Sermon In The Mountains

The gospel of the trees

One day, the rest of my family was out town. I found myself with more time than typical on my hands. I went to the mountains for a little church.

Getting out of my car in the parking lot, that first familiar breath of optimistic Rocky Mountain air was the invocation.

The first half mile of vigorous-paced walking, marveling in the variant greens of the trees and firework bursts of wildflowers was the rousing opening hymn.

The breaking sweat of the steep climb, my lost breath, the renewing cleansing swig of cold water, my breath regained was a sacrament.

The river was spirit: constant, always near even if sometimes farther away than I wished. A mere splash to the face was a hard reset. Or maybe the river was God? The source. Life. Flowing. I don’t know. Maybe both. Or neither.

The busy hummingbirds—buzzing my head like teenagers who finally get to take mom’s car out for the first time and get perilously too close to the side mirrors of the parked cars—were my restless kids buzzing in the pews.

The other birds criss-crossing the sky with ease were angels, right?

The deer sneaking across the hillside was my dear neighbor (ok, me, but honestly I can’t be everything in this metaphor) who’s always just a little late to church, but most everyone is happy to see them. No need to sneak, my friend. We’re all just happy you’re here.

The occasional bug bite and more-than-occasional insects hovering near my earholes were the grumpy parishioners glaring at my kids for being too loud or irreverent or otherwise not up to Grumpy Parishioner Snuff. Or maybe the bugs were just the occasional regrets/doubts/thoughts that maybe this isn’t worth it and perhaps we’d all be happier had I just stayed in bed.

Or maybe that magnetic desire to turn around and give up was the predictable, tone-deaf, political, culture-not-doctrine comment by Brother Always Right that I had to shake off and soldier through. A tax of sorts for trying to traffic in the divine while still being….merely human.

The way the trail seemed to go on and on and on, with no discernible end in sight, droning forever was the verbose sermon that couldn’t ever quite find its point.

The wind through the pines and aspens was the volunteer choir singing what at once felt like my favorite hymn and one that was wholly new to these ears.

The gathering (gray) clouds were the reminder that, indeed, I do have to go back to work tomorrow. Or that philosophy and theory are just that until they bump up against the real world.

At the same time, the cloud cover—out in the exposed and open field beneath an otherwise relentless sun—was very clearly mercy.

The mountain breeze was grace.

The cramp/ache in my left calf was justice. For every action (or inaction) has consequence.

The Indian paintbrush is my family—the sweet remembrance of something just wild enough and pure and perfect in its wild unpredictability.

My sweat-soaked shirt was works.

Not bringing a raincoat (or extra water) was faith. Or stupidity. Or optimism. Who knows? Didn’t rain, though.

When my second wind kicked in, at what I thought was the final 1/3, that was hope.

When I realized what the actual final 1/3 was, and it was longer than I anticipated, that was perseverance.

Real doubt was when hope and perseverance weren’t cutting it anymore and I started scoping out the terrain for a good place where Life Flight could land.

The break/pause I took in the shade of the aspens was communion—a time for reflection, with gratitude and resolve to be better.

My stomach growled. Like most of my time in church, I definitely should’ve brought more snacks.

The lake was all those elusive treasures laid up in heaven, each drop of water a different blessing. (Not sure what that makes the algae.)

Seeing others reach the lake from a different trail that looked immensely easier, some of them on bikes, reminded me that everyone’s path looks a little different. Or “comparison is the thief of joy.” Or something.

The downhill jolt on my knees as I hiked back down to my car. Was that God telling me there’s no easy way out? Or a reminder that even the seemingly easier way has its own price? I’ll get back to you on those after I ice my knees.

The “hallelujah” from my legs when I finally reached the car was the sighing benediction.

The red Gatorade from the 7-11 at the mouth of the canyon was manna with electrolytes.

When it was over, I was exhausted, but glad I went. I honestly felt pretty good, while also knowing I had some work to do.