From the Rector…
Lots of things happen on mountains. Moses received the Ten Commandments on a mountain. Jesus delivered a sermon on a mountain and was transfigured into dazzling light. In the stories of our faith, mountains are sacred places—where divine truth meets human experience.
This past weekend, I spent time on a mountain in Tennessee. Sewanee sits at the top of a ridge, accessible only by long, winding roads that switch back at strategic turns. As you climb the mountain—or descend—you become increasingly aware of your spatial orientation and why it matters. At some point, you surrender to the realization that you are not in control of the terrain, or perhaps even of life itself. You are simply traveling through it, choosing either to resist or to accept whatever lies ahead.
Life feels like that sometimes. Eventually, you begin to see that the control you’ve worked so hard to maintain is only an illusion. You do your best to anticipate the challenges and opportunities on the road ahead, but more often than not, you’re navigating the switchbacks—those sharp turns meant to slow you down, to keep you from careening over the edge. The greatest challenge in these moments is remembering what grounds you—not necessarily where you’re headed, or how you’ll get there, though those may be important. When you become aware of what truly grounds you, the switchbacks begin to feel less like hindrances and more like invitations—speeding through some, slowing carefully around others.
As Christians, we are grounded in God. The twists and turns of life aren’t meant to throw us off the mountain or block our way with boulders. They are simply life unfolding. Our rootedness in God allows us to keep moving upward, step by step. I think of all the challenges Moses faced as he led God’s people out of slavery, toward a land flowing with milk and honey.
The people were difficult, and God didn’t make it easier. God kept asking the impossible of Moses—sending him to confront elders and to stand before Pharaoh. Even after securing their release, the people doubted him, and God kept calling him to more.
At some point, Moses had to let go—not just of control, but even the illusion that he understood the world or his place in it. He stops trying to make God understand the people, or the people understand God. Instead, he stands between them as an intercessor—leaning into the twists and turns of the wilderness journey, not manipulating, not controlling, but simply holding space for God and for the people.
Maybe our calling isn’t so different from Moses’. Maybe we, too, are simply meant to journey—navigating life’s switchbacks with as much grace as we can muster. Not trying to force outcomes or avoid every obstacle but offering each moment to God and to one another. Letting go of what we can’t control. Trusting that the road, winding though it may be, leads somewhere meaningful.
Maybe the goal isn’t what happens when we reach the summit. Maybe the real beauty is in the journey upward, trusting that when we do finally arrive, something spectacular awaits us.