Elijah: Prophet of Fire
A cinematic retelling of 1 Kings 17. Prophetic fury, divine silence, and the strange mercy of being fed by scavengers.
Author’s Note
Friends, what you are about to read is novelized, cinematic Biblical narrative.
In 2024, I was given an unexpected and deeply meaningful opportunity.
I was brought on as a freelance writer to pen dramatized fiction for The Chosen People, a show on Pray.com that I was already doing voice work for.
The offer came from my good friend Zak Shellabarger, who specifically wanted someone with pastoral experience and seminary training to help breathe life into the ancient stories and work together with a fantastic team of writers (shoutout to Bri Rosely and Chris Bague!)
I’d always dreamed of writing stories like these. So when Zak asked me to write the Elijah arc, I was THRILLED.
Elijah has always been one of my favorite biblical figures… a man of wild conviction, defiance, and divine dependence. I wanted to make his story feel alive, yet deeply faithful to the Biblical narrative.
This script was the first one I wrote for the show.
Also… I got to voice King Ahab (A true joy… I love a good villain) and Yahweh/God, who I've had the bizarre honor of voicing throughout the entire series.
If you’d like to listen along, here's the fully produced episode, with full cast, sound design, and music.
But if you prefer to just read it like a book, scroll on!
Chapter One:
The Prophet of Fire
The throne room of Samaria reeked of indulgence.1 Incense so thick it clogged the lungs. Roasted meats dripping fat onto polished stone. The too-sweet stench of overripe fruit left half-eaten on golden trays.
The scent of a kingdom that had long since stopped fearing Yahweh.
The air was warm, humid with breath and laughter and the lazy murmur of priests who knew their prayers were more performance than devotion.
King Ahab lounged at the center of it all, sprawled in his throne like a man who had never known hunger, whose hands had never known the weight of real labor, whose problems had always been someone else’s to solve.
He smirked at the latest joke, the latest toast to Baal, his fingers tapping absently against his goblet.
Suddenly, the doors slammed open like a thunderclap.
A priest’s voice wavered mid-incantation. A musician’s lyre-string snapped. Goblets rattled against platters.
For a single stretched moment, the court was frozen in tableau—wine spilling, hands hesitating, heads turning.
And there, in the doorway, stood Elijah. The Prophet of Fire.
The people called him that because of how his words had burned their way through the land. 2
They said when he spoke, men felt their ribs tighten like they’d breathed in smoke.
When he prayed, the wind changed.
Now, here he was, standing in the doorway like something torn straight out of the wilderness. His cloak was travel-stained, his skin roughened by sun and wind, his hands empty—no sword, no scroll—but his presence alone sent a ripple through the room.
The guards hesitated. No one wanted to be the first to stop him.
Elijah walked forward without hurry, his sandals slapping the marble floor, his eyes scanning the throne room like a man weighing the worth of every soul in it.
Ahab watched him approach, one brow arching, his vile grin deepening.
His voice cut through the silence, lazy, mocking:
“Well. If it isn’t the Prophet of Fire.”3
The words hung, amused and venomous at once.
The court’s laughter fractured into nervous chuckles and coughs.
Ahab leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Tell me, have you come to burn down my palace? Or did you simply get lost on the way back to whatever god-forsaken cave you crawled out of?”
Elijah’s reply was unyielding, his tone flint striking flint.
“Listen well, Ahab. As Yahweh, the God of Israel, lives—the God whom YOU have abandoned, the God YOUR fathers knew before you sold their birthright for foreign gods—there will be no dew, no rain, not even a whisper of moisture upon this land… until I say otherwise.” 4
The words hit like a hammer against stone.
Ahab’s smile twitched. The torches flickered. Somewhere in the back of the room, a servant swallowed audibly. A priest of Baal shifted in his robes, hands tightening around his staff.
And then, Ahab laughed.
“You say there will be no rain? You? A wandering zealot from the wilderness?”
He leaned back, spreading his arms as though the very room were his witness.
“Do you think the heavens will obey you? That the rivers will dry up because you make threats in Yahweh’s name?”
Ahab’s eyes suddenly narrowed.
“Or do you think I am like my father? Do you think I am some weak-kneed fool who trembles at the ramblings of a… desert rat? Do you think I… fear… your…. god?”
Elijah’s gaze never broke, calm, cutting:
“You should.”
“Should I?”
Elijah’s eyes flicked, just for a moment, toward the hulking golden statue of Baal behind the throne, grotesque and unmoving.
His voice hardened.
“Ahab. You call The Lord ‘My God,’ but you know very well He is YOUR God too. The God of your fathers. The God you prayed to when you were a boy, before your body grew fat and your mind grew polluted with lies that reek like the dung of camels.” 5
Elijah’s eyes grew dark, his face twisting in disgust.
“Now look at you. You bow to a god who cannot speak. Who cannot move. Who cannot even keep his own priests from bleeding all over his altars, crying out for a voice that never answers.” 6
One of the Baal priests shifted uncomfortably.
Elijah began to slowly step forward towards the throne, each movement deliberate.
“But you will learn. When the rivers crack into dust, when your fields shrivel and die, when the sky above you is as unyielding as iron, you will know that it is not Baal who commands the rain.”
He let the words settle. Let them sink in. Let Ahab feel them wrap around his throat like the first signs of drought.
And then, slowly, deliberately, Elijah’s mouth curled into something resembling a smirk.
“Perhaps you should ask your… queen what to do.”
The reaction was instant. Ahab’s amusement vanished.
The laughter in the court died so abruptly it was as if someone had slit its throat. The room was suddenly too still, too tense, every breath held.
A Baal priest shifted his grip on his staff, knuckles paling.
A servant girl near the wine vats sucked in a breath too sharply, clapping a hand over her mouth, as if she could shove the sound back down before it killed her.
The torches flickered lower, as though even the flames knew better than to burn too loudly when she was mentioned.
Queen Jezebel was not present, but her presence haunted every room.
Everyone knew her power, how it coiled around Ahab’s decisions like a serpent, how her whispers carried more weight than the voices of a hundred advisors.
“Careful, prophet.” Ahab’s warned.
“Why?” Elijah’s tone was merciless. “Afraid she’ll hear? Or… afraid she’s already the one who truly sits upon your throne?”
“ENOUGH!”
Ahab stood. His voice cracked through the silence like a whip.
The goblets on the table clattered as his sudden movement sent a tremor through the stone beneath them.
A servant flinched, nearly knocking over a tray. The guards stiffened, hands tightening on their hilts. The Baal priests flinched. A captain of the guard glanced toward the doorway, calculating.
“I should have you executed for speaking against my queen.” Ahab snarled.
Elijah’s reply came steady as stone. “You cannot kill what Yahweh has sent.”
Ahab’s voice dropped to a low, venomous hiss. “We’ll see about THAT.”
The words rang hollow.
Rage was real, but something else had settled over the room now—something older, heavier than Ahab’s anger.
Elijah had spoken. And the words were no longer his.
Without another word, the prophet turned on his heel and walked away.
He left the palace behind. Left the torches and the murmurs and the barely-contained fury of a king whose power was already slipping through his fingers.
Left the last echoes of laughter, now tainted with something colder.
And as the doors slammed shut behind him, the silence in Ahab’s court deepened, and the King’s rage began to boil into malice.
Chapter Two:
He Who Feeds The Ravens
The moment the words left his mouth, the minute the last syllable of his prophecy burned through the air of Ahab’s court like a dying ember, Elijah heard Yahweh’s voice.
Not thunder. Not wind. Not the crack of fire. Just one word.
RUN.
It hit like a hammer in his chest, urgent, undeniable.
He didn’t think.
He didn’t question.
He ran.
Through the palace gates before the weight of his words had fully landed. Through the market streets, past the smell of spice and livestock and human sweat, past merchants barking prices and children darting between carts, past the old men muttering of drought as if they already tasted dust in their throats.
He ran until the shouts of guards faded behind him, until Samaria’s walls were a distant stain on the horizon, until the wilderness swallowed him whole.
His feet tore over dry ground, his breath turned ragged, the heat clawed at his skin.
He ran until his legs burned, until his vision blurred, until the adrenaline drained from his blood and left only the hollow ache of a man who had just declared war on a kingdom.
He had expected fire, thunder, the heavens shaking. Instead, he had received one command and the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
By the time he reached the Wadi Kerith, his limbs were useless things, barely able to drag him to the brook.
He collapsed by the water’s edge, plunged his face into the stream, and drank deep. The cold hit his tongue like mercy.
He drank until his stomach cramped, then rolled onto his back, gasping, staring up at the sky that was still—for now—blue.
The wind whispered through the reeds, the water murmured over smooth stone, but Yahweh was silent.
“Well,” Elijah muttered, gritting his teeth, “here I am.”
The wind shifted. A pressure, not weight but presence, settled over him, familiar and vast. A voice, deep enough to make his ribs tremble, hummed through the marrow of his bones.
“Here you are.”
Elijah pushed himself upright, brushing dirt from his cloak.
His voice cracked with frustration. “My Lord! This… THIS is the great mission? This is the work of a prophet? I declare judgment over a king and now I’m living like an exile?”
“Declared judgment, you did. Ran, you did. Obeyed, you have.” 7
The cadence of Yahweh’s words stilled him, but his own bitterness rose again. “And what now? Do I stay here forever?”
“For a time. Until the brook is no more.”
The words froze him. His brow furrowed. “Wait…. The brook will dry?”
“It is as you have said. No rain. No dew. And so, no brook there will be.”
Elijah’s jaw tightened. He rubbed his face with both hands, groaning. “Wonderful. You could have led me somewhere with a well!!”
A silence, and then—The voice almost smiled.
“I lead where I lead, Elijah. Abraham knew this. Moses knew this. You will learn. Faith, Elijah. Trust.”
Elijah scoffed, but let the matter die.
Then came the sound.
A sharp cawing, harsh and out of place in the still air.
He frowned, scanning the sky.
Ravens.
Three of them, circling, dipping lower. His stomach twisted—not with hunger, though hunger gnawed his ribs—but with dread.
He knew what was coming next, and he didn’t like it.
The birds dropped onto the rocks near him, claws clutching scraps of meat, torn and red, and crusts of bread half-mangled by their beaks. They dropped the food unceremoniously and hopped back, watching him with bead-bright eyes, clicking their beaks like a jury waiting for a verdict.
Elijah stared. His voice was flat. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Eat.”
“They’re RAVENS!”
“So they are.”
Elijah looked skyward, his voice incredulous. “You send manna to our fathers, bread from heaven, and to me—unclean scavengers? This is the great provision?”
“Does it not fill your belly the same?”
Elijah dragged a hand down his face, muttering under his breath.
The ravens cawed louder, impatient, hopping closer with twitchy jerks.
His gut clenched.
Ravens. Unclean, vile creatures, feeding on carrion, feasting on the dead.
And now, feeding him.
He pressed his lips together, sighed through his nose. “Well. If this is my fate.”
He picked up a piece of bread, brushed off the dirt, and took a bite.
It somehow tasted much better than it looked.
The ravens flapped, satisfied.
The voice said nothing, but Elijah swore He was watching.
Days passed. He drank from the brook, ate what the ravens brought, let his body recover from the journey.
He still spoke, though his words were now for Yahweh alone.
At first, bitter mutterings in the dark. Then, slow acceptance.
By the fourth day, he had stopped doubting the birds.
By the seventh, he expected them.
He did not ask where the food came from—stolen from the table of the wicked, or plucked from the hands of a dying beast.
It came. That was enough.
But then, one morning, the brook was different.
He crouched beside it, cupped the water in his hands, drank—and frowned. The taste was the same. But the sound had changed. The rush of water over stone was thinner.
The next day, less still.
The reeds that had once swayed in the current now leaned dry against the bank. By the fifth day, the trickle of water had shrunk to a thread. He rationed what he could, drinking only when the sun burned highest, but the cracks in the riverbed deepened. The brook was dying.
And Yahweh was silent.
Elijah sat on the ground, staring at the vanishing stream, fingers digging absently into dirt. His voice was low, almost swallowed by the silence. “So… this is the plan.”
Silence. 8
A bitter chuckle slipped from him. “I thought I was supposed to be Your prophet. Thought You sent me here to provide. But I see now—I’m just waiting to watch it run dry, aren’t I?”
Still silence.
“You could make it last. You could split a rock, make rivers flow in the desert. You did it for Moses.” 9
“I could.”
“But You won’t.”
“No.”
Elijah exhaled slowly, long, heavy, as though pressing out more than air.
The voice returned, calm and knowing.
“What have you learned, Elijah?”
A long pause. The brook trickled faintly beside him.
“The brook isn’t the source. You are.”
The last of the water slipped away.
Elijah wiped sweat from his brow, eyes closing in resignation.
“Yes. Good,” Yahweh said, satisfied, commanding.
“Rise. Go to Zarephath. There, a widow awaits.”10
Elijah opened his eyes. The brook was dry. The sky, empty.
But he was not afraid.
~
The End
AFTERWORD: WHEN THE BROOK DRIES UP
Writing this was personal. Like… painfully so.
There have been seasons where I’ve felt like Elijah storming the palace—fire in my chest, holy defiance in my bones. I’ve spoken truth that cost me. Preached on the streets. Led teams on missions trips. Walked into rooms knowing I didn’t belong there except that God sent me.
But lately?
I’m at the brook. With the Ravens.
I’m watching my ministry stretch thin under the weight of the need to keep the lights on and food on the table. Every day I wake up with anxiety about the future, trying to hunt for clients for my tent-making freelance work.
This month, I’ve applied for over 100 jobs, and yet, like many of my other missionary friends, I find myself at the mercy of a cruel and unforgiving economy and job market.
I don’t feel powerful. I feel like a man surviving off scraps, drinking from a stream I fear is going to dry up.
It’s humiliating. And beautiful. And formative.
And not what I would have chosen.
But God is there.
That’s the lesson, isn’t it? I am not the provider. He is.
Not Baal. Not the marketplace. Not platforms. Not charisma.
Not even my effort.
Yahweh provides, not just for me, but for those I love… even when the delivery system makes me grimace.
Maybe you’re there too.
Maybe you once felt full of fire and clarity, but now you feel… burned out. Tired. Waiting. Watching the water recede and wondering what’s next.
A few reflection questions for you:
Where in your life do you feel like the brook is drying up?
What "ravens" might God be sending you—messy, unexpected means of grace?
Are you trying to be your own provider?
What would it look like to release that? What would it look like to lay that down, like Elijah’s dignity in the dust, and truly trust Yahweh to provide?
A word from Jesus to hold onto:
“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink... Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?”
—Matthew 6:25–26
He knows. He sees. Even in the silence.
Stay tuned for more Elijah stories.
In the next piece, Elijah encounters a widow and her son, and is faced with one of his deepest challenges yet.
I’ll be posting the entire Elijah arc here on Substack, script by script.
They mean a lot to me. I hope they speak to something in you too.
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Thank you for walking with me.
– Aaron
Footnotes / Commentary
The sensory saturation of the throne room is inspired by Amos 6 and Isaiah 5—warnings against decadence and injustice among the powerful. I wanted to contrast Ahab’s rotting opulence with Elijah’s raw simplicity.
Elijah’s entire character here is built around holy fire. I wanted him to feel like the last sane man in a world that’s lost its mind. He’s read Moses, he knows the covenant, he believes in Yahweh’s rescue plan… and he is so angry that no one else does. His rage is not ego… it’s heartbreak over his people’s betrayal. Also? He’s the undisputed KING of roasts.
Ahab’s voice and temperament was inspired by Scar from The Lion King, specifically Jeremy Irons’ iconic, sinuous delivery. Ahab should feel powerful, but he’s hollowed out—dominated by Jezebel’s cunning, yet still pretending he’s the one in charge. His cruelty is performative, compensating for a sovereignty he never truly owned. I wanted him to ooze entitlement, sarcasm, and a bored venom. I kept hearing Scar say, “I'm surrounded by idiots,” and imagined Ahab feeling that exact same smug superiority.
Hyperlink to Deut. 11:16–17 - This is where Yahweh literally promises to shut the skies if Israel chases other gods. Elijah isn’t improvising. He’s announcing the covenant curse. Full Torah-mode activated.
The dynamic between Ahab and Elijah is inspired by classic spaghetti westerns. I wanted every interaction to feel like two ideologies squaring off at high noon.
The jab about Baal's priests bleeding is a hyperlink to 1 Kings 18:28. That story hadn't happened yet in this timeline, but in my mind, Elijah already knows how pathetic their rituals are.
Yes, I am aware I wrote God like Yoda. No regrets, have I.
The silence is theological. In Scripture, silence from God often precedes a new chapter. Think of the 400 years before Jesus, or the silence Jesus Himself experiences before the resurrection. I wanted to steep Elijah in that tension.
This is a callback to Exodus 17. Moses strikes the rock and water flows. Elijah wants the same miracle… but it’s not just water he wants, it’s DELIVERANCE from Ahab and Jezebel’s evil—but God is silent. This whole scene is about training a prophet to trust God’s presence more than God’s provision.
When I recorded Yahweh’s dialogue, I shed a few tears. It was months after I had written the scene, and I sat down to record it was on a particular day where I was struggling deeply with provision for my own family. I had no idea when I wrote it how much I would need to revisit this story.
Wow I loved this! Elijah is one of my favourites and this is a great story that will bless many!
Bit late coming across this, but loved it. I was in that room and at that brook. Thank you