Several months ago, I dug out an old story written back in my Youth For Christ days. I put it in one of the little cubbyholes on my desk, and it has sat there ever since. As I've been looking it over the past few days, I realize that it describes portions of my spiritual journey fairly well. There is, it seems to me, a struggle between living a religion and living in relationship. Thought I would edit it and put it on here.
The man lay dying. Even from a distance I could see his bruised and battered face. Crimson blood freely flowed from the exposed tissue on his arms and hands as he reached out to the passing crowds. Throngs passed, and only a few glanced his way as they hastily walked by . Indeed, they barely seemed to notice.
Making my was through the crowd, I knelt beside his listless form, and held his damaged hands in mine. As I looked into the eyes of this dying stranger, a small smile appeared on his swollen lips. His mouth moved ever so slightly, but the words he spoke came forth with amazing clarity, "My father sent me to find you. You do not know my father, but he knows you and speaks of you often. His days are filled with thoughts of the time you will come to him. My desire is to see my father satisfied, and so I have come for you. Please go to him." After my friend had spoken these words, he pushed a folded paper into my palm, gazed steadily into my eyes, and drew his final breath.
Why I call this stranger my friend, I do not know. Perhaps it was the words he spoke, or the way he died. Perhaps it was the way he stared into my eyes, or the gentleness with which he held my hand. I do not understand why, but he was my friend.
With hands covered with my friend's blood, I opened the paper he had firmly pressed into my hand. A map to his father's house. I would go. What compulsion led me to this decision, I do not know. It may have been out of curiosity, or possibly a sense of obligation. After all, someone had to tell him of his son's death. In a few short moments, this stranger had become my friend. I would go.
While standing at the foot of the mountain, gazing at it's height, I felt I could go no further. Yet, the map had led me here. The father of my friend lived on this magnificent rock, with peaks reaching into the clouds. His son was dead, and he must be told. I began to climb. The ascent was steep. So very steep. The grade became even more precipitous as I climbed, and yet I found it surprisingly easy to work my way up the side of the mountain. Topping a ridge at eight thousand feet I could go no further. The beauty of what lay before me took my breath away. There was a peacefulness I could not comprehend.
A meadow with hills on two sides and a mountain towering on the third. A crystal clear lake reflecting the dark blue, cloudless sky. Ice cold streams wandering aimlessly for miles through deep mountain passes, just to drop their contents over a cliff suspended high above the lake. A continuous rainbow surrounded me as the sun reflected through the mist of the falls.
The place held me captive. I drank long and deep from one of the streams. No wine could match it's sweetness. As I lay on the lush green grass, it folded into a wonderfully soft mattress. My eyes followed two eagles high in the sky, apparently playing a friendly game of tag. And I slept.
When I awoke, I had found the father of my friend. How he had found me, I do not know. He looked at me with eyes that reminded me of his son's, smiled and said, "You have come." My eyes went to my hands as I struggled for words, "Your son has found me and sent me to you, but he has died." Tears rolled down his grizzled cheeks as he stared into the distance. "I know. I watched him die as he held your hand in his. I sent him for you and he has found you. Of them all, I knew that you would come. It is good that you are here."
A smile of understanding spread across the face of the father of my friend, as he stared at the far, blue mountains. My eyes followed his. A speck outlined on the horizon took the form of a man as it drew closer. We watched in silence as the man approached. At last I recognized him. It was my friend. His wounds were healed, but the scars remained. I had watched him die, but he stood before me very much alive. I did not understand.
My friend embraced his father with an affection I could not comprehend, yet I could feel the love in his action. He turned to me with a gentle smile on his face, tears of love streaming down his cheeks, and hugged me with the same feeling of affection as when he had touched his father. He did not speak, for it was not necessary.
We were three on the mountain. The father, my friend and me. And it was good. I did not want to leave, but was not sure I could stay. As we walked one evening, I told them of my concern, "I like it on your mountain and would prefer not to leave. What must I do to remain?" The father seemed pleased, "I have always wanted you here. You may stay as long as you wish. Just walk with us and talk with us. You will know what to do."
Was it a month? A year? Two years....or more? As we wandered through meadows and mountain passes, time was not measured. We spoke of everything. I listened and questioned while they explained and taught. I found myself becoming like my friend and his father. It was not something I tried to do, it just seemed to happen. The father became my father, and I became his son. When or how this transformation occurred, I do not know....but the relationship changed. We were happy, we three on the mountain.
As we sat on the side of the mountain, the first signs of light were appearing in the distance. Soon, the horizon was aflame with shots of red, orange, and yellow, merging to form yet another glorious sunrise. The sun climbed slowly away from it's starting point, the colors diminished, and the valley below us began to come to life.
We were six thousand feet above the basin floor, but I saw it as if we were but a few. My companions saw it as well, although they remained silent. It was a village covering the bottom of the valley. People working, people playing, people much like myself. I felt an attraction. "Who are they?" I asked. My father explained that they were people who had come to his mountain. It was a short explanation ending with, "I do not go there much anymore."
I spoke of my desire to go to the village. "If you must," was all he said.
How many years I spent in the village, I cannot recall. Several, anyway. The people were friendly, concerned for each other and, above all, shared a love for my father's mountain. We all wanted to live on it. Soon, I became a leader of this village. We were busy, and would travel thousands of miles to share our experience of living on the mountain with anyone who would listen. We would write letters describing the beauty of the mountain in an attempt to get people to come and live in the village. We wanted everyone to experience what we had found in this place.
We also taught people how to live on the mountain. Our book, "1001 Rules for Mountain Living," explained to everyone our requirement for staying on the mountain. There were meetings three times a week to go over these rules, as well as to thank the father of my friend for letting us live on his mountain. We owed him a great debt, for it was his mountain, and yet he let us stay.
People would come to the mountain. Some would stay, but many left. Couldn't seem to follow the instructions outlined in our little book. Some even had to be escorted back down the mountain.
The book had been started by the first inhabitants of the village, and every generation seemed to have a couple of guidelines to add. As a leader, I had proudly added a few of my own. They were good, solid, precepts and anyone who could not follow them had no right to live on the mountain. So they left. I worked hard at being a leader of this village. Too hard. I no longer noticed the beauty that surrounded me. In fact, I very seldom even noticed the mountains. There were meetings, appointments, obligations, books to read, new guidelines to write, and classes to teach.
As I sat in a meeting with the village leaders, my mind drifted to my first days on the mountain. The days with my friend and his father. I had to see them again. Halfway through the meeting, I walked from the building to the edge of the mountain. I began to climb. I felt so very weak, and began to stumble. And then he was there. It was my friend. With my arm around his neck he helped climb. No words were spoken, as I stared at the scarred hands, and the look of contentment on his face. At ten thousand feet, my legs completely failed me. I began to fall, but my friend picked me up and cradled me in his arms as if I were a child.
The village disappeared, and the the mountain top was in sight. He carried me higher. In an instant, my friend was placing me next to our father. We could see forever from the top of the mountain. He smiled his same old smile when he saw me, "You have come. I am glad." It was as if we had never been apart.
"Father, I have missed you. I never want to go to the village again."
He nodded, "It is good. It is a wise choice, my son."
