The Terror of the Mountaintop
“And Peter said to Jesus, ‘Rabbi, it is good that we are here. Let us make three tents, one for you and one for Moses and one for Elijah.’ For he did not know what to say, for they were terrified.” (Mark 9:5-6)
“For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city that is to come.” (Hebrews 13:14)
Lately, I’ve been rather terrified. Let me explain: I feel I’ve seen something of the trajectory of my life, and I know some dreams will not be realized (further education, more children, work in my chosen field, to name a few).
I’ve also seen that a lot of celebrated milestones in my life have been reached: graduations, marriage, children, career. Where once people said that I have so many exciting things ahead, now there’s a basic acknowledgment that the future belongs to someone else.
Like Peter on the mountain of transfiguration, I can say “It’s good for me to be here,” because I’ve made it through the hurt and danger and disappointment–as well as the joys, hopes, and aspirations–of childhood and young adulthood in one piece.
But, after arriving at a seeming peak of my life’s experience, I knew the only way to keep going in life was either to diminish or to change.
An Invitation to Self-Sacrifice
So, when I got the invitation of a friend to go on a men’s camping retreat, I got really nervous. When the author of Hebrews discusses going outside the city, he is figuratively calling on the believer to accept a posture of self-sacrifice just as when Jesus was crucified (Hebrews 13:11-13).
On a physical level, there is the loss of comfort of sleeping on the hard ground. On a spiritual level, there was the same challenge that I got from youth conventions: I was expected to see God in the comparative isolation and hardship of the wilderness and to change my life as a result.
The thing is: I still struggle with some of the same issues that I “surrendered to God” back as a teenager: self-loathing, jealousy, and anger.
Would this time be different, or was I simply going through the motions of transformation, “having the appearance of godliness, but denying its power” (2 Timothy 3:5)?
No Lasting City
I and my two friends arrived at the campsite, only to discover my friend had left his tent poles back in Illinois.
It seemed our trip was off to a bad start. With no tent, there wouldn’t even be a temporary shelter from bugs or sun to stay in. Fortunately, the camp director lent us his tent, so we didn’t have to backtrack to buy one.
This problem resolved, I was again faced with the business of self-examination and -transformation.
I recalled a book I had read: Cities: The First 6000 Years. In it, Monica L. Smith proposed that the beginnings of cities were ceremonial or religious gatherings at sacred sites. Her reasoning was that–in addition to all the pageantry and metaphysical significance of events–people would barter, build relationships, start rivalries or alliances, find friends or lovers.
And, she argued, people soon became desirous of these opportunities all the time.
I can resonate with her argument. For much of my days, I am very alone. There’s no sounding board for my ideas or concerns, no influx of new people with whom to engage, and limited opportunity for novelty.
At this men’s retreat, I exchanged ideas about the universe (we went stargazing), marriage, children, work, food, and leisure with several men of ages a decade or two in either direction of me.
All of that happened around the programmatic elements of the event: the worship band, the speeches, the small group discussions, and the games.
Even though the camp ground wasn’t meant to be a permanent residence, it made a mark on my imagination. Which is exactly what these first worship and gathering places did for people: periodically called them back together for official and unofficial meetings that gave meaning and direction to their lives apart.
The Bonfire of the Vanities
A place to burn the written-down sins you wish to leave behind.
Where modern life lacks clear markers–like the comparative directionless of my near-midlife crisis, rituals provide them.
I was most affected by and most uncomfortable with this evening of the camp.
I had participated in the finite game of a hot sauce eating competition (I made it to third place, consuming a sauce with the equivalent heat of pepper spray). Everyone else folded shortly after I.
But, this was a sort of infinite game: the kind of activity with a beginning but not a clear end or spatial-temporal limit (other than death, I suppose).
As I sweated and occasionally doubled over from the aftermath of the hot sauce, I listened to the speaker talk about purging the idols from our lives. A fire blazed in front of the stage and we could write down our habitual sins and toss them in.
I jotted down my obsession with social media, with my student evaluations and the validation or criticism from which I took self-worth, as well as my focus on drink and food as an emotional outlet.
As I watched my paper burn, I wondered if I’d simply return to these problem behaviors once the glory of the mountaintop faded, as it were.
The End of the Ceremony
There’s always an end to this part of the infinite game of living life. Even if I return to the camp again, even if people remember me as the guy who helped put his team on the board with the feat of consuming hot sauces saner people would leave alone–I will have to go back and live out the lessons learned from community in isolation.
Indeed, even on the way home, I had my first disappointment: my mother was fairly sick and could not watch my son on my first day teaching summer school.
I got mad and asked my friends as we drove away: “why can’t it just be easy? If a loving God is out there, why make it complicated coming back from a weekend like this?”
The Aftermath
Two days on, and I’ve weathered the storm pretty well. I did make arrangements for childcare so I could teach, and thanks to the generosity of others, my son was well cared for.
None of the material I had requested photocopied was waiting for me, so I had to scramble for that. The classroom computer also crashed, further complicating matters.
So far, by the grace of God, I’ve steered clear of the behaviors on my burned paper. I am sad because the retreat is over, but recognize that it was never meant to be the city to come, just enough redirection and encouragement to carry on.
We live much of our lives in isolation. But places of worship and religious gatherings can call us back together in order to give meaning and direction to our lives apart. Click To Tweet
