In March I took a spiritually-important but perhaps physically ill-advised trip. I’d had back surgery two months before that had accomplished exactly nothing. I was in chronic discomfort, with a much-weakened right leg. But I’d had on the docket for almost a year a pilgrimage to Croagh Patrick—St. Patrick’s Mountain—one of the holiest sites in Ireland, with the plan to climb the mountain on St. Patrick’s Day with three of my closest friends from across the span of my life. I won’t go into all the advance reasons that I thought this climb was important, mainly because all those reasons were quickly rendered moot as soon as we started up the mountain.
Croagh Patrick is the mountain on which, in the late 400s, St. Patrick lived for forty days and forty nights, emulating Jesus’ forty days in the wilderness. My three friends and I hired a local hiking guide to take us not up the straight, well-marked, relatively easy north face of the mountain, but up the unmarked, no-trail south face that St. Patrick himself is believed to have climbed. Our climb actually included two mountains: First Ben Goram, then across a saddle, and then up Croagh Patrick itself.
Ireland was unseasonably sunny and warm in the days leading up to our climb. But as soon as we took the first step up the steep and boggy turf of Ben Goram (the first mountain), an unholy tempest as if from the fourth chapter of Mark’s Gospel blew in from the Atlantic. In an instant, the temperature dropped twenty-five degrees, and for the next five hours—five hours!—we were sleeted on and enshrouded in thick fog. Even so, I approached and attacked the mountain the way I do hikes in the U.S. I wanted to beat the mountain and, honestly, I wanted to beat my three equally-middle-aged friends, to demonstrate my fitness and vitality.
Then reality set in. Fifteen minutes into our climb I began to lean hard into the mountain to keep from being blown off of it. Thirty minutes after that, my right foot began to “slap” and get hung first on turf and then on scree, as the strength drained from my hobbled right leg. By the time we topped Ben Goram, reached the saddle between mountains, and briefly paused—but only briefly, because of the risk of hypothermia—I realized that I might not make it to the top. (Actually, what occurred to me because I watch too many movies, is that, if we became stuck on the mountain and the group was forced to eat someone in order to survive, I’d be dinner!)
Only because turning around and climbing down the way we’d come was more treacherous than continuing to Croagh Patrick’s summit, we kept going. But not in the same way as before. My movements were numbingly slow and deliberate. With my eyes half-closed against the wind and sleet, I knew that I was the anchor dragging everyone down. When I finally opened my eyes, I couldn’t see anyone ahead of me. For a split second, I panicked, because I thought I’d fallen so far behind the others that I’d lost them in the fog. But then I realized that they weren’t in front of me at all. Without a word to me, and without a word to each other, my three friends had fallen behind me and were walking in a line with me in front. All competition and bravado had completely given way in our circumstances. In essence, my three friends were, on the one hand, serving as a safety net to keep me from falling and, on the other hand, pushing me up the mountain.
My eyes teared up, this time not from the wind. For a moment, I was humiliated, as all the unspoken, subconscious things that has brought me to the mountain were revealed to be empty motivations. That flash of humiliation then gave way to the recognition that I was encountering, in my friends and in real time, a love that is rare; a love that is life-saving. Much more slowly than we’d planned, we made it to the top of Croagh Patrick. And fifteen minutes after we began our descent on the other side, the weather broke, and the sun shined brightly. God’s wonder!
This is Senior Sunday at Christ Church. Today, we celebrate those at the cusp of adulthood who have been part of this community and who will remain so, even though they may soon be geographically distant. So to you seniors, but also to all of our youth here present, I share this: Over the next several years, you will hear many people encourage you to climb all sorts of peaks, metaphorical and otherwise, to demonstrate your prowess, your strength, your ambition, your superiority over your peers. You’ll be told there is no mountain summit you cannot reach. You’ll see mountain-climbing memes on Instagram that read, “Don’t give up,” and “You can do anything you set your mind to.” You’ll be told in innumerable ways that life is there for you to conquer.
That is not my message to you. That is a message we’ve been conveying for three generations now in our culture. It is largely a lie. It is detrimental to you, and it is detrimental to the world. Because if you succeed in conquering those mountains, you do so by leaving behind those injured on the slopes, or by causing an avalanche in your wake and not pausing to see or care about the destruction it causes. And if you don’t succeed in conquering those mountains, you are left in humiliation and shame because you have not fulfilled the promise all those people told you was your birthright.
Even though we are now well into the Easter season, today in John’s Gospel we are catapulted back to the Upper Room and the Last Supper. Jesus has just gotten up from the dusty floor where he, to the disciples’ shock and amazement, has washed their feet. Jesus now explains in words what he has demonstrated in actions. Jesus says to those he loves, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
To love is an easy thing. I love lots of things: bluebonnets in spring, the Arkansas Razorbacks, Wendell Berry novels, my car. If Jesus had only said “Love one another” and stopped there, we could conquer life’s mountains with determination and grit and love just a bit here and there to make us feel better about the climb. But Jesus doesn’t stop there. In the same breath, Jesus interprets for us the kind of love he means for us to show one another, the kind of love on which those who follow Jesus are to model our lives. We are to love one another as Jesus loves us: a get down in the dirt and wash one another’s feet love; a see one another through the fog love; a love that recognizes that we reach the top together or it isn’t worth the climb.
There are mountains to climb. Seniors, the next one is right in front of you, and when you reach its summit, there may be a brief pause on the saddle, but then there will be another peak to climb just beyond. To that extent, the mountain-climbing metaphor for life holds. But Jesus shows us that the goal in life is not to conquer the mountain or beat others to the top. The goal in life is twofold:
First, push yourself, surely, but also recognize your true limitations not as failures, but as reminders that none of us is a little god, that we are creatures of this world, and that the world will ultimately mold us rather than us molding it. This recognition and embrace is not humiliation, but humility, the opposite of destructive pride, and our hurting world needs humility more than bravado.
Life’s second goal is to recognize that, as we climb, our first responsibility is to our fellow climbers. Sometimes, you will be the only one who prevents someone else from falling off the mountain. Sometimes, you may be the one who can push someone else to the top, so you both reach the apex together.
So, climb the mountains. In summer or sleet, climb. In sunshine or fog, climb. But as you put one foot in front of the other, remember Jesus’ words: “As I have loved you, so you should love one another.” With a love like that, and climbing together, sunlight scatters the fog, and we each become disciples.