. It is a space that encircles and holds. And it’s a waiting space – there’s an expectation and anticipation.

 

Another story of a cave involves Elijah, an ancient messenger of God who lived long before Anthony – fearfully fleeing for his life as powerful enemies raged against him, he was then called to witness the power and might of God, on display to him thorough wild winds, earthquake, and fire – causing the mountain to tumble, sending rocks shattering. It’s the cacophony of life depicted at it’s most extreme. Elijah could be right at home amongst the Marvel characters - of first comic books then Hollywood - who face and thwart and challenge forces of power, various villains, and struggle with their own personal strengths and foibles.

How must the world beyond the cave have both pressed in with trouble and hardship, and blew Elijah’s mind with the tenacious, audacious work of God? And in the midst of it all, the sandaled feet found refuge in a dusty cave.

 

And there.

In waiting. Stillness. A catching of tired breath.

A quiet, gentle, whisper. A still, small voice.

A holy, indefinable presence of God – drawing near, making known.

 

My feet dangle from my lounge chair, sporting cotton socks. Beyond the loungeroom, sounds of domestic activity, of dogs barking, and birds calling, are far removed from this ancient story. Yet, my heart searches out for the quiet caves of Elijah and Anthony. I look within and mark the contours of a holy cave. I lean into the whisper of God; I drink in the stillness of presence.

 

My own body – the aches and the weariness, the tenderness and toughness. The sometimes calm and steady, othetimes howling, shifting winds of thoughts and emotions. My self-perceptions and expectations that build and grow, then  wither and crumble - leaving what feels like a heap of rubble - here is the story of Elijah.

 

And beyond this temple skin, the world that smarts and stings and sings and bellows pain and goodness and God and love and festering corruption. A glance, and we are overwhelmed. A moment, and we are beyond wonder. Elijah.

 

And here.

In waiting. Stillness. A catching of tired breath.

A quiet, gentle, whisper. A still, small voice.

A holy, indefinable presence of God – drawing near, making known.