A Change in Perspective
There is a principle in our faith that contradicts our basic, natural beliefs. Summed up in St. Francis’s prayer — We must give in order to receive. Love in order to be loved. Die in order to live. These are not ideas that come easily. They are truly against a our in-born desires to protect ourselves and avoid pain and, because of that, they are easy to reject. I have been especially stubborn in this area. It was not until my late fifties that I began to understand them.
I have always loved hiking and climbing. Not the technical climbing with ropes and pitons. I am no mountaineer. I have done some tough non-technical climbs, like Kilimanjaro, at an altitude where thinner air adds to the challenges of reaching the summit. But the most profound lessons have been much more down to earth.
For a while I lived in New Hampshire, near a mountain called Mount Monadnock, which translates roughly to “the mountain that stands alone.” Compared to Kilimanjaro, Colorado or California it would not impress most experienced climbers. But it is not a casual hike either. The trail demands your full attention from start to finish. The summit sits at about 3,000 feet, and the toughest part rises 1,800 feet over roughly two miles. In places the trail narrows to where you are picking your way carefully over rocks and rough terrain, and near the top, there is some exposure where the scrambling begins. The rate of climb tests the limits of your endurance.
Then you reach the top. The peak sits 1,000 feet above anything else in the surrounding area, and from there it’s as if you can see the whole world. On a clear day you can see the tops of the tall buildings in Boston, eighty-three miles away. While you’re climbing, you are consumed with making the next step, the ache in your legs, and the places where the exposure triggers vertigo and can make you seriously consider going back down. And then, in a sudden transition, you are at the summit and the horizon stretches out to every side. You are high enough that small private aircraft circle below you around the mountain.
Before I was a Christian, climbs like that made me feel closer to nature. Now, as my faith matures, I understand that I was actually getting closer to creation. There is something about standing at a high place, having struggled to get there, that makes you feel that something larger than yourself exists. It can be hard to name that feeling but it is real. I have come to understand that it is the essence of grace.
We move through our days pressed in on all sides, on a narrow path, focused on the current and often the next obstacle, wondering why the path is so long or so steep, and so painful. And then, there’s a moment when the struggle ends and and it all starts to make sense. The reward is not separate from the journey. It is an integral part of it.
James wrote, “My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing” (James 1:2–4 NKJV). The trial is not the end of the story. It is the work that produces something in us that nothing else can.
Mountains have taught me about Jesus and His creation before I had words for it. The struggle is real but so is the summit. And from up there, you can see everything.
Reflection Questions
Think of a specific trial you are in right now, or one you have recently come through. What is one thing it has produced in you that easier circumstances could not have?
The piece describes how the climb narrows your world down to the next step. Where in your walk with God are you so focused on the immediate obstacle that you have lost sight of where the trail is leading?
Have you ever stood at a moment you wanted to quit — spiritually or otherwise — and kept going? What did you find on the other side of that decision?
James says to count trials as joy, not because they feel good, but because of what they produce. Is there a current struggle you have been resisting that you might need to receive differently?
The piece notes that creation was pointing to God long before the author had words for it. Where in your own life has God been speaking to you through ordinary things — long before you recognized His voice?
The summit is a moment, not a permanent address. You always come back down the mountain. What do you carry differently into daily life because of a hard season God has brought you through?
St. Francis framed it simply — give to receive, love to be loved, die to live. Which of these three counterintuitive principles is the hardest one for you personally, and why?
Prayer
Lord, the trail is not always clear, and it is rarely easy. There are sections where we want to turn back, where the exposure is real and the footing is uncertain. Remind us in those moments that You are not surprised by the steepness. You designed the climb.
Teach us to count the hard things as something other than punishment. Let us see them the way James saw them — as work that produces something in us that nothing else can reach.
When the horizon finally opens up, let us not forget what it cost to get there. And when we come back down into the ordinary days, let us carry the summit with us.
We give what we have. We trust what we cannot yet see. We keep moving.
In Jesus' name, Amen.
