Seven Thousand Strong

Read

1 Kings 19:13-18 "When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave. Then a voice said to him, 'What are you doing here, Elijah?' He replied, 'I have been very zealous for the Lord God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected your covenant, torn down your altars, and put your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me too.' The Lord said to him, 'Go back the way you came, and go to the Desert of Damascus. When you get there, anoint Hazael king over Aram. Also, anoint Jehu son of Nimshi king over Israel, and anoint Elisha son of Shaphat from Abel Meholah to succeed you as prophet. Jehu will put to death any who escape the sword of Hazael, and Elisha will put to death any who escape the sword of Jehu. Yet I reserve seven thousand in Israel—all whose knees have not bowed down to Baal and whose mouths have not kissed him.'"

Think

"I am the only one left." Elijah said it twice. Word for word, the exact same complaint. In verse 10, he poured it out the first time. Now in verse 14, after the wind, the earthquake, the fire, and the whisper, he says it again. Same words. Same tone. Same scoreboard. And God does not rebuke him for the repetition. He does not say, "Elijah, I already heard this." He lets him say it again, and then he responds with something Elijah never saw coming.

"Yet I reserve seven thousand in Israel." Seven thousand. Not seven. Not seventy. Seven thousand people who had not bowed to Baal, who had not kissed the idol, who were standing firm in their faith while Elijah sat in a cave convinced he was the last man standing. Elijah's math was wrong. His feelings had cooked the books. He looked at the landscape through the lens of exhaustion and loneliness and concluded that the cause was lost and he was the only soldier left on the field. God looked at the same landscape and saw an army.

I have been there. More times than I would like to admit. There were seasons in ministry where I would look around and think, "I am the only pastor going through this. I am the only one who feels like quitting on a Monday. I am the only one whose church has plateaued. I am the only one who lies awake at 2 a.m. wondering if any of this matters." And then I would get to a gathering of pastors, and every single one of them would say the same thing. Every one. The details were different, but the feelings were identical. I was never the only one. I just thought I was because I was too isolated to know any better.

Your job and my job is not scorekeeping. Elijah had appointed himself the official record keeper of faithfulness in Israel, and his records were wildly inaccurate. He was counting from inside a cave with no visibility. That is like trying to take attendance from a closet. You cannot see who is present when you have locked yourself away from everyone.

But here is the part of God's response that floors me. He did not just correct Elijah's math. He gave him an assignment. Three assignments, actually. Go anoint Hazael as king of Aram. Anoint Jehu as king of Israel. And anoint Elisha to succeed you as prophet. In other words: get up, get moving, and go invest in someone. God's cure for Elijah's isolation was not a pep talk. It was a purpose. He gave him something to do that required him to leave the cave, re-enter the world, and connect with other people.

Revealing your feeling is the beginning of healing. That is a phrase I come back to over and over. Elijah revealed his feeling. He poured out the raw, unfiltered, self-pitying truth of what he was carrying. And God did not punish him for it. He did not say, "Elijah, your feelings are invalid." He said, in effect, "I hear you. Now let me show you the part of the picture you have been missing." The 7,000 were always there. They were there before the cave, during the cave, and after the cave. Elijah just could not see them because pain had narrowed his vision to a single point: himself.

The apostle Paul picks up this story centuries later in Romans 11. He is writing to the church in Rome about God's faithfulness to Israel, and he reaches back to Elijah's cave. "Don't you know what Scripture says in the passage about Elijah, how he appealed to God against Israel: 'Lord, they have killed your prophets and torn down your altars; I am the only one left, and they are trying to kill me'? And what was God's answer to him? 'I have reserved for myself seven thousand who have not bowed the knee to Baal.'" Paul uses this moment to make a massive theological point: God always has a remnant. There is always more going on than you can see. The kingdom is always bigger than your field of vision.

When Jesus hung on the cross, the world thought it was over. The disciples scattered. The women wept. The enemy celebrated. It looked like the biggest failure in history. Three days later, God turned the greatest apparent loss into the greatest victory the universe has ever known. If God can reverse the cross, he can reverse your scoreboard. Stop counting from the cave. The 7,000 are out there. You just cannot see them yet.

If you are sitting in a season where you feel like the last one standing, I want you to hear what God said to Elijah. You are not the only one. You are not alone. And the scoreboard you have been staring at is missing about 6,999 names. God is not asking you to keep score. He is asking you to keep going.

Apply

Stop keeping score – Write down the area where you feel most alone, most convinced that nobody else understands what you are going through. Then ask God to open your eyes to the 7,000. Reach out to one person this week who might be fighting the same battle you are, and find out you are not the only one.

Pray

God, I have been keeping a scoreboard you never asked me to maintain. I have been counting from the cave with no visibility, and my numbers are wrong. Open my eyes to the 7,000. Show me the people around me who are fighting the same fight. Forgive me for thinking I was alone when you have had an army in place the entire time. In Jesus' name. Amen.