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“We Can’t Stay on the Mountain” For Coraopolis Presbyterian Church

2nd Sunday in Lent (Year A) Matthew 17:1–9; Genesis 12:1–4a; Psalm 121

Sermon For Sunday Morning

“I lift up my eyes to the hills—from where will my help come?”

That’s a beautiful line. But it’s also a very honest question.

Because sometimes the hills—the mountains—feel like the only place where things make sense.

Where life feels clear.

Where God feels close.

Where we can finally breathe.

There was a time in my life when I felt that kind of clarity.

I was teaching music at OLSH High School. And I loved it!

I loved my students.

I loved their parents.

I loved my colleagues.

I loved the Felician Sisters.

I loved the rhythm of the school year—the bell schedule, the concerts, the sense of movement.

There is something comforting about a bell schedule.

You know when things start.

You know when they end.

You know when lunch is.

And while I was teaching, I was also discerning a call to ordained ministry.

I worked in a few churches in non-ordained roles, just to get a sense of what that life might be like.

And then the time came. The moment when I had to decide. To leave teaching…and step into a pastoral role.

And I was nervous. Because I wasn’t leaving something I disliked. I was leaving something I loved.

But I knew—deep down—God was calling me. Not to something clearer.

Not to something safer. Just… to something different. Something I couldn’t fully see yet. So I went.

And here’s the part no one really prepares you for.

The first few months were… lonely.

I went from teaching and making music with hundreds of students

to working with a smaller congregation and a church staff.

The building was quiet. Very quiet.

I remember sitting at my desk drinking coffee while it was still hot. Which had never happened before. And I liked that part.

But I also remember crying at that desk. Because I missed my students. I missed the noise. The energy. The chaos.

And I remember wondering: Did I make a mistake? Had God really called me… to this?

Nothing dramatic happened to fix it. No moment of clarity. No voice from heaven. Just… small things. Conversations. Relationships. Finding colleagues—like Pastor Rebecca. Figuring out how to build my own rhythm instead of following a bell schedule. It was slow.

And if I’m honest, I never felt as certain as I did the day I said yes.

But that moment—that clarity—stayed with me. And I kept going. Not because I understood everything. But because I trusted the One who called me.

And that’s why this Gospel story feels so familiar.

Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a mountain.

And suddenly—everything is clear. Jesus is shining. Moses and Elijah are there. And a voice from heaven says: “This is my Son, the Beloved… listen to him.” It is unmistakable.

And Peter says exactly what we would say: “Lord, it is good for us to be here.”

Of course it is. Who wouldn’t want to stay in a moment like that?

Peter wants to build something. Three dwellings. Three tents. A way to hold onto the moment.

Because when something feels that clear— we want to keep it.

We want to stay.

But the moment doesn’t stay.

Even as Peter is speaking, a cloud overshadows them.

The voice speaks.

The disciples fall to the ground in fear.

And when they look up— It’s over. No Moses. No Elijah. No shining light.

Just Jesus. And then he leads them down the mountain.

And this is where Lent meets us:

The mountain shows us God’s glory—but we cannot stay there. Like Abram, we are called to walk forward without certainty. And like the psalmist, we go longing for God’s presence—trusting that the light we glimpsed on the mountain is already at work within us.

We cannot stay there. As much as we want to.

Because this is how God works.

Abram hears God say: “Go.” Leave your country. Leave your people. Leave what you know. Go to the land I will show you.

Not have shown you. “I will show you.”

Which means you won’t see it yet. You’ll have to walk.

And Abram goes. Without a plan. Without clarity. With only a promise.

And the disciples go down the mountain. Back to the crowds. Back to confusion. Back toward Jerusalem… and the cross.

And we go, too. Not because everything is clear. But because we have been called.

Which brings us back to that psalm.

“I lift up my eyes to the hills—from where will my help come?”

It sounds like the answer should be: From the hills. From the mountain. From that moment when everything made sense.

But the psalm says: “My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.”

Not the place. Not the feeling. God.

And then it says something even more important: “The Lord is your keeper… The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in.”

Your going out. Your coming in.

Which is really just another way of saying: Everywhere. All of it.

The mountain. And the road.

The clarity. And the confusion.

The moment when everything makes sense— and the long stretch when it doesn’t.

God is not waiting for us on the mountain. God goes with us.

So maybe the mountain isn’t where we’re meant to live.

Maybe it’s where we see clearly— just long enough to keep going.

Just long enough to remember: who Jesus is. And who we are. And why we’re on this journey at all.

Because faith doesn’t happen on the mountain. Faith happens on the road. When the moment fades. When the feeling is gone. When we are just… walking.

So this Lent, the question isn’t: How do we stay on the mountain?

The question is: Will we go? Will we trust, like Abram? Will we follow, like the disciples? Will we keep walking— even when we don’t see the whole path?

Because we don’t go alone. The Lord is our keeper. The Lord goes with our going out and our coming in.

The Lord is with us— in the quiet office, in the uncertain step, in the ordinary day.

So yes— “I lift up my eyes to the hills.” We remember those moments. We need those moments.

But we don’t live there. We live here. On the road.

And on that road, we walk with this trust: That the light we glimpsed on the mountain is already at work within us—even now. Even here. Even when we can’t see it.

Prayer

God of the mountain and the journey, you meet us in moments of clarity and call us forward into what we cannot yet see. When we want to stay where it feels safe, give us courage to go. Keep us in our going out and our coming in, and help us trust that your light is with us always. Amen.

Charge & Blessing

Go now into your week—not with everything figured out, but trusting the One who calls you. And may the God who was with you on the mountain go with you on the road, keeping you, guiding you, and holding you in love. Amen.

“We Can’t Stay on the Mountain” (5-minute version for Saturday Night)

“I lift up my eyes to the hills—

from where will my help come?”

Sometimes the hills—the mountains—feel like the only place where things make sense. Where God feels close. Where life feels clear.

There was a time in my life when things felt that clear. I was teaching music at OLSH High School, and I loved it.I loved my students, my colleagues, the whole rhythm of the school year.

And while I was teaching, I was also sensing a call to ministry.

Eventually, the time came to make a decision. To leave teaching… and step into something new. And I knew—deep down—that God was calling me. Not to something clearer. Just… something different. So I went.

And honestly? The first few months were really hard. I went from being surrounded by students and music all day to working in a quiet church office.

I remember sitting at my desk, drinking coffee while it was still hot—which I liked—but also feeling really alone. I missed my students.

And I remember wondering: Did I make a mistake? Had God really called me to this?

Nothing dramatic happened. No big moment. Just small things. New relationships. New rhythms. Learning how to do this new kind of life. And over time, I began to trust the call again. Not because everything was clear. But because I remembered that moment when it was.

And that’s why this Gospel story feels so real. Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a mountain. And suddenly everything is clear.

Jesus is shining. God’s voice speaks: “This is my Son… listen to him.”

And Peter says: “Lord, it is good for us to be here.”

Of course it is. Who wouldn’t want to stay in a moment like that?

But they don’t stay. The moment passes. The light fades. And Jesus leads them back down the mountain.

And this is the truth we live with: The mountain shows us God’s glory—but we cannot stay there. Like Abram, we are called to walk forward without certainty. And like the psalmist, we go longing for God’s presence—trusting that the light we glimpsed on the mountain is already at work within us.

We can’t stay on the mountain. Even when we want to.

Because faith isn’t just about those clear moments. It’s about what happens after. When things aren’t clear. When we’re just… walking.

The psalm says: “I lift up my eyes to the hills— from where will my help come?”

And the answer is: “My help comes from the Lord.” Not from the mountain. Not from the moment. From God.

And then it says: “The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in.”

Which means: God isn’t just on the mountain. God is with you on the road. So maybe those mountaintop moments aren’t meant to last. Maybe they’re meant to give us just enough light to keep going.

So this Lent, the question isn’t: How do I get back to the mountain?

The question is: Can I trust God here? In the ordinary. In the uncertainty. In the next step.

Because we don’t go alone. The Lord goes with us.

And the light we glimpsed on the mountain is still at work— even now.

 Prayer

God, thank you for the moments when everything feels clear. And thank you for walking with us when it doesn’t. Help us to trust you, step by step, knowing you are always with us. Amen.

Charge & Blessing

Go now into your week—not with everything figured out, but trusting the One who calls you. And may the God who was with you on the mountain go with you on the road, keeping you, guiding you, and holding you in love. Amen.