The Message in the Mountains
It’s 7AM and I am out for a fifteen minute, around-the-block walk. I am walking with my head to the sky and turning around every twelve seconds because the sky keeps changing. The tapestry of sunrise is a vast array of purples and oranges and pinks, and I feel as if I am going to miss it if I look away too long. I am offering an awkward grin to the dog-walkers that avert my eyes, and a less awkward “good morning” to the ones willing to risk eye-contact, and then turning my eyes right back to the mountains.
As I walk, I pray. And I am easily distracted by my thoughts. An all-too-familiar existential anxiety imbeds itself into my soul after another tragedy in the news and after scrolling through political debates in comment sections (this is never a sacred practice, yet you’ll find me here every time). My prayers turn into distracted thoughts, an apathetic overwhelm.
What’s the point?
I keep reminding myself that I am out here, this morning, to listen to God. To practice the art of noticing. To watch Creator make a masterpiece in the sunrise. So I keep turning to the mountains.
As I walk, this is the pattern. Pray, worry, pause, look to the mountains. Pray again.
And then the still small voice in my soul recites a familiar scripture, one I have heard dozens of times.
“I lift up my eyes to the mountains - where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.” (Psalm 121:1-2, NIV)
I slow down, and my soul repeats it again. I watch the mountains as the sun sweeps over them in her morning glow. Golden light cascades over their hills and valleys, and their shadows turn a light purple in the morning haze.
And I consider how these mountains have stood here for millions of years, have faithfully borne witness to the sunrise for eons. They have been there through seasons of moral panic. Through recessions. Through war. Through residential schools. Through colonization. Through trade conflict and treatises. Through hunting and gathering. Through culture shifts. Through growth and development.
And through it all, the sun still rises. The mountains still stand to witness it.
In this moment I realize the earth is much bigger than I am, and God is much bigger than that, and my eyes feel quite literally opened. I began my walk with a narrow view of stress and worry, and ended with a wide one of peace and settledness.
I wonder if this is somewhat akin to what King David, the author of Psalm 121, felt when he looked to the mountains. I’ve always rushed this scripture, for it reads as if it is an immediate response. He looked to the mountains and what happened? He saw where his help comes from. Not the protective mountains, not geography, but God! Done and dusted. Figured it out. Got his papyrus ready, penned one of the most famous psalms of all time, and went on with his day.
But maybe, and this is pure conjecture, he spent some time. He gazed at the mountains. He saw them day in and day out, and witnessed how the sun rose and set over them, beautifully every time. Maybe he felt the stress of impending battle, and sat outside to widen his view. Maybe he stood and stared at the mountains, and suddenly they preached to him like they did to me. Maybe he started with concern, and found a deep breath as he looked at the familiar landscape and considered how the mountains were there long before him, and would be there long after.
What I do know is this: nature speaks to us, preaches to us about the nature of God.
For the rest of my walk and the rest of my week, I repeat the refrain of Psalm 121. I resolve to be like the mountain, bearing witness to the wily world around me while also firmly rooted in the beauty of God.