By Elie Ghannoum
There are moments in my life when I feel completely unqualified for what I’m doing. It can happen in small ways, like speaking in front of people at parish events, or being asked to help lead something I feel too young or too inexperienced for.
Other times it’s more internal, like when I try to live my faith seriously and realise how easily I fall short of what I know I should be doing. In those moments, I often feel like stepping back and letting someone else take over.
Someone older. Someone more confident. Someone who doesn’t hesitate. Yet every time I feel that way, I keep coming back to the same figure: St Elias.
In the Maronite Church, St Elias is not just a biblical prophet we read about once in a while. He is someone we grow up hearing about, praying with, and looking up to.
He represents something strong and steady in the Maronite spiritual identity, a faith that does not collapse under pressure. What I have slowly realised, though, is that St Elias was not as “untouchable” as I once thought.
We often remember him at his strongest moments. We think of Mount Carmel, where he stood alone against hundreds of prophets of Baal. We think of the fire coming down from heaven.
We think of his boldness, his clarity, and his courage in defending the truth when almost everyone around him had turned away. But if that is all we see, we miss something important.
St Elias also knew fear. He knew exhaustion. He knew what it was like to run away, overwhelmed and discouraged. After one of his greatest victories, he fled into the wilderness and asked God to take his life.
That part of the story always surprises me. It reminds me that even the greatest prophets of God carried human weakness within them. And strangely, that makes him more relatable, not less.
Faith is not lived only in moments of strength. It is lived in the tension between trust and fear, between confidence and doubt, between feeling ready and feeling completely unprepared.
As a young Maronite Catholic today, that tension feels very familiar.
There is so much noise in the world we live in. Expectations, opinions, pressure to fit in, pressure to stay silent about what we believe, pressure to be accepted rather than to be faithful.
Sometimes it feels easier to just go along with everything rather than stand firm in what the church teaches and what I know in my heart is true. And yet St Elias challenges that comfort.
Not because he was naturally bold, but because he chose to trust God even when everything around him suggested he shouldn’t. One of the most powerful moments in his life, for me, comes after all the dramatic events have passed.
St Elias goes to the mountain and experiences something unexpected. A strong wind passes by, but God is not in the wind. An earthquake comes, but God is not in the earthquake. Fire follows, but God is not in the fire.
Then comes something far quieter. A gentle whisper. That moment has stayed with me for a long time.
Because it reveals something I often forget: God is not only found in the dramatic or extraordinary. He is also found in silence, in stillness, and in the quiet places where we are finally able to stop and listen.
In a world filled with constant noise, messages, social media, expectations, distractions, silence can feel uncomfortable. I notice that in myself too. I am used to filling space, staying busy, and always having something happening.
But St Elias teaches something different. He shows that God often speaks in ways that require us to slow down. To pay attention. To be still enough to notice him.
That idea connects deeply with the Maronite spiritual tradition. Our church has always valued prayer that is not rushed, worship that is reverent, and a faith that is lived not only in words but in encounter.
There is something very ancient and very grounding about that — something that reminds us we are not meant to live disconnected from God. Instead, we are meant to walk closely with him, even when we do not fully understand what he is doing. I think that is what St Elias ultimately teaches me.
Not that faith removes struggle, but that faith gives direction within struggle. Not that courage means the absence of fear, but that courage means trusting God in the presence of fear. Not that God always speaks loudly, but that he is always speaking, even when I am not listening properly.
The more I reflect on St Elias, the more I realise that his life is not meant to feel distant. It is meant to feel like an invitation. An invitation to trust God when I feel unqualified. An invitation to remain faithful when it is easier not to. An invitation to seek him in silence, not just in moments of emotion or certainty.
In the end, St Elias reminds me that holiness is not about being perfect. It is about being faithful. And that is something I am still learning.
But I hope it is something I continue to grow into, one step, one prayer, and one moment of trust at a time.
