I’ve just started reading his latest book, and it’s already given me a new a simple way of looking at my life.
The book’s called The Second Mountain: The Quest for a Moral Life.
On page one, Brooks describes a certain kind of person—the kind of person I want to be, the kind of person we all want to know.
“Every once in a while.” he writes, “I meet a person who radiates joy.
“These are people who seem to glow with an inner light. They are kind, tranquil, delighted by small pleasures, and grateful for the large ones. These people are not perfect. They get exhausted and stressed. They make errors in judgment. But they live for others, and not for themselves.
“They’ve made unshakable commitments to family, a cause, a community, or a faith. They know why they were put on this earth and derive a deep satisfaction from doing what they have been called to do.
"Life isn’t easy for these people. They’ve taken on the burdens of others. But they have a serenity about them, a settled resolve. They are interested in you, make you feel cherished and known, and take delight in your good.”
But what really captured my interest—and what I want to share with you this morning—is what David Brooks calls these individuals. He calls them “second mountain people.”
He says we all have two mountains to climb. The goals of the first mountain are the normal goals society places in front of us as we begin our adult lives: to be a success, to be well thought of, to make the right connections, and to experience personal happiness.
“It’s all the normal stuff: nice home, nice family, nice vacations, good food, good friends, and so on.”
But then, he says, something happens.
“Some people get to the top of that first mountain, taste success, and find it… unsatisfying. ‘Is this all there is,’ they wonder. They sense there must be a deeper journey they can take.”
Others get knocked off the first mountain by some failure, some setback, some great suffering or life-altering tragedy.
And all of a sudden, the second mountain appears. “At this point, people realize, Oh, that first mountain wasn’t my mountain after all. There’s another, bigger mountain out there that is actually my mountain.”
David Brooks makes sure we understand that the second mountain isn’t the opposite of the first. To climb the second mountain doesn’t mean rejecting the first mountain: it’s the second stage of our journey, “the more generous and satisfying phase of life.”
The second mountain is the mountain of self-giving, humility and service. We climb it in pursuit of what Brooks calls “moral joy,” alignment of our life with some ultimate good.
Great stuff. But by now you’re wondering what all this has to do with Pentecost, the great feast of the Holy Spirit.
Only this: I want to borrow those two mountains and use them as an image of our Christian life.
This morning I suggest to you that discipleship requires us to climb two mountains. The first is the mountain of obedience. We learn and live the Ten Commandments. We study the Faith, and seek to understand what the Church teaches. We join a parish community, and worship together each week.
Climbing that first mountain is an important, indeed essential journey.
But all of a sudden, the second mountain appears and we realize, oh, that first mountain peak wasn’t my destination after all. There’s another, bigger mountain out there that God wants me to climb.
Pentecost is an invitation to climb the second mountain.
Although I’m using the image from a current bestseller, the Bible often uses mountains to describe “the high moments of success in life, and obstacles that stand in our way.”
Isaiah prophesied “In days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains… Many people shall come and say ‘Come let us go up to the mountain of the Lord… that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths.” (Is. 2:2-3).
Psalm 121 says “I lift up my eyes to the mountains; from where shall come my help? My help shall come from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.”
And, of course, we know that both Abraham and Moses had their life-changing encounters with God on mountaintops.
On the first Pentecost, described in the Acts of the Apostles, the Holy Spirit takes the disciples from a public square in Jerusalem to the heights of joy, giving them the ability to proclaim “God’s deeds of power.” The apostles, in particular, have done their share of first-mountain preaching, but this is something entirely new.
The first Christians are drawn out of themselves by the Holy Spirit. Like David Brooks’ second-mountain people, they put their gifts at the service of others, as the Spirit leads them. St. Paul’s words to the Corinthians describe a community that functions like a body, but it’s a body with a soul—the Holy Spirit animating each member.
In the Gospel this morning*, Jesus invites us to climb both mountains of discipleship. “If you love me,” he says, “you will keep my commandments.” That’s the first mountain.
He continues: “And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever.” That’s the second mountain, the mountain of spiritual joy and comfort.
Why would we want to stay on the first mountain, even at the very peak, when Jesus offers so much on the second?
That’s the big question at Pentecost. What possible reason can we have not to say “Yes! Send me the Spirit, who Jesus says will lead us into all the truth.” (Jn. 16:13)
Some of us have reached the top of the first spiritual mountain, and we may wonder “is that all there is?” On this Pentecost day, St. Paul answers absolutely not! “We were all made to drink of one Spirit.” *We were made for the second mountain, the place of encounter with God’s love, peace and joy.
Some of us were knocked off the first mountain—by misfortune or sorrow or failure. So we need the Spirit as our Advocate, Helper, Comforter, and Consoler—just to keep on climbing the path of faith.
Advocate, Helper, Comforter, and Consoler, words which promise something, are all used to translate the Greek word used by Jesus in this morning’s Gospel—Paraclete.
I’ve always understood Paraclete to mean the person who stood beside the accused in the courts of ancient times—the one who help to defend you. And that’s a good way of looking at the Holy Spirit.
But at Alpha yesterday, when we spent the whole day learning about and praying to the Holy Spirit, the speaker said that a larger boat that came to the aid of a smaller one—the boat that drew alongside a vessel in distress—was called a paraclete in ancient Greek.
I’d never heard that, and I couldn’t find it in my Bible dictionary. But when I Googled “paraclete,” I found a towing tugboat by that name—so I think the Alpha preacher must have a point! We’re always trying to grow, to change, to repent, and to rejoice under own steam, when God wants to draw alongside us with all the strength and power that we need.
I want to close in a slightly unusual way. Although Evangelical Protestant preachers often end a sermon with a call to prayer, priests rarely do. But yesterday one of our grade sevens, fresh from the experience of a praise and worship night with his class on Friday evening, asked to speak with me after morning Mass.
He asked with great seriousness whether we could pray together to the Holy Spirit this morning.
So that is what we are going to do.
Please bow your heads and repeat the words of the prayer after me.
Come Holy Spirit, fill my heart.
Kindle in my heart the fire of your love.
Come Holy Spirit to renew and restore me.
Bring me to your holy mountain,
let me experience your peace,
and radiate joy to others.
Amen.
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* The Lectionary offered options for the readings on Pentecost. We chose 1 Cor. 12.3b-7, 12-13 as the second reading and Jn. 14:15-16, 23v-26.
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