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Sunrise on the Goat Rocks Wilderness Area with Mt Adams in the background. Washington State |
Every mountain climbed is an experience all its own. Every one demands its own level of exertion;
every one offers its own reward; and every one sings its own song. I have seen the sun rise from Round Mountain
in Washington State and gasped at the melody of sun streaks over the lake, the
wonder of Mt. Adams towering over the Goat Rocks, and the majesty of a pink
Rainer turning to gold in the dawning light.
I could almost hear the orchestral strains of breaking dawn complimenting
the harmony of stillness. A concert that
made the strenuous moonlit hike shrink into nothingness. I have climbed the gentler slopes of Arkansas’
Ouachita Mountains. They offer a less
spectacular view and a less exhausting climb, but hum with the sweet sound of
insects and birds in harmony with the breeze rustling the beech, pine, and oak
trees. I have climb foothills in the
Italian Alps, urging myself up the last slope to feast on the sight of peaks of
three countries. The Alps swell with melody.
Waterfalls seem to gush from every cliff and rivers thunder through
every gorge. The green meadows lilt with
the music of bells worn by the flocks and herds. No two mountains offer the same; each sings a
song wonderfully its own.
Castelluzzo is no exception.
It was one of our easier hikes actually.
My husband and I had already climbed Monte Servin above the famed Pra
del Tor in Waldenses territory and Punto Vergio above the rugged Valley of the
Invincibles. Our honeymoon in Italy was
filled with excursions into the beauty the Alps had to offer, but Castelluzzo
was a must climb for us. There were no
cow bells or vast fields of wildflowers, and the clouds obstructed what vista
there might have been. We were there to
claim the reward of standing where a battle was fought and gloriously won. We were there to hear the song of the
martyrs.
We were oddly silent on this hike. I listened to the sighing of the trees, the thud
of solid ground beneath my feet, and the roar of the distant river. My mind was taking in, not just the beauty of
the tree covered heights, but the scene of 500 years ago. I saw lines of people climbed the trail
before me. I saw babies in their
mother’s arms. I saw terrified little
faces, anguished lips moving in silent prayer, and calm determined eyes. I saw hateful stares and malicious
smirks. I saw drawn swords and other
hideously ugly weapons drawn to prevent any attempt of escape. Only one escape was offered: renounce this
heresy, this idea that one could be saved without the intercession of priest
and saints, say mass, go to confession, and you may walk down this mountain and
live. My line of people kept
climbing. My husband and I
followed.
Isaac Watt’s hymn was playing in the background of my mind. Am I a
soldier of the cross, a follower of the Lamb? And shall I fear to own His
cause, or blush to speak His name?
The night before I had sung that song in the Tempio Valdesi
in Pra del Tor, wheezing the notes out of the antique pump organ. Suddenly, the message of the song
overwhelmed me. I assessed the last few
years of my life. Lately the passion for
God that had filled me in earlier days was lacking. Maturity and experience had tempered my zeal
with reality. Although I still
experienced many moments of joy and even fun in ministry, some days, I honestly
just wanted to quit. But now I knew I
couldn’t. The weariness with ministry, the growing reluctance to take on
responsibility, the longing for a quiet life of ease and contentment, the
frustration with working hard and feeling that it was never enough, all came
home to me in that moment. I felt like a
plastic toy soldier next to a seasoned warrior as I compared myself to those
who had endured so much without complaining.
With tears I told God that whatever He asked of me would be done
cheerfully. Now this climb up
Castelluzzo.
We entered a beautiful meadow. How peaceful, I thought. It seemed hard to believe this was the scene
of such ugliness. Grass covered the top
reaching from the forest on the back to the rocky cliffs before us. I could still see my Valdesi friends marching
through this field and I knew what was next.
Maybe there was one last chance; one more attempt to convert their
victims to their system. This being
denied, the men, women, and little children were taken around the last boulder.
My tears flowed freely now.
The men who had committed no crime but courageous faith, the mothers who
had taught the words of the gospels to their children, the innocent little ones
too young to understand, the young bride like me, full of dreams of a simple
life with husband and children, all were thrown over the cliff. The soldier returned to the fort in the
valley. My husband and I were left to
walk back down the trail in peace.
Why not me? Why was I
born in a time and place where freedom was granted and men worshiped their God
in peace? A strange mixture of gratitude
and envy surged through me. Gratitude
for freedom, envy for a faith that could conquer that. The song kept
playing. Must I be carried to the skies on flowery beds of ease, while others
fought to win the prize or sailed through bloody seas? Are there no foes for me to face, may I not
stem the flood, is this vile world a friend of grace to help me on to God?
I crawled between two rocks in search of a quiet place out
of the wind. All was still. I saw them again, forced to this point
choosing not between a Sabbath afternoon of outreach and a nap but between life
and death. Am I a Soldier?
I opened my Bible to Hebrews 11: 32- 40
"And what shall I more say? for
the time would fail me to tell of Gedeon, and of Barak, and of Samson, and of Jephthae; of David also, and Samuel, and of the prophets: Who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought
righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions, quenched the
violence of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, out of weakness were made
strong, waxed valiant in fight, turned to flight the armies of the aliens. Women received their dead raised to life
again: and others were tortured, not accepting deliverance; that they might
obtain a better resurrection: And others
had trial of cruel mockings and scourgings, yea, moreover of bonds and
imprisonment: They were stoned, they were sawn asunder, were
tempted, were slain with the sword: they wandered about in sheepskins and
goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, tormented; (Of whom the world was not worthy:) they
wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the
earth. And these all, having obtained a
good report through faith, received not the promise: God having provided some better thing for us,
that they without us should not be made perfect."
Why not me? The
answer came clearly. You too.
The martyrs of Castelluzzo and thousands like them are asleep
waiting. It is for us to finish. We 21st century Christians who
have everything, we who stay home if it rains, we who are quick to protect our
temporal comfort and slow to protect someone else’s eternal life, we walk in the footsteps of the
martyrs. We are called to the same
degree of commitment.
Sure I must fight if I
would reign, increase my courage, Lord; I’ll bear the toil, endure the pain,
supported by Thy word.
I moved closer to the edge.
My mind, heart, and soul tried to take all this in. How did they do it? Were they merely spiritual giants with no
fears? Was theirs an innate courage, some
martyr gene that hadn’t made it into my DNA?
For a long time I pondered this.
A tree moaned in the wind. The
river thundered far below. The song
played on.
The saints in all this
glorious war shall conquer though they die, they see the triumph from afar with
faith’s discerning eye.
They saw beyond the moment.
They saw a crown laid up ahead.
They saw a city with foundations.
They saw a robe of white and a mansion of gold. But they saw more than all One who had ever
been their Helper. They saw open arms to
catch them as they fell. They had
already proved Him in lesser trials.
The sun poked through the clouds bathing my rock with
warmth. I smiled. This grizzly place, these cruel jagged rocks,
this scene of such unspeakable evil, was a beautiful place. A victory was won here that may be repeated
in each moment of sacrifice faced by God’s people. Not by being active and zealous in our own
strength will we follow. Not by a sudden
infusion of that mysterious martyr courage will we finish this war, but by
looking beyond the moment to the One who has endured more than they all.
Hebrews 12 follows Hebrews 11. It reads. “Wherefore seeing we also are
compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every
weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset [us], and let us run with
patience the race that is set before us,
Looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of [our] faith; who for the
joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set
down at the right hand of the throne of God.
For consider him that endured such contradiction of sinners against
himself, lest ye be wearied and faint in your minds.”
This is the secret.
Consider Him. Not once a week, or
even once a day, but every time the temptation comes to be careless. I leaned back onto the grass. My commitment of the previous night could be
kept. Any weak ordinary Christian had
have this if we will just look away from the moment, away from our problems, away
from ourselves, to one who has fought this glorious war and won.
I stood and begin to join in singing the final verse of the
song Castelluzzo had sung to me. When that illustrious day shall rise and all
Thy armies shine, in robes of victory through the skies the glory shall be
Thine.
Yes a victory was won on Castelluzzo by Jesus, the One who
was so mistreated in the person of His people, and so glorified by them. The glory was His and always will be. No super Christian walked down the mountain
that day. But Jesus walked beside a
dependent one. The work was still
there. It was still hard, and seemingly
unrewarding, but it didn’t need to be doable.
I wasn’t doing it alone anymore.
Castelluzzo continued to sing it’s song, to demand its sacrifice, and my
heart had found strength to meet it.