Life above the valley

I awakened to an interesting sermon. From our deck, I could see the peaks of the surrounding mountains basking in the morning light, but the valleys were stuffed with cotton-like clouds. Had I paid attention in science class, I might have been able to explain why that happens, but I was more interested in the people below me in those valleys. Unlike mine, their morning was dark and cloudy. All they could see was the valley, even though there were mountain tops and sunshine above. I wanted to shout below and tell them a beautiful day was coming, but I sat and sipped my coffee instead.

I watched as the valleys cleared and thought about the times when I've been in a valley. I was incapable of seeing beyond the valley contours, or through the clouds above. I thought of friends who have struggled in darkness and how I wanted to shout out to tell them there was a bright day above the clouds. I wanted to assure them the peaks were there even though they could not see them.

I wonder if that’s what living a life of faith is all about. Some might tell you it’s about always living life on a sun-drenched peak, but I think it’s more about knowing the peaks are there even when you can’t see them, especially when you can’t see them. It’s the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen, I read somewhere, and that morning I felt like I was given a glimpse of what life must look like to the great cloud of witnesses. Like me, they probably want to shout out to tell us that there’s sunshine above, that the clouds will eventually disappear revealing God’s larger landscape. Who knows, maybe they do.

Extra Credit:

Think of a time when you were in a valley. What was the situation, and how did it feel when you awakened there? Did the clouds lift? If so, did you see, as if for the first time, the peaks and sun above? What did the experience teach you? Have you ever shared that experience with anyone?

Making a Home

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but when I went to the carport to get my hiking boots I found a bird’s nest in each of them. My left boot even had an unhatched egg in it. I guess it had been awhile since I’d been to the mountains. 

Ever since my father died forty years ago, I’ve considered the mountains my home. I was so lost, and it wasn’t until I moved to the mountains that I began to feel found. The dramatic contours of the land with all the peaks and valleys spoke a language my soul understood. I felt I could see God’s fingerprints in the earth’s clay, and name etched in the granite cliffs. Even when I was by myself, I didn’t feel alone. When the streams sang their way around the rocks, and birds danced effortlessly with the wind, it was as if I was being invited to come close. Even the weather, which is wildly unpredictable, plays a part in the liturgy of the mountains. The lightening and wind are often of biblical in proportion, and no organ can match the sound of thunder echoing through a valley.

As I drove up to the mountains yesterday, I remembered all the mountains have been to me and celebrated all that they still are. The birds may have used my boots to make a home, but now it’s my turn.

Re-scaling

I’d forgotten how big mountains could be. Driving into Jackson, Wyoming, with the Teton Mountains towering above, I turned off the music and adjusted my sense of scale. Each summer, my parents brought our family out west, and I never tired of the view. The razor-pointed peaks were what I imagined whenever someone spoke of mountains, or I tried to paint a mountainous landscape. But my time away had adjusted my sense of mountains. They had become less pointed, less tall, and eventually little more than impressive hills. Seeing the Tetons again, awakened me to what a mountain can be.

Our touristy to-do list was long, but, on Sunday, I knew I wanted to begin my day at a tiny log cabin church at the base of the Tetons. It had moved me when my parents dragged me there as a child, and a picture of the small church sits beside my photos of impressive cathedrals in my office. It's one of my favorite sacred spaces in the world, and I arrived an hour early to get a seat in one of the few aspen pews to wait for the service to begin. 

What makes the church special is the clear window behind the altar. It frames the Tetons perfectly, and, with a small wooden cross silhouetted in front, is more inspirational than any stained glass window I’ve ever seen. Never had I seen a church that celebrated creation better than this one, and it connected my faith to creation in a way that remains strong today.

But I realized as I sat there that my faith was as much in need of a re-scaling as my idea of a mountain. Over time, the faith that was given to me when I was a child, the one that was grand and glorious, had become rounded and diminished in height. For whatever reason, the peaks that had inspired me so had become little more than impressive hills - something to do on Sunday, hymns to sing, and an occasional uplifting sermon. Like the peaks behind it, I needed to re-scale the size of the faith represented by that simple cross in front of the window. It was time to reclaim its original majesty, its profound message, and its transformative power. 

As we stood to begin the service, I realized mine began an hour ago.