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Elijah at Mount Carmel
1 Kings 18:1–8, 16–40
A prophet on the lam challenges idolaters to a tournament of faith
See page 322 for visitor information.
Where Are We?
The Carmelite monastery Mukhraka commemorates the spot on Mount Carmel where tradition places the contest between Elijah and the prophets of Baal. (Mukhraka in Arabic means burnt offering—more on that in the story.) The Carmelites are a Catholic monastic order founded here in the twelfth century during the time of the Crusaders by monks who were inspired by the prophet Elijah. They chose to emulate his asceticism by living as hermits in caves (Mount Carmel is chock-full of them); later some took a vow of poverty (the word “discalced” on the sign at the entrance means barefoot). Today there are communities of Carmelite monks and nuns around the world. The order’s second significant location in Israel is the Stella Maris church on Mount Carmel in Haifa.
Mount Carmel, affectionately referred to by the ancient Egyptians as “the doe’s nose,” is a 15-kilometer-long (or 24-mile-long) mountain ridge with two sections. The upper Carmel rises to an altitude of 546 meters (1,791 feet). The city of Haifa sits on its northwestern end overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, and the Mukhraka, where we are now, towers over the Jezreel Valley at its southeastern point. The lower Carmel continues southeast from here at about half the altitude.
Fig. 15. A garden nook at the Carmelite Monastery on Mount Carmel
The highly fissured rock of Mount Carmel was inhospitable to many crops, and the place was largely unsettled in biblical times (in fact, few chose to live here until the Druze arrived in the seventeenth century). However, in many ancient cultures mountains, in their loftiness, were sanctified; as a holy place, Mount Carmel served as a magnet for prophets such as Elisha, who established a base there (2 Kings 4:23–25). The “resident” god at Mount Carmel at the time of this story was probably Baal, which is why Elijah chose this location to prove the supremacy of the Israelite God.
Setting the Scene
From the observation deck on the monastery’s roof, looking out from the right side of the balcony as you come up, you will see the Mediterranean Sea off to the west; if the visibility is good, you will be able to make out the four tall smokestacks of the Yitzhak Rabin electrical power station on the coast near Caesaria.
To the east, on the left side of the balcony, lies the lush patchwork of the Jezreel Valley. Down at the bottom on the right is the town of Yokneam, and at its edge is Tel Yokneam, the excavated ruins of an ancient city. Off in the distance to the east you will see the landing strip of a large air force base, the rounded hill of Mount Tabor, the Hill of Moreh to its south, and on the far horizon the mountains of biblical Gilead (today the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan). It was from a point further south along those eastern highlands that the Israelites crossed into the promised land with clear instructions: the land you are about to enter is flowing with milk and honey, but it is watered with rain from the heavens. If you are faithful to God, the land will provide everything you need. If you stray from the path, the skies will dry up, and there will be no rain. (For the complete rendition of the agricultural part of the covenant, see Deuteronomy 11:8–17.)
The Context
In ancient times the land of Israel produced a great variety of agricultural crops such as wine, olive oil, grains, fruit, honey, and balsam. Although this produce often grew in generous abundance and was in high demand in the region, the naturally smooth Mediterranean coastline of Israel was notably lacking in deep-water harbors necessary for an export industry.
The Israelites’ northern neighbors, the Phoenicians, had exactly the opposite predicament. Their mountainous terrain was poor in arable land but rich in natural ports along the coast. The Phoenicians were excellent shipbuilders and seamen, and they had access to all the international markets around the Mediterranean (see Ezek. 27). The two economies neatly complemented each other, and consequently the kings of ancient Israel always sought an alliance with their Phoenician neighbors in order to ensure prosperity and cement their power.
To this end in the first part of the ninth century BCE, the Israelite king Ahab, son of the great builder Omri, apparently signed a treaty with the Phoenician king Ethbaal of Sidon. As was the custom in ancient times, they sealed the agreement with a marriage (1 Kings 16:31). The Sidonian princess Jezebel was shipped off to the boondocks, no doubt rolling her eyes, to marry the provincial Israelite king Ahab and take up residence with him in his country palace in the Samarian hills.
In her new home Jezebel established and maintained a hefty entourage of 850 prophets of Baal and Asherah (1 Kings 18:19). Not surprisingly, her husband Ahab was perfectly agreeable. In the ancient Middle East Baal was understood to be a cosmic god, and not a national one. He was the god of wind, rain, and most importantly, fertility, and he was worshipped by all the peoples of the region, including Israel. Not only did Ahab tolerate Jezebel’s Baal worship; he even built his own temple to him in Samaria (1 Kings 16:30–32). According to the book of Kings, in matters of faith Jezebel appears to have completely elbowed her husband out of the way and launched a relentless campaign to give Baal priority over the Israelite God. The Israelite subjects of the northern kingdom were quite amenable to Jezebel’s missionary zeal, probably because Baal worship was nothing new to them. When faced with opposition from the Israelite prophets who spoke out against her, Jezebel systematically hunted them down and liquidated them (1 Kings 18:1).
The consequences were predictable. We are told that God punished the people of Israel for their unfaithfulness with a drought. Food and drinking water were scarce, and people all throughout the region were on the verge of starvation. However, after three years God took pity on his people and dispatched Elijah the prophet to meet King Ahab and to inform him that it would rain—conditional on the Israelite acknowledgment that it was sent by the Israelite God, and not Baal.
The Mysterious Elijah
Who was that masked man? Elijah didn’t wear a disguise, but he did have an aura of mystery about him not unlike a superhero. He probably lived between 920 and 850 BCE, but we know very little about his origins. The text tells us he was from a town called Tishbe in the land of Gilead across the Jordan, but no next-of-kin are mentioned. He wasn’t your typical prophet-of-the-cult who hung around a shrine or a king’s court, and he didn’t have a house or home where he was known to reside regularly and where people seeking his help could find him. Rather, he was an itinerant man of God, roaming about Israel and suddenly appearing from nowhere. This vague personal history, the handy execution of several impressive miracles, and his theatrical departure from the earthly world in a fiery chariot (2 Kings 2:1–12) have given rise to lots of interesting conjecture about Elijah’s real identity. Some say he was a direct descendent of Pinhas, the religiously zealous grandson of Aaron, which would mean Elijah was a priest as well as a prophet (Pirkei de-Rabbi Eliezer El.xlvii; Targum Yerushalmi on Numbers 25.12). According to the Kabbala, Elijah wasn’t actually mortal but rather an angel in human form, which would explain why he had no parents or children (Yalkut Reubeni, Bereshit 9a). Legend equates him with Sandalphon, one of the cherubs of the ark, who gathers the prayers of the faithful and sends them to God.
In his own day Elijah no doubt cut a striking figure, clothed in a loose cloak sewn from hairy animal skins and girded with a leather belt (2 Kings 1:7–8). A radical believer in the concept that the Israelite God was the only god, he was on a crusade to eliminate idolatry from the Israelite religious practice. He was convinced that he was almost the only God-fearing Israelite left in Israel, and he was probably gruff, morose, and intimidating. Overzealous, when God assigned him the straightforward mission to go to Ahab and inform him that he would send rain to the parched Israelites, Elijah took it one step further. He thought the gift of rain should come with an impressive show of God’s presence so the Israelites would understand it had come from him, and not the Canaanite god Baal. In short, Elijah invented the gimmick.
In the name of fair play he gave his opponents first shot at choosing the sacrificial animal and establishing contact with their god, but it turns out he was a masterful showman. Well-acquainted with the myths that attributed power over rain to Baal, Elijah set up the contest to mercilessly humiliate the Baal worshippers. It seems that no turn of phrase was too insulting. When relating his mocking sarcasm, most English translations prefer the more tasteful taunt, “He may be in conversation, he may be detained” (v. 27), but a closer linguistic analysis suggests that Elijah’s biting irony was expressed in crass, graphic terms that left no room for interpretation. Scholars of ancient Hebrew quote Elijah saying, “Maybe he’s defecating or urinating” (allow your mind to go wild in the vernacular). He gave them all the time they needed, waiting patiently until they had exhausted their efforts. Only then did Elijah call the people around him.
By receiving fire from heaven Elijah demonstrated that the dominion over life and death rested with the Israelite God alone, thus successfully convincing the people to turn their hearts back to him. This fantastic performance was topped off by a violent, bloody encore of the slaughter of Jezebel’s false prophets. Now it could rain because everyone understood that the water was a gift, special delivery, from the God of Israel.
The Gimmick That Failed
However, when Jezebel heard how Elijah had disposed of her precious prophets she vowed to kill him and he was forced to flee (1 Kings 19:1–2). A short time after the contest at Mount Carmel, we find Elijah in a cave in the desert at Horeb, the mountain of God, otherwise known as Mount Sinai. Depressed, dejected, and borderline suicidal, Elijah, when God asked what he was doing there, complained that the Israelites had rejected God and that he alone was the only true follower left (1 Kings 19:1–10). The painful truth was that despite the drama and pyrotechnics, the contest of prophets had failed to effect significant change among the errant Israelites.
It is interesting to note that Elijah is often compared to Moses. Both men had many similar experiences as leaders, as we can see from several of many examples: they confronted evil kings (Exod. 5:1–5; 1 Kings 18:17–18), fled to the wilderness for their lives (Exod. 2:11–15; 1 Kings 17:1–6; 19:1–3), were miraculously fed (Exod. 16:1–16; 1 Kings 17:1–6; 19:3–8), gathered their people (Deut. 29:9–12; 1 Kings 18:19), parted the waters (Exod. 14; 2 Kings 2:8), and much more. Both had revelations at Sinai (Exod. 19:1–6; 1 Kings 19:8–13), but the most notable difference between the two leaders was their approach to God in time of crisis. When Moses came down from Sinai and found the Israelites worshipping the golden calf, he was furious. Yet when he went back to God, he advocated for them, asking forgiveness for their sins (Exod. 32:30–34).
Elijah, however, completely despaired of the Israelites. He didn’t attempt to defend his “clients” but rather hurled a litany of complaints about them to the Judge (1 Kings 19:9–10). He was a champion of God but not of his own people. He was fanatical, self-righteous, and drowning in self-pity, and clearly in need of some serious attitude readjustment.
In response God put on a show of his own, complete with all his best special effects. He asked Elijah to step outside, for he would soon pass by: “There was a great and mighty wind, splitting mountains and shattering rocks by the power of the LORD; but the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind—an earthquake; but the LORD was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake—fire; but the LORD was not in the fire” (1 Kings 19:11–12).
This revelation must have been terrifying. Yet throughout it all the presence of God was significantly absent. It came only after the fire, and it is described in Hebrew as “kol d’mama dakik” (1 Kings 19:12). The authors of the King James version of the Bible famously translated this phrase as “a still, small voice.” Later translations have offered “the sound of a gentle whisper,” “a soft murmuring sound,” or “the sound of sheer silence.” This puzzling yet beautifully moving communication was immediately identifiable to Elijah, who covered his face with his cloak and went out to stand at the cave’s entrance, in the presence of the Lord at last (1 Kings 19:13).
Elijah Redux
After this revelation, when God asked yet again, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” we can almost hear the exasperation in his voice. But the prophet, hardheaded, obstinate, and notably untransformed by what he had just witnessed, reread his list of complaints (1 Kings 19:13–14).
He didn’t get it.
The driven, impatient Elijah hoped to achieve instant results at Mount Carmel by his bang-up, spectacular performance. He was unable to accept the notion that perhaps he had chosen the wrong tactic to imbue the Israelites with lasting spiritual transformation. Instead of Elijah attempting to turn the Israelites’ hearts back to their God with a command performance, perhaps this enormous challenge would be achieved more effectively with soft, low-key, one-on-one encounters.
But Elijah could not deliver the goods. Instead, he was instructed to go back the way he had come, to appoint new kings in Aram and Israel and to anoint Elisha as the man who would succeed him (1 Kings 19:15–16). In other words—Elijah was fired.
The Jewish sages were tough on Elijah, condemning him for his overzealousness (Mekhilta de-Rabbi Yishmael, Piska 1:88–97). Some say he has been sentenced to be present at an eternity of circumcisions and Passover seders as a punishment for prophesying the end of the people of Israel. You were sure it was all over? Well, here’s proof you were wrong—again and again.
Yet until today Elijah remains a popular Jewish folk hero. Bourne up to heaven in a whirlwind of fire, he never actually died and purportedly may still visit with mortals on earth. Throughout the ages he has been spotted in the guise of a poor beggar come to help the righteous in need, to sip from the Passover wine, to cradle baby boys at the circumcision ceremony, and to bestow a kiss on every groom who marries the right woman. He may be serving an eternal life sentence, but he may also be the model of a man who has come full circle. The once severe prophet who had lost all faith in Israel has perhaps been transformed into a watchful and tender nurturer of his people.
Postscript: Thirsty Israel
Elijah’s audience at Mount Carmel must have cringed as they witnessed the prophet ceremoniously dump ten gallons of precious water onto his altar in the fourth consecutive year of a terrible drought. Inhabitants of the land of Israel both ancient and modern have been hypersensitive about water conservation in the never-ending struggle to manage meager water resources.
Israel sits on the edge of a desert belt. While its climate is defined as subtropical, 60 percent is arid or semiarid, and rainfall often fluctuates wildly in the more temperate zones. In a good year the average rainfall between November and March reaches 900 millimeters (35.4 inches) in the center and north of the country, replenishing streams, springs, aquifers, and Lake Kinneret. However, since there is no guarantee of a good year, every drop must be utilized to its maximum potential. The farmers of ancient Israel developed numerous conservation techniques, such as cisterns, catchment basins hewn from the rock to store rainwater; terraces, leveled agricultural plots on hillsides that hold water; and channels for the efficient transportation of water over ground.
In modern Israel fulfilling the prophecy of Isaiah to make the deserts bloom has been a central element of the Zionist enterprise, but creative solutions continue to be sought for the ongoing water shortage. The slow-drip irrigation system developed in Beersheba in the 1960s is probably Israel’s best-known technology for water conservation in agriculture. By laying a perforated hose pipe along each row of plants and dripping a predetermined amount of water from each hole, 50–70 percent of water used in conventional trench-flooding methods is saved, enabling farmers even in desert areas to raise crops successfully.
Other large-scale innovations undertaken by Israel’s national water company include storage for floodwater catchment in reservoirs and aquifers; water recycling at the highest rate in the world (70 percent of Israel’s wastewater is treated, reclaimed, and used for agriculture); reverse osmosis and electrodialysis in the desalinization of sea water and brackish well water; and rain enhancement by seeding clouds with silver iodide to increase precipitation. Water-efficient appliances, dual flush toilets, and faucet attachments can be found in most households today in Israel, but modern conveniences can only mildly alleviate the timeless challenge of living in a land flowing with goats’ milk and date honey, but not much water.