Where Is God? Crossing the Jordan Again
Most of us know the particular ache of a goodbye we can see coming. We know it's near, we're not ready for it, and somewhere in between those two facts we have to find a way to keep walking. That's exactly where the prophet Elisha finds himself in 2 Kings 2, as he walks the last miles of a farewell journey with his mentor Elijah — and it's exactly where many of us find ourselves too, in seasons of transition and loss.
A Goodbye You Can See Coming
Elijah and Elisha set out together on what becomes something of a farewell tour. Along the way, companies of prophets keep intercepting Elisha with the same unsettling question: do you know that today the Lord will take your master from you? Elisha's answer each time amounts to, "Yes, I know. Be quiet." It isn't irritation so much as grief — the sound of someone who knows a goodbye is coming and simply isn't ready for it yet.
That feeling is worth sitting with for a moment: the ache of anticipated loss, the wish to hold time still just a little longer. Before diving into the text, it can help to bring to mind someone who "loved you into being," as Mr. Rogers used to say — someone who taught you deeply, whose counsel you still wish you could seek. The range of feelings that memory stirs — sadness, gratitude, peace, longing — is close to what Elisha must have carried as he walked toward the Jordan with Elijah.
A Bold and Wise Request
When they finally reach the river, Elijah turns to Elisha and asks what he can do for him before he's taken away — a question echoing God's ask of Solomon back in 1 Kings. Elisha's response is striking: he wants a double portion of Elijah's ruach, his spirit or breath — the very word used for the Spirit of God hovering over the waters at creation. It's a bold request, but a wise one, not unlike Solomon's own ask for a listening heart rather than wealth or long life.
Elisha is essentially saying to Elijah: "Whatever measure of God's presence you carry, I want that — and then I want even more of it."
Elijah doesn't offer an easy yes. What he can promise isn't fully his to give — it belongs to God. But if Elisha witnesses him being taken, it will be granted. Then Elijah strikes the Jordan with his rolled-up mantle, the waters part, and the two cross on dry ground, echoing the parting of the Red Sea generations before.
An Extraordinary Send-Off
Once they've crossed, Elijah is taken up — not, as it turns out, riding in a fiery chariot, but with a chariot of fire simply appearing between the two men as Elijah ascends. It's a small textual detail, but a telling one: the drama belongs to God's action, not to any vehicle. Either way, the departure is more dramatic than even Moses received. As Elijah vanishes, Elisha cries out, "Father! Father!" — whether directed toward God or toward the mentor who shaped him, it's clearly the cry of someone losing the person who meant everything to him.
Then comes silence — the particular silence that follows saying goodbye to someone we love. And then, inevitably, the question: okay, now what? Elisha picks up the mantle that has fallen, realizing it now belongs to him.
When the Mantle Doesn't Work — At First
Here's a detail easy to miss: Elisha is now stranded on the wrong side of the Jordan, the water having closed behind him. He has to part it himself. He strikes the water with his new mantle — and nothing happens. The river stays exactly as it was.
Many of us know that moment intimately: when the mantle has been passed to us, when we step into the work we've trained for, and it simply doesn't work — at least not the first time. Returning recently from a hymn-writing conference, thoughts turned to a mentor and "Elijah" of sorts — someone who taught the craft of hymn writing and passed away a few years ago. Sorting back through a decade of hymns written since, separating the ones worth keeping from the ones that will mercifully never see daylight, brought that same feeling close: this is mine to carry now — and it doesn't always work the first time we try.
Elisha, in that moment of frustration, asks a different question: "Where is the Lord, the God of Elijah?" He strikes the water again. This time it parts, and he crosses.
The Right Question to Ask
When we lose someone who shaped how we understand God's love, justice, and kindness, it's tempting to ask, "Where are they now?" Remembering the people who loved us into being matters — it's worth doing. But notice what Elisha doesn't ask. He doesn't ask, "Where is Elijah?" That question only looks backward. Instead he asks, "Where is God?" Where is God leading now?
Don't ask where I am. Ask where God is.
This community, like so many others, has walked through its own season of transition — saying goodbye to remarkable pillars of the congregation, even as many individuals carry their own liminal grief for people loved deeply and lost. It is okay to be sad. It is okay to grieve. It is okay to feel gratitude alongside the ache. And those we've lost are, in a very real sense, cheering us on toward the better question: not "where are they," but "where is God, here and now?"
As the mantle passes to each of us in turn, may that be the question we keep asking, in both our grief and our gratitude — because God is present on both sides of the Jordan as we cross it again.
Questions for Reflection
- Who is someone who "loved you into being," and what would it mean to honor their memory by asking where God is leading you now, rather than only looking back?
- Elisha's request for a double portion of Elijah's spirit was bold, but also specific — not wealth, not comfort, but presence. What would it look like for you to ask boldly for more of God's presence in your life right now?
- Have you ever had a "first strike" moment — stepping into a role, responsibility, or calling that had been handed to you, only to have it fail before it worked? How did you respond?
- In your own seasons of transition or loss, has your instinct been to ask "where did they go?" or "where is God leading me now?" What might change if you leaned more toward the second question?
- Where do you sense God might be present on "the other side of the Jordan" — in a change, ending, or transition you're currently facing?
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