Coming Down From The Mountain

I just came down from the mountains, and from one very intense mountaintop experience. It’s still difficult for me to find the right words to describe the last week, so I’ll put off any attempts until a more appropriate time. But an entry from my mind’s journal should suffice for the moment: “What more can you ask for in a place where God is so palpably present – in the Blessed Sacrament only and always a few steps away from your bedroom, in the silent mountains and the streaming sunlight and the sentry of ten trillion stars, in the kind hospitality and warmth of the locals and your mutual recognition of the face of Jesus in each other?”

It’s almost impossible to come down from the mountain after an experience like this; God knows how we tried to delay the “descent” until the last possible moment. But, as always, we must “come down.” Not a very pleasant experience after seeing the world from God’s vantage point, high above the ground, way past the clouds, and witnessing what must be the closest thing to the dawn of creation, when He divided light from darkness and saw it was good. And yet the step down is a necessary step, if we choose to continue on this pilgrimage towards Zion, the only mountain we can truly call home.

My own pilgrimage has brought me to a place as far removed from the beauty of Kabayan, Benguet and its people, as possible. The streets and slums of Quezon City are dark, ugly, and oppressive, and evil comes in a multitude of guises. But this is where God has called me to “come down” in this particular portion of my journey home to Him, and this is where He has asked me – and perhaps some of you as well – to look for His presence. For He is there in the faces of the hungry, just as He is in the majesty of the sunset; He is there in the wounds of the oppressed, just as He is in the symphony of the rustling pine trees; He is there in the naked, the shackled, the unloved, just as He is in the breathtaking symmetry of the constellations. In fact, He is even more present in the most pitiful and pathetic of His creations than in the most glorious…because He Himself said so. To love the sunset and the stars and all the other wonders of His creation is perhaps the easiest thing to do – loving the “uglier” works of His hands, and looking for His beautiful presence beneath the soot and grime and rugby, is a little more of a challenge.

And so I’m back home in the “ugliness” of traffic-congested, air-polluted, star-deficient (except perhaps for movie stars?) Quezon City. “What’s the point?” was the chorus repeated over and again as we resisted the descent to the drudgery of urban life. But as I got back to the work that God would have me do right now, I got the point. The occasional mountaintop experiences are but brief glimpses of what it must be like to be on THE ultimate mountaintop, inspirations to buoy us on to continue this difficult journey. In the meantime, we must make our way through the valley until we make our final ascent to Mount Zion to watch the glorious sunrise with Glory Himself.

(This old song is not only secular, but very seventies. I kept singing it in my head before “coming down” to QC, apparently for good reason: it captures a lot of what I realize right now about seeing the beauty underneath the beastliness.)

Hardcore Poetry
Tavares

It depends on who is looking at the tenement walls
Whether he's coming home or passing through
You can walk the streets and find so much to criticize
But that would be the easy thing to do
'Cause there's beauty in the concrete
If you see it with your heart
The sidewalks only hurt you
If you hate them from the start

This is a song not necessarily sweet
I'll pass it on to folks that I never will meet
And if my words don't make history
Just call it hardcore poetry

You can blame the world if troubles come
And knock at your door
Let your weakness cut you down to size
If you find some fault with everything surrounding you
Maybe it's your narrow-minded eyes
'Cause there's music in the city
If your ear is to the ground
Only nonbelievers never hear a single sound

This is a song not necessarily sweet
I'll pass it on to folks that I never will meet
And if my words don't make history
Just call it hardcore poetry