The musings of Peter

When I was a boy, the oldest people in our village taught that the world was a mountain.

Not that the mountain stood somewhere beyond our village. The village itself rested upon it. We were born upon a broad plateau halfway to the summit. There were fields to till, streams to drink from, orchards that flowered every spring, and enough comfort that many believed there could be no finer place in all creation.

Yet no child could ignore the mountain itself.

If you looked upward, the land rose into forests of dark pine, then bare cliffs of gray stone, and higher still into snow so brilliant that it almost hurt the eyes. Clouds wrapped themselves around the summit as though protecting a secret. Sometimes lightning flashed through them, and strangers would shake their heads.

“No sensible man,” they would say, “would climb into a storm.”

If you looked down, the mountain fell away into a valley of astonishing beauty. Vineyards stretched toward gentle rivers. Wildflowers covered the meadows, and birds filled the morning air with song. The breeze carried the fragrance of blossoms up to our little plateau, and many evenings families would stroll down the winding paths simply to enjoy the beauty before returning home.

No one ever said the valley was evil.

How could they? It was beautiful. Children laughed there. Friends gathered there. Bread was broken there. Lovers walked beneath flowering trees. It was, after all, part of the King’s own mountain.

That, perhaps, was its greatest mystery.

For the valley asked nothing of you except that you remain.

Long before my grandfather’s grandfather was born, a Man descended from the summit.

He did not wander down as one who had lost His way. He came with the confidence of One returning from His own home.

He spoke of the country above the clouds as though He had built it with His own hands. He described a kingdom where every hunger was satisfied, every wound healed, every tear dried, and every joy fulfilled without ever becoming ordinary. Those who heard Him wrote down His words, and generation after generation we read them aloud. Some treasured them. Others admired them as poetry. Still others dismissed them as pleasant stories for frightened people.

Life continued.

Some people wandered into the valley and returned smiling, carrying baskets filled with fruit and tales of peaceful days. Yet the older travelers would quietly admit that the farther they had gone, the more difficult it became to remember why they had intended to return. The paths always sloped gently downward. One scarcely noticed he was descending until the climb back seemed steeper than he remembered.

Others chose to climb.

They returned with torn boots, scraped hands, and weary bodies. They spoke of narrow ledges, bitter winds, and nights when the clouds hid every landmark. Yet there was something peculiar about them. Though exhausted, they possessed a joy that comfortable people rarely understand. Their eyes seemed fixed upon something just beyond the clouds.

As the years passed, I noticed that everyone eventually packed his belongings.

Some quietly chose the valley.

Some quietly chose the mountain.

And, sooner or later, every traveler disappeared beyond a bend from which no road returned.

When I was young, this troubled me greatly. I longed for someone to return from the summit carrying a flower that grew above the clouds or a handful of snow that never melted. Surely, I thought, such proof would settle every argument forever.

An old shepherd laughed when I told him this.

“My boy,” he said, “if every traveler returned with gold in his pockets and songs from the summit, no one would remain here for another day. Men would climb for profit, not for love. They would seek the King for His treasure rather than His friendship.”

“But then why did the Man come down at all?” I asked.

“So that no one could ever say the road was hidden.”

The shepherd pointed toward the summit. It remained veiled in cloud.

“The King has not concealed the mountain,” he said. “He has concealed only enough of it to leave room for trust. He has shown us the road. He has sent us a Guide. He has even walked the path Himself. If He uncovered the whole kingdom before the journey began, faith would disappear, hope would become calculation, and love would become nothing more than good business.”

I stood silent for a long while.

The valley below was still beautiful.

The plateau was still comfortable.

The mountain above was still difficult.

None of those things had changed.

Only one thing had become clear.

The question had never been whether the valley was lovely. It was. The question was whether lovely things were enough to satisfy a heart that had been made for the summit.

Now I think that is why the Man came down.

Not merely to tell us that the summit existed, but to show us that the One who waits there is worth every step of the climb.

He did not ask us to believe in a mountain He had never seen.

He asked us to follow Him home.