More Majestic Than Mountains
From Psalm 121 – 1 A Song of Ascents. I will lift up my eyes to the hills – From whence comes my help? 2 My help comes from the Lord, who made Heaven and Earth.
As a resident for most of my life and the flatter portions of the Carolinas, I have scant experience with mountains. Mine is enough, though, to know that they impose the consideration of a different perspective. My family traveled to the top of Pike's Peak on a vacation. The compact rental car was nearly overmatched by the climb. Meanwhile, the clime which had allowed for lounging by the pool the day before changed drastically enough as we ascended that at the top my brother and father were rifling through suitcases for warmer clothing.
The psalmist is at such a place opening what comes down to us as Psalm 121. The mountains are too big and too different to be ignored. They have to be factored in. They change the climate. Depending on one's situation, they either offer protection or expose human limitations. Consider them, but then what?
The psalmist's next thoughts are a sure Sherpa for us. He pivots to the reality that his help comes from the Lord, and that the Lord made Heaven and Earth. Whatever thoughts emerge with the mountains, there is perspective here. If the mountains intimidate, we are steadied with him by the reality that the Lord made them without strain, along with the rest of the terraform. What are mountains to Him Who made something, all things, from nothing? What are thin air and strained legs or rental car engines to Him Who is the ongoing source of all real strength?
My vantage point right now is more encouraging and sobering both. The landscape I look up and see is protective on a couple of sides of my life which have recently seemed under assault. Hopes that not too long ago seemed fragile, even foolish, are finding refuge in the range around me. The thoughts of the psalmist's second verse are especially worth considering in seasons like this. Even where we are protected and encouraged from some earthly opening, our help and our hope is not ultimately there. Even where, as Spurgeon says this morning in Morning and Evening, if we obey Isaiah 40:9's order to take in life from a high mountain and thus see more of God's glory than before, topography does not overtake theology.
As sure as is the mountain-inspired awe of Psalm 121 and Isaiah 40:9, Psalm 23 treks through the valley of the shadow of death will come again. If our faith drops with the terrain, what were we really trusting in? With the psalmist in Psalm 121, then, we can take a measure of what is before our eyes, and then turn our eyes and thoughts inward to the reality that God is greater than the scene in front of us. As He made Heaven and Earth, so He reigns when the mountains are not in sight, and He will reign when He decides to melt them. As we climb or descend by degrees today, we can testify as this psalmist does that our hope doesn't vary with the altimeter's reading.
As a resident for most of my life and the flatter portions of the Carolinas, I have scant experience with mountains. Mine is enough, though, to know that they impose the consideration of a different perspective. My family traveled to the top of Pike's Peak on a vacation. The compact rental car was nearly overmatched by the climb. Meanwhile, the clime which had allowed for lounging by the pool the day before changed drastically enough as we ascended that at the top my brother and father were rifling through suitcases for warmer clothing.
The psalmist is at such a place opening what comes down to us as Psalm 121. The mountains are too big and too different to be ignored. They have to be factored in. They change the climate. Depending on one's situation, they either offer protection or expose human limitations. Consider them, but then what?
The psalmist's next thoughts are a sure Sherpa for us. He pivots to the reality that his help comes from the Lord, and that the Lord made Heaven and Earth. Whatever thoughts emerge with the mountains, there is perspective here. If the mountains intimidate, we are steadied with him by the reality that the Lord made them without strain, along with the rest of the terraform. What are mountains to Him Who made something, all things, from nothing? What are thin air and strained legs or rental car engines to Him Who is the ongoing source of all real strength?
My vantage point right now is more encouraging and sobering both. The landscape I look up and see is protective on a couple of sides of my life which have recently seemed under assault. Hopes that not too long ago seemed fragile, even foolish, are finding refuge in the range around me. The thoughts of the psalmist's second verse are especially worth considering in seasons like this. Even where we are protected and encouraged from some earthly opening, our help and our hope is not ultimately there. Even where, as Spurgeon says this morning in Morning and Evening, if we obey Isaiah 40:9's order to take in life from a high mountain and thus see more of God's glory than before, topography does not overtake theology.
As sure as is the mountain-inspired awe of Psalm 121 and Isaiah 40:9, Psalm 23 treks through the valley of the shadow of death will come again. If our faith drops with the terrain, what were we really trusting in? With the psalmist in Psalm 121, then, we can take a measure of what is before our eyes, and then turn our eyes and thoughts inward to the reality that God is greater than the scene in front of us. As He made Heaven and Earth, so He reigns when the mountains are not in sight, and He will reign when He decides to melt them. As we climb or descend by degrees today, we can testify as this psalmist does that our hope doesn't vary with the altimeter's reading.
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