King of the Mountain.
When I was in fourth grade living in Alaska, winter always delivered the same gift: the snow mountain. After the parking lot was plowed, all that snow was pushed into one massive heap—towering, icy, and irresistible. It became the centerpiece of recess, the place everyone ran toward the moment the doors opened. And the game we played on it was always the same: King of the Mountain.
The sixth graders usually dominated the top. They were older, bigger, stronger, and they ruled that snowy peak like it was their rightful throne. But one day something changed. My classmates turned toward me with that gleam in their eye and said, “You’ve got to take the mountain.” I don’t fully remember how it happened—just flashes of scrambling up the icy slope, pushing through the pile of kids, sliding down and clawing my way back up. But somehow, I broke through. I cleared the mountain. And suddenly I was standing at the summit with the whole recess world below me. My classmates rushed up behind me and for the rest of that recess we held the peak against every charge the sixth graders made.
And that’s the thing about mountains: whoever holds the high place holds the advantage. Every child intuitively knows it. Every playground proves it. And, if we’re honest, every human heart keeps playing the same game long after recess ends. Nations rise and fall trying to climb higher. Peoples fight for dominance. Individuals scramble for position and control. We all want to be “king of the mountain,” to stand on top, to have our voice heard, our will done, our desires recognized. Nations war. Peoples wrestle. Each of us fights in our own way. We ascend for prominence and supremacy, pushing and shoving our way to the top so we can order the world around us.
It’s easy to think this is just how life works—that everyone must fight for place, for advantage, for the throne. But Isaiah 2 interrupts that assumption with a stunning vision: the true King of the Mountain has already been declared, and His mountain rises above every other mountain we build for ourselves. Isaiah says that in the last days, “the mountain of the house of the Lord will be established as the chief of the mountains.” God is not jostling for a seat among the nations. He is not competing for a little more prominence. His mountain rises above them all. His kingdom is not one more in the line of human empires—it is the mountain that overarches every other mountain.
But what truly changes everything is how His kingdom is established. Unlike the nations that war their way to the summit, God establishes His mountain by righteousness and peace. His kingdom does not rise by force, violence, or coercion. Jesus does not storm His way upward. He ascends by humility. He reigns by sacrificial love. The kingdom He brings is, as Paul says, “righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.” It is an entirely different way of being king—an entirely different kind of mountain.
And the nations respond in an entirely different way as well. They do not storm God’s mountain to overthrow Him. They stream toward His presence to be taught by Him. “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,” they say, “that He may teach us His ways and that we may walk in His paths.” Instead of fighting for supremacy, they seek instruction. Instead of climbing to push someone off, they climb to be transformed. And what does the true King teach them? He teaches them how to live. He teaches the way of peace. He guides the feet of those who dwell in darkness into paths of light, healing, and wholeness.
Isaiah shows us what this life looks like: the instruments of war become the tools of planting. Swords become plowshares. Spears become pruning hooks. The very metal once forged for conflict is reforged for cultivation. Under the reign of the true King of the Mountain, the world is no longer a battlefield but a garden. His people no longer learn war—they learn how to grow things, how to bring life, how to cultivate peace. This is what happens when the true King takes His place: the world changes from a place of striving into a place of planting. From a field of conflict into a field of fruit.
And then comes the final invitation—an invitation that reaches across the centuries and stands before us now: “Come, house of Jacob, and let us walk in the light of the Lord.” The question is no longer, Who will fight their way to the top? The question is, Will we come? Will we walk in His light? Will we abandon our personal mountains and stop fighting for supremacy long enough to approach His?
This is the call of Advent, the call of Isaiah, the call to every weary climber in this world:
Come to the King of the Mountain.
Come to the One who reigns in peace.
Come to the mountain that will stand when all other mountains crumble.
Come and walk in His light.
For His mountain will never be shaken, and His kingdom will have no end.
Peace be with you,
Pastor Bruce
