The Two Mountains

I stand in gloom at the edge of the mountain.

It towers above me, ominous, intimidating in its many faces of cold, unbroken stone. Dark clouds ream the mountain’s heights. A storm gathers in all its fury. I tremble at the thought of even taking one step up the mountain. 

This is where God dwells, my soul whispers in awe.

This is where my long journey has taken me. How dare I think that I could climb this mountain!

I am tattered and worn, troubled by the course of this life. All the striving, all the fighting to tear myself in half. Oh how I’ve tried to separate a new spirit from an old flesh! How I’ve tried to be set apart from the filth of my old nature and be wholly different. But here I am, still tangled in the weight of sin.

I am unworthy to climb.

A gust of wind strikes me. It whips dust into my face, and I fall to my knees with a cry. Suddenly the air is twisting and swirling around me. With tears streaming, I catch a glimpse of a mighty whirlwind raging all around me—whistling through the crags of the mountain, stripping away everything but immovable stone. Are those words being formed in the whirlwind? Is it God speaking to me, commanding me to climb? 

But I cannot climb! I will be undone in His terrible might. The stones themselves will tumble down and crush me. I cover my ears. I beg God to make it stop—to have mercy.

The earth quakes beneath my feet, and I am gripped tighter by overwhelming fear. Even stone isn’t unmovable, I realize. There is no sure place for me to find shelter, no rock that is steady. I am a speck in a crumbling world. Who was I to approach glory?

Lightning flashes, again and again. It strikes all around me; it ignites the crumbling landscape with blazing fire. It consumes. I will be consumed, I realize, and it is just. I shut my eyes to the fierceness of the storm, and I tremble there, prostrate and utterly alone. This is my end.

But then the storm is calmed. In an instant, it is stilled. The rock is steady under me. The heat of the fire fades away. The wind is gone, replaced by a cool, gentle breeze. It refreshes me, and suddenly I realize that this is what I was seeking. Is it possible to still see glory? Glory that wasn’t in the whirlwind or earthquake or fire; glory that appears only in the calming of the storm and… a voice. A word coming with the gentle rustle of the breeze. Is it there? This time I strain to hear it.

“What are you doing here?” And the voice whispers my name.

I feel shame at the question; I am still lying prostrate on the ground. There is stillness, a deep quiet, a patience for my answer. I want to say that I am here because I have been very zealous for the Lord, the God of Hosts, but all my good works feel so insufficient, a tattered covering over the darkest depths of me. But I don’t want the darkness. I don’t want to leave His presence.

“I want to know you, Lord. Show me your ways, so that I may find favor in your sight.”

I feel His presence, like a hand enveloping me. Is He covering me? And I hear His word again. “Behold, there is a place by Me, and you will stand there on the rock.”

Suddenly my feet are on steady ground—more than steady. I am safe and secure, sheltered in the cleft of the rock. Another breeze rustles my hair and cools my trembling body, but even more so, the words that come with it reach to the deepest part of me, refreshing my soul.

“Take courage, Son, your sins are forgiven.”

Am I on His mountain? I hardly dare to peak over the stone that covers me. But I have courage now, the courage just to know. 

I look out.

I am on a mountain—but it is not the foreboding mountain with all its storms and unapproachable might. This is a new mountain, a perfect mountain, a mountain that shines with light and glory. It is a heavenly city that is unspeakably beautiful and pure. Myriads of angels—beings of reverence and radiance—throng the city. Are they looking on in wonder like I am?  Many multitudes gather around a throne—mankind, earthlings like me. But somehow they stand righteous and perfect before the Judge of All. What is this mystery?

It’s blood, I realize, a sprinkled covering over the multitude that cleanses rather than stains. It’s the blood of my Savior, blood that speaks better than any sacrifice every could. If you are washed by this blood, you can stand forever on this holy mountain. You can enter into rest.

And this is what I trust.

I step forward toward the angels and the assembly and the throne, and my soul soars to join the holy radiance of it all. I have come to the city of the living God, and I can dwell here on this mountain? 

Tears of joy trickle down my face.

“Home,” I whisper.