By the end of last summer’s busy retreat season, I was tired—tired of the bugs, tired of the Ozark’s humid heat, tired of the pressures of leading and facilitating groups of young people through the backcountry.  It was about this time, as I was spending some time in prayer, that I heard the Lord prompt in His still small voice, “Come to the mountains.”  I love the mountains, the real mountains of the western United States, where a peak pushing above 10,000 feet is considered medium sized.  I loved the idea, but the invitation seemed improbable.  I didn’t have the provision, a plan, or a partner, yet the nagging sense of invitation, coupled with the yearning to breathe high-elevation air, kept calling to me. 

A few days later, my friend in Colorado called, and in the course of our conversation, I mentioned how lucky he was to be in the mountains.  “Come out and let’s go backpacking,” he offered.  “I’ve got a pile of airfare points and can spot you the ticket price.” 
​
Wow!  I had the provision, the plan and the partner all in the course of one phone call.  What I didn’t know at the time was that it would take something more like a miracle for this to work.

The day came for me to fly to the mountains, and as is often the case with busy people who overlook details, I failed to make sure my credentials were up to date.  Minutes before jumping into the car to head to the airport I grabbed my passport.  “EXPIRED!”  I called the airlines.  “Do you have a ‘REAL’ I.D.?” they asked.  “NO!” 

My wife graciously consoled me in my anguish and idiocy.  She reminded me, “But God did invite you to the mountains, so I think you should still try.” 

All the way to the airport, I fought back visions of being a laughing stock at the ticket counter.  Surely a cruel TSA agent would take one look at me and laugh maniacally.  Then picking up the intercom, he would announce to the entire international airport that if anyone wanted to see a genuine, incompetent, audacious ignoramus then just come over to the ticket counter where I would be on display.  “Let’s just turn the car around and forget this whole thing!” I pleaded.  But my wife was resilient.  “God invited you.  Let’s see what happens.” 
​
As I approached the ticket counter, where I knew full-well what would happen, I was called to the next available attendant.  I didn’t try to make excuses or connive my way forward, I simply plopped my bag on the carousel and matter-of-factly told the lady, “I’m sure I won’t be allowed to fly.  My passport’s expired, and I don’t have a real ID.”  

Looking up from her computer, she smiled kindly and told me to go over to the TSA agent and check in. 
I went as directed, suddenly bolstered by the fact that the ticket lady hadn’t instantly thrown me out on the street.  I was standing in the wrong line, and a TSA agent told me to move to a different line.  A minute later, that same agent approached me and apologized because she thought she had told me to move in a rather abrupt way.  A TSA agent was apologizing to me!  What was going on here? 

The agent in charge beckoned me, and I began my pathetic spiel, attempting to conceal nothing except the fact that I felt irresponsible for not having checked my creds sooner. 

“No problem, sir.  This happens all the time.  And there’s a grace period on your passport.  You’re free to fly.”
​
A scene from Star Wars flashed through my mind in which Obi-Wan waves a hand at the storm troopers casually saying, “These are not the droids you are looking for.”  Was I a Jedi?  No, just invited to a mountain party by the One who directs the courses of men.  

Hours later, I was hiking up a trail with my good friend, despite his car overheating twice on the journey to the trailhead.  I felt invincible that nothing was going to stand in the way of my time with God in the mountains...until the next morning when, at that high altitude, 9” inches of fresh snow greeted us upon unzipping the tent!  As we sat in our shelter wondering what to do and watching the mass exodus of every other hiker on the mountain, I remembered God’s invitation, “Come to the mountains.” 

“Let’s stay and keep going,” I said.  My equally adventurous friend agreed, and soon we were trekking gingerly through deep snow between the boot tracks of the multitude of hikers abandoning the heights.  As we climbed, the sun came out and shone so brilliantly off the freshly fallen snow that we had to shield our eyes to take in the cold, majestic beauty. 
​
This backcountry usually hosts a throng of visitors, but that day we saw nary a soul.  We fished the lakes for trout and dined on our fresh catch roasted over our alpine campfire.  By the middle of the next day, the snow had mostly melted, so I decided to climb a nearby peak.  My friend opted to continue fishing in the lakes at the mountain’s base while basking in the 70 degree heat.  

The trip had been good up to this point, but when I sat among the rock piles on the mountain’s pinnacle, I knew God had invited me to meet Him there.  In my Father-God’s presence, I breathed deeply of the crisp, high-mountain air and tried to wrap my mind around the beauty before me.  Sure, I had summited higher mountains and had wondered at more captivating views in the past, but that day felt distinct.  I sensed a depth of blessing that I was with the One who knows me so well that I don’t have to pretend to be anything but my true self.  God knows I love climbing mountains.  He knows everything about me, and as I sat there wrapped in the fullness of His invitation, having pushed through the doubt, the fear, and the trials, He welcomed me into His intimate space.  I existed there sensing very little separation from Abba; in that moment I was fully known, and I knew Him a little more fully. 

​Jesus has been inviting people all along—you and me and every disciple through the ages—saying, “Come, follow Me.”  For many, Jesus’ offer appears dangerous and creates a fearful response.  Obedience requires stepping out to follow when all we can see is the impossibility of success, our own self-doubt, and the fearful realities that lie in the path.  Nevertheless, when we boldly risk the consequences and accept His invitation to follow Him, we will experience life in all its fullness.  Instead of the roadblocks, the humiliations, the breakdowns, and the blizzards, we will find reward in life with Him, and it is good.  So come…follow Him…and be blessed!  

My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.
John 10:27

It is entirely possible to fall asleep while standing up, but do you know one can fall asleep while hiking?  I know because it happened to me one time while leading a group of intern recruits on a training expedition.  In order to toughen them up, we had devised an itinerary that would only be accomplished with navigational perfection or constant trudging.  The trainees were not particularly good at orienteering, so we hiked and hiked and hiked. 
​
About 2:45 AM, I was plodding along in line with my headlamp beam aimed on the feet in front of me.  I thought I had my bleary eyes focused on the hiker’s boots when suddenly I awoke with a start and realized I could not remember the last five minutes of trail, time, or consciousness!  Yes, I had slept while hiking.

It’s a fine question: “Can a person sleep while hiking?” But there is a better question: “Why would one choose to sleep while hiking?”  During a short snack break along the trail, I wandered to the front of the line where our group of interns huddled around the topo map, scouring the contours for any evidence that we were in the right place.  As I knelt beside them, the stress from the heavy burden of leadership was palpable.  My simple question “How are you doing?” brought instant tears to some group members.  One young lady, taking a deep breath and smearing a tear across her dusty cheek, looked at me with determination and said, “We think we know where we are.  It’s our job to get us to the destination.”  Then smiling slightly she added, “And this is our training.”  ​

They struggled with the choice to keep going late into the night even though they were tired or give up and set up camp.  The choice had been thrust upon them as part of a designed experience, complete with a higher purpose than comfort and rest, and the decision was made simpler by trusting that there was meaning to the assignment.  They understood the purpose but hadn’t quite discovered the significance.  All of us persevered because we believed the revelation would come with finding the destination. 

Meaning and destination are not only compelling forces that motivate a driven team of DM trainees, these attributes also seem essential for our journey as Christians.  I wonder sometimes if we realize that the Christian life, while good and abundant, is a long, slow, often difficult walk.  It should come as no surprise when we read passages like 2 Timothy 2:3-6 where Paul puts it bluntly,
“Share in suffering as a good soldier of Christ Jesus. No soldier gets entangled in civilian pursuits, since his aim is to please the one who enlisted him. An athlete is not crowned unless he competes according to the rules. It is the hard-working farmer who ought to have the first share of the crops” (ESV).
​
Soldiers, athletes and farmers…what do they all have in common?  They have to endure.  The soldier endures a battle.  The athlete pushes to finish a distance race.  The farmer his works steadily all year—preparing the land, sowing the seed, weeding and watering, and waiting for the crop to yield. ​

​In her acclaimed bestseller, Grit, Angela Duckworth defends that true success is not achieved by those with simply the most giftedness, greatest intelligence, and deepest pockets, but success comes to those who are driven by a passion and fueled by perseverance.  Paul cuts to the heart of this knowing the true passion of the Jesus-follower is Christ Himself, and the success of the gospel is accomplished through perseverance.  Nazi concentration camp survivor, Victor Frankl, summed up the difference between those who endured the camps versus those who perished in his 1946 book, Man’s Search for Meaning, stating that the variance was the identification of purpose to one’s life through three distinct ways—the completion of tasks, caring for another person, or facing suffering with dignity.

Christians are in a battle.  We face a contest that requires disciplined preparation and like farmers, we plant the seeds of the gospel and of charitable deeds hoping to see the fruit.  In Paul’s challenge to Timothy, he calls us to be like soldiers, athletes, and farmers as we accomplish the three great purposes very similar to Frankl’s discovery of survival.  As farmers, we work hard at the task of planting, cultivating, and harvesting.  As soldiers, we defend citizens and protect the weak, and in so doing, we are caring for others.  Like an Olympic athlete, we endure the suffering of competing in the games in front of a crowd to win the garland, and no matter our placing, we can cross the line with dignity. 

Thinking back to that long, wearisome, training expedition, I remember many of the other hardships we faced together as a group—a swift river crossing, a number of time-consuming wrong turns, and the little things like washing the dinner pots in a cold creek and helping a mate lift a pack to his shoulders.  Moreover, I remember that the people being trained each exhibited grit—a firmness of character and an indomitable spirit.  I saw them go on that summer to lead and facilitate some very extraordinary adventures for the participants they led. 

Frankl spoke of surviving, but Paul’s words to us who call Christ “Lord” mean thriving.  It is difficult work in the Christian life to stand our ground, to train with discipline, and to work the fields, but in the end, we will see the defeat of a foe, receive the victor’s crown, and enjoy a great harvest feast.  Because of our grit, the suffering will be worth it one day when we reach the destination and trade in the suffering of a servant for the crown of a saint.

​I had been standing in the dirt spotting for over half an hour and my patience was running thin.  So was everyone else’s.  I think I would have given up if not for the pleading gravity in the adolescent girl’s eyes.  She was thin and plain with shoulder length brown hair, quiet but determined.  I could tell she wanted to make it, wanted to succeed, to cross over from failure to victor.  All she had to do was take a few measly steps across a ten foot log.  It was not just a log, but a swinging horizontal telephone pole designed to be difficult on purpose for even the most well-balanced individuals.  The girl was not well balanced, but what she lacked in agility she made up for in heart.  We all wanted to see her succeed.  

I had watched and spotted with my hands out, palms up, thumbs in ready along with everybody else in her group to catch her if she took an errant step off the pole that dangled just a foot above the ground.  When her eyes beaded with tears, I knew it was time to employ some facilitative assistance.  I didn’t steady her by the arm or hold the log from swaying.  I gave her more powerful help when I simply told her to “look” at the platform across the way, to the place where she was trying to get. 

​She threw me a questioning glance.  I held two fingers to my eyes and gestured toward the destination.  She locked onto the target, and began her umpteenth tight-rope style walk across the log.  She didn’t look down or around from side to side but straight ahead.  As her youth group and I watched with held breath, we nearly forgot to spot her along the way, because to our amazement she was making it.  Suddenly to an uproarious cheer she reached the far side of the swinging log, grasped with all her might around a supporting tree and heaved with tears of joy.  Later that day as I led a group discussion I asked her what had made the difference.  “When I lifted my gaze and looked ahead, I made it,” she said as understanding began to dawn on her. ​

​To simply “look,” is more powerful an action than we realize.  It works to help us steady our focus to cross a wobbling log, but it also has deeply spiritual implications as well.  The concept of looking is a strong metaphor in scripture.  Matthew 6:22 tells us the eye is the lamp of the body.  In Psalm 121 the psalmist says, “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."  Hebrews 12:2 tells us to “Fix our eyes on Jesus.”  In John 1:46, Nathaniel expresses skepticism about Jesus being the Messiah, and Philip responds, "Come and see," inviting him to meet Jesus.  Using our eyes to look is a theme found all over in scripture, but the other night as I sat with my family reading the word for advent, tears welled up in mine as I pondered a familiar "looking" passage.

It’s the commonest of Christmas scripture passages, one we hear read over nativity scenes and hear pronounced at every church Christmas pageant heralded by front-toothless eight-year-old's in ill-fitting white robes.  It’s so little a word that some bible translations don’t even use it—the word “behold.”  Sounds old fashion, highfalutin, and peculiar enough to gloss over, but it took my breath away when I read it. 

It’s the scene with the angels in the fields lighting up the night sky and scaring the bejezus out of some woebegone shepherds.  An angel says, “Do not be afraid.  Behold.  I bring you good tidings of great joy”  (Lk 2:10).  We know what’s coming next in the story and usually my mind rushes ahead to the stable, a couple of newly wedded fools who have agreed to attempt to raise the messiah and a swaddled baby king laying in a mule’s feed trough.  But we need to suspend our heart and mind for a moment on what the angel is saying because his instructions for the shepherds is a command for us as well.  “Fear not, but Behold.” 

​In this particular biblical passage the word “behold,” is rendered in the greek from the word ido, meaning to see.  However, according to Strong’s Concordance, the angel delivers it in “second person, singular imperative, middle voice.”  Whew, that’s a mouthful, but what’s the significance.  It’s like the angel says, “Hey you!  Yeah you!  See here!  Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”  The angel is commanding or maybe inviting, but he's also participating with the shepherds in seeing, experiencing and beholding what is taking place—the inauguration of the salvation of the world.  It’s as if the angels themselves just found out and are bursting to tell someone.  

The best way I can describe it is that it’s like the time I was hiking in the Grand Canyon with friends and we’d been hiking so long that I was wearily staring down at the hard-packed trail—one tired foot in front of the other—when suddenly I bumped into the person in front of me because they had abruptly stopped.  “Hey?  What give’s?” I was about to say, when they grasped my forearm and wordlessly drew my attention aloft to the sheer cliffs of the canyon wall, towering over us and glowing gold in the late day sun.  A crescent moon hung above the cliffs dotted by stars in a deep purple sky.  All of us just stood there silent, forgetting our aching legs and empty bellies and the miles ahead, just silently marveling at the sight, drinking in the view, being utterly present in the majesty of that moment--beholding. 

​You may be wobbling along off balance and needing to look.  You may be floundering in the midst of the Holiday season, overwhelmed and needing to fix your eyes on something joyful.  You may be simply trudging along, eyes down, leaning into the work of life and needing to lift your gaze.  Whatever the looking and seeing you are in need of, join the angelic messenger, the shepherds, Mary and Joseph and the rest of creation as you come alongside the manger, and do more than just look for the hundredth time at a helpless baby wrapped in swaddling clothes; take a moment to behold the savior.  

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given…
 Isaiah 9:6