Psalm 30; Exodus 24:15-18; Mark 9:2-9

Virtually every religion has regarded mountains as sacred places. Mircea Eliade, the great religious scholar, called mountains an axis mundi, a symbolic link between heaven and earth, between the divine and the human. For those of us from the flat lands of the midwest it may not be as obvious as it should be why this is so. There is something about a mountain that lifts one's mind beyond the mundane no matter how you look at it. A mountain on the horizon cannot help but move you to think of the majesty and power of nature, if not of God. It puts things into perspective and can be a symbol of strength and reassurance. From the bottom, or part way up, mountains are a sign of challenge and call for perseverance and the best effort we can muster. And then from the top! From the mountain top you gain a vista that is incomparable! It is no wonder that mountains play all these roles in biblical religion. One of the earliest names for God, that revealed to Abraham in Genesis 17, is el Shaddai, traditionally translated "God Almighty," but literally, "God, the one of the mountains." A mountain is a natural image for God's power, as well as for human stability. "By your favor, O Lord, you had established me as a strong mountain" (Psalm. 30:7). Of course a mountain can also be an obstacle (Zechariah. 4:7) but God will remove all such barriers when God's redemption is complete: "every mountain and hill shall be made low" (Isaiah 40:4). But how does the image of the mountain fit into the idea of the Christian journey, our lifetime of following Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior? One obvious way is that it reminds us, if you'll forgive me for saying so, that life has its ups and downs. The journey of Christian discipleship, being followers of Jesus Christ, is not a walk along a level path, let alone a downhill slide. It is a journey that demands commitment and effort. There is a long tradition in Christian writing of what is referred to as "ascent" literature, sometimes using the image of scaling a mountain, often of ascending a ladder, like that in Jacob's dream. This ascent literature speaks of the ways in which disciples of Jesus Christ may advance in their spiritual walk, ever moving closer to Christ. Many persons have criticized this school of writing and this sort of imagery for putting too much emphasis on human effort and constructing an artificial plan of "first you do this and then you do that" to advance to the next higher level of spiritual growth. I personally feel that both of these objections have some validity, particularly that of underestimating the importance of our individuality. If there is one thing that the Bible makes clear it is that God has created us as individuals with different interests, abilities, and strengths, and that God works in a variety of ways to be in relationship with different people. There is no one model of the church, no one right way to pray, and no one valid method for our varied spiritual journeys. But the image of ascending the mountain reminds us of two very important things: first that Christian discipleship takes effort, foresight, and (as the word indicates) discipline, like that exercised by a skilled mountain climber; and second, that we should never be content to stay where we are in our relationship with God, but should constantly be striving for a higher level, what John Wesley referred to as "going on to perfection." This is the same point that the apostle Paul made by using one of his favorite metaphors, that of the athlete in training, certainly a common sight in the Greek cities in which he ministered. He spoke of the runner:

Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Beloved, I do not consider that I have made it my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus. -- Philippians 3:12-14

and of the boxer:

Athletes exercise self-control in all things; they do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable one. So I do not run aimlessly, nor do I box as though beating the air. -- 1 Corinthians 9:25-26

This note of training, of discipline, of striving to be stronger and better every day is at the heart of virtually all Christian theology, including the great Reformation traditions, but is a theme that is often overlooked in modern American Protestant churches which seem more intent on preaching a gospel of spiritual comfort and easy success. But if the mountain is a sign of God's strength and our need to exercise discipline in following Jesus, it is also a sign of God's great love and mercy. It is the place where we have "mountain-top experiences," those moments of revelation when life suddenly appears clearer, when things take their place, like the panoramic view from a mountain peak. It was on a mountain that God inexplicably spoke to Moses, revealing not just God's name, but God's will for a whole people and the role this shepherd was to play in God's plan. It was on a mountain that God gave the people of Israel the great gift of the law, those ten words which would lead them in the paths of righteousness and life. It was from a mountain that Jesus spoke those words that stand in such stark contrast to the world's way of looking at things:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, ... those who mourn, ... the meek, ... those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, ... the merciful, ... the pure in heart, ... the peacemakers. -- Matthew 5

And it was on a mountaintop that Peter, James, and John heard perhaps the most astonishing and most grace-filled teaching of all: "This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!" (Mark 9:7). These "mountaintop" experiences in the Bible stand in stark contrast to what we often think of as "peak" experiences insofar as they combine the affective and the intellectual, the emotional and the rational. Think of two of the most familiar mountain incidents in the life of Moses. In Exodus 3 he is attracted by a bush that burns without burning up. When God speaks to him he is flabbergasted, overwhelmed by a sense of unworthiness. But by the end of the encounter on the "mountain of God" he has been taught the Divine Name, received a commission for his task with the people of Israel, and been given a sign that God would accompany him. The experience was both deeply moving and intelligible. He knew what he had to do. In Exodus 19 and 20 Moses was on the mountain engulfed by "smoke (that) went up like the smoke of a kiln, while the whole mountain shook violently," (Exodus 19:18) all accompanied by trumpet blasts. But when he came down, he bore laws that not only could be articulated but which could be interpreted and obeyed. In these, and many other peak emotional experiences recorded in the Bible, whether or not they actually took place on a mountain, this overwhelming sense of emotion is tied to a deep understanding of the commandments and will of God. This is why Israel always understood the law as God's greatest gift, never as a burden, because following the law frees us to become the persons that God has created us to be. It releases us from the nagging doubts about how we should behave. There is a problem in many Protestant churches today, and it is that we too often divorce these two aspects of God's grace: the emotional release and the intellectual knowledge which our journey with Christ provides. Indeed, at times we almost pit these two against one another. Some churches stress the emotion of the mountaintop experience but do little to encourage growth in the knowledge of scripture and doctrine, let alone service to God and others; everything is on the "feeling" level and every service is a big "celebration." On the other hand, there are churches which do an excellent job of teaching scripture and doctrine but which produce believers who seem to be emotionless if not downright mean. Clearly the scriptural image of the mountaintop experience shows us that our human limitations, our inclination to categorize and compartmentalize, have gotten the best of us. God after all created both lobes of our brain, and still calls us to "love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength" (Mark 12:30). There is one more very important thing of which the image of the mountain reminds us: people do not live on mountaintops. They climb there; they are inspired there; they are instructed there; and then they go back down. And, if you will recall what Moses found when he took the tablets down the first time, you'll realize that what's waiting at the foot of the mountain isn't always so hot. Who hasn't attended a particularly meaningful worship experience and then had a fight in the car on the way home? Or been picked up at church camp or from a retreat on a particular spiritual high only to have one's parents go over the litany of undone chores at home. Many times we, like Peter on the Mount of Transfiguration, want to stay at that high: "It is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah." (Mark 9:5). Let's stay a while; let's keep the party going. I have known people -- and I'll bet I'm not the only one -- who spend virtually all their time in church or para-church activities. They aren't all ministers either. There is always one more committee, one more special service, one more campus Christian group. They pitch their dwelling and stay on the mountaintop. The trouble is, they have no life. Relationships suffer, if they exist at all. There is no outreach, no service beyond the walls of the church or the confines of the group. In the Gospel stories of the transfiguration, Jesus doesn't even answer Peter's suggestion other than to say, "Get up," and lead the three down the mountain. Mountaintops are wonderful places, but they are not where you live. Do you remember the story of Elijah the prophet? After his great success at Mount Carmel against the priests of Baal, Elijah made his way back to Horeb, the mountain of God, the same place where Moses had had his experience at the bush. Elijah was no doubt looking for some rejuvenation, perhaps an experience of renewal, a reminder of God's presence with him. But twice the Lord asks Elijah the same question, "What are you doing here, Elijah?" He'd had his mountaintop experiences and now was supposed to be serving. So back to my beginning question, how does the image of the mountain fit into the idea of the Christian journey? It fits in by reminding us of the discipline and effort that is often needed to follow Christ. It is also a sign of God's great love and mercy, the place where God powers our emotion and our intellect in "mountain-top experiences." But it is not where we live. Indeed, if we retreat to the mountaintop too often, always looking for a spiritual high, for "religious chills and thrills," the Lord may just ask us, "What are you doing here? Why are you not following your Lord among the poor, the hopeless, and the hungry?" Because when Jesus summons us to the journey, he says, "Follow me," and then goes headlong into the world.