There is something profoundly quiet and solemn about walking through woods and hills in Kentucky this time of year. Some brown or dark red leaves still cling to trees, but mostly you see the bones of the land. The air is clear; the wind has bite. Overhead the sky is Indian Summer pastel, with high feathers of clouds. The only consistent sound is the crackle of my footsteps in the leaves. To walk Kentucky hills in late November is to walk alone.
The view from the top of a hill is much clearer now. Jutting rocks and steep ravines are no longer camouflaged by grass or trees. Blemishes on the land stand in bold nakedness.
Standing on a hill, I look across a creek bottom and wonder about God’s view in early December, as the land lies fallow, but not yet frozen, empty, but not yet bare.
The Call of Isaiah
“Come, let us climb the LORD’s mountain,
to the house of the God of Jacob,
That he may instruct us in his ways,
and we may walk in his paths.”
These are the words in today’s readings that speak to me. The passage is describing Mt. Zion and Jerusalem in a distant future. This is prophesy—and prophesy of hope, even as the people of Judah face coming war and exile.
It makes me think of the subtle hope in the woods of almost winter. Very little green is seen—but it is there dormant—ready to emerge quietly in sheltered corners come February sun. Animals gather last bits of food, many of them soon to sleep during the coldest times. Water runs clear. Wind blows. I KNOW spring will come to the landscape now brown and winter grey. The sense is that the landscape and its inhabitants know that, too. There is comfort in the hope.
Yet readers in cities, warmer climates, or even countries where spring now turns the world green have a different view. “Come, let us climb the LORD’s mountain” most likely gives you different images.
And all our images are different from the view of the people to whom this passage was written: Jews before the Babylonian exile.
The Call of God’s Mountain
Yet the call of Isaiah’s words comes to all of us. “Come, let us climb the LORD’s mountain.” It is the call of Advent. Where Is God’s Mountain for you?
Advent is meant to be a time of patience, of reflection, of waiting. While not a “little Lent,” through the centuries, it has been a time for self-reflection, honing in, focusing on what is most important—in faith and life. It is meant to be one gift of the Church to us–to prepare us for the second gift of celebration of Christmas.
Yet, this year, I know of many people who put up Christmas trees in early November. As COVID continues, people seem to deeply hunger for joy, fun, and an almost magical sense of security that Christmas activities bring. Perhaps people feel they have had enough dormant time, enough self-reflection.
I am not there. Not quite a grinch, but close, I am not ready for Christmas. I do not want to be ready for Christmas.
I am ready for Advent, for a way to spiritually and practically “climb the LORD’s mountain,” to go into “the house of God” and let him instruct me in his ways that I may walk in his paths.
There is a real hunger for that. For solitude. Reflection. Quiet.
Forgive me for breaking tradition and writing fewer words today, but fewer words are all I have. I hope this afternoon to spend some time finding how I can spend time on God’s mountain these next four weeks and let God go through me like a December wind on a hilltop. Solitude. No camouflage. Reflection on the bones of the land of my soul.
“I am not worthy that you should come under my roof”
The centurion says it to Jesus today. Yet Jesus entered his house through the Holy Spirit anyway to heal his servant.
Good for me to remember. I am cluttered. Tinsled by life, if not yet by Christmas. Unworthy. Substantially buttoned down, walled in.
The seemingly unrelated thought that keeps coming: walls are no problem for Jesus or the Holy Spirit. God goes through walls. All it takes is the centurion’s or my or your invitation and request.
Prayer
Let there be something profoundly quiet and solemn about my prayer and my practices this Advent. Let me simplify life to essentials as needed. Give me solitude. Then, Maranatha, come Lord Jesus, instruct me in Your ways that I may walk in Your paths.
