Between the Far Side of the Wilderness and the Mountain of God

The mountain of God is at the far side of the wilderness.

Did you catch that? The mountain of God is at the far side of the wilderness. It rings true, doesn’t it? This is physical geography, yet it is also spiritual geography.

From a condemned infant slave to the palace of Pharaoh, Moses enjoyed extreme privilege in the first season of his life. From the peak of power to the wilderness of Midian, he experienced great obscurity in the second season of his life. The text is careful to tell he herded not his own sheep but those of his father-in-law, Jethro (referred to as Reuel in previous verses). These incredible shifts of fortune pale in comparison to what happened next.

After decades of punching the clock, Moses found himself in the midst of another long day, perhaps daydreaming about retirement, if there was such a thing in those days. He was probably somewhere between seventy and eighty, somewhere between death and dying, somewhere between cynicism and nothing to look forward to.

Now Moses was tending the flock of Jethro his father-in-law, the priest of Midian, and he led the flock to the far side of the wilderness and came to Horeb, the mountain of God.

It’s the far side of the wilderness. And it is the mountain of God. He had lived some forty years in this valley of vision, preparing for this next moment, which would open the door into a pilgrimage to another mountain of God, Mount Sinai, and yet another forty years of wilderness wandering.

It is easy to look back from the vantage point of the whole story and marvel at the greatness of Moses and his singular importance to the will of God; yet the only reason we even know about his life is because of a late-life encounter with the greatness of God at a bush on fire yet not burning up.

Biographies aren’t typically written until the end of one’s story. I wonder how many other shepherds passed by the same burning bush and didn’t even notice. We could just as well be reading about them instead.

There was something about Moses. He was different. We remember his extraordinary life, yet we tend to brush over the extraordinary difficulties of his life. By my math, he wandered in the wilderness for a solid eighty of his one-hundred-twenty years.

Sometimes it takes a long season in the wilderness to learn the difference between one’s importance and their worth.

Sometimes it takes being sidelined by failure (moral or otherwise) or exiled by circumstances or the meaninglessness of a menial job to remind us that our worth doesn’t come from what we can do for God but from who we are in Jesus.

I’m writing to a college student who needs to know Jesus doesn’t need your skills and résumé to change the world. He wants your heart.

I’m writing to a young-ish mother who feels as though she has lost herself in diapers and dishes. Jesus is not interested in the former dreams of your earlier life. He wants your heart right now.

I’m writing to a middle-aged pastor who is angry at the mediocrity of the church and determined to do something about it. Jesus is not interested in your tireless ambition to make his church better. He wants your heart—just as it is. 

I’m writing to a retired person who has mistaken their dreams for a relatively comfortable life. Jesus is not interested in fortunes and facelifts. He wants your heart as his treasure. 

I’m writing to myself with all my self-important notions of grandeur to sow for a great awakening. Jesus is not interested in my noble ambitions. He wants my heart.

If these words feel crushing, as they do for me, it’s probably because they need to be. Do you know what we call the thin place between the far side of the wilderness and the mountain of God? We call it the altar. It’s the altar where our earthbound dreams come to die so that the vision of heaven might be birthed in our hearts—anew, afresh, or maybe for the very first time. 

This thin place between resignation and resurrection—let’s call it the altar of relinquishment—is the place of letting go of everything but God.