Lessons from Shenandoah: STEP DOWN

July 2, 2025

Every summer when my family and I head to the Shenandoah Mountains, we know we're getting close when we reach the little town of Sperryville, Virginia. From there, the journey truly begins—onward and upward, as the road winds its way through the mountains toward Thornton Gap, the gateway to Skyline Drive. Then it’s another hour of climbing higher still, up to the crest of the Blue Ridge and into Big Meadows, where the air is cooler, the views are breathtaking, and peace seems to rest gently on everything.

Each day, we lace up our boots and hit the trails—Bearfence, Little Stony Man, Old Rag, Hawksbill—each one leading us to spectacular overlooks. After an hour or more of hiking, we often emerge from the forest onto a rocky outcrop that opens up to the vast Shenandoah Valley below. It takes your breath away—not just the view, but the sense of God's majesty spread out before you. The sky feels closer. Creation feels more sacred.

Sometimes we sit there for what feels like hours, watching the sun rise or set over the mountain ridges, seeing peregrine falcons wheel through the sky, tracing the winding path of the Shenandoah River far below. Eventually, someone says, “It’s time to go.” But I rarely want to leave. I don’t want to step down. Coming down off the mountain is always hard.

And at the end of the week, it’s harder still—packing up, driving down the switchbacks through Thornton Gap, rolling through Sperryville, and heading home. I always feel a deep ache as we descend. I don’t want to return to the valley, to the everyday burdens—bills, meetings, stress, conflict, headlines filled with war and suffering. I want to stay on the mountaintop, where God feels near, where beauty abounds, and where life is quiet, simple, and filled with wonder. I want to stay where there is just peace, family, and the unmistakable presence of God.

I understand, perhaps just a bit, how Peter must have felt at the Transfiguration, the moment, atop the mountain, with James and John, he saw Jesus transfigured before him, shining like light itself, talking to Moses and Elijah...the day, God spoke, “This is my beloved Son...”

Now after six days Jesus took Peter, James, and John his brother, led them up on a high mountain by themselves; and He was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and His clothes became as white as the light. And behold, Moses and Elijah appeared to them, talking with Him.

-Matthew 17:1-3

It was then Peter spoke up.

Then Peter answered and said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here; if You wish, let us make here three tabernacles: one for You, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”

-Matthew 17:4

Peter wanted to build three tabernacles.

A tabernacle was a tent sanctuary used by the Israelites during the Exodus. It was a place of worship. It was also a dwelling place, a temporary shelter, where they slept on those wilderness nights as they made their way to the Promised Land. But while Peter was speaking…

While he was still speaking, behold, a bright cloud overshadowed them; and suddenly a voice came out of the cloud, saying, “This is My beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased. Hear Him!” And when the disciples heard it, they fell on their faces and were greatly afraid. But Jesus came and touched them and said, “Arise, and do not be afraid.” When they had lifted up their eyes, they saw no one but Jesus only. Now as they came down from the mountain, Jesus commanded them, saying, “Tell the vision to no one until the Son of Man is risen from the dead.”

-Matthew 17:5-9

God interrupted any thought of building three tabernacles atop the mountain and after God spoke and Peter and the other disciples fell to the ground in fear and awe of God, Jesus touched them and said, “Arise, and do not be afraid.” Arise. And they “came down from the mountain.”

I have no doubt that Peter and the other two disciples longed to remain on that mountain a while longer—to linger in the glory they had just witnessed, to let the weight of God’s presence settle over them. They had just seen Jesus transfigured before their eyes—radiant, divine, clothed in light. They had heard the very voice of God. How could they not want to stay?

Perhaps they yearned to see it again—to watch the light dance on Jesus’ face, to be surrounded by the holiness of that moment. Perhaps they wanted simply to worship, to rest in awe, to take in the majesty of both the Savior before them and the mountaintop around them. It was a sacred moment—one they surely wished would never end.

Peter knew what awaited him and the others in the valley, just as I know every year when we pull out of Big Meadows and head down the mountain road toward home. Peter knew the world below was filled with sufferings and trials, war and hunger, sickness and death. Jesus even told Peter, James & John as they descended from the mountain, “Tell the vision to no one until the Son of Man is risen from the dead,” which meant that Jesus was going to die. I believe Peter probably wanted to stay on the mountaintop for a while.

Isn’t that what we all long for? We encounter God in a powerful way—inviting Him into our hearts, experiencing His forgiveness, His love, and His presence. We draw near to Him, grow close to others who share our faith, and for a time, we feel held in the warmth of His nearness. We don’t want that feeling to fade. We want to hold on to the moment.

Like Peter on the mountain, we start building tabernacles—places of comfort and safety where we can remain, worship, and dwell in what feels holy. We surround ourselves with fellow believers, immerse ourselves in praise, and try to stay where God’s presence feels most tangible. But in doing so, we sometimes seek to insulate ourselves—from the pain and brokenness of the world, from the struggles in the valley below, even from the parts of ourselves that still need healing.

We build these spaces not only to honor God—but to protect ourselves from the weight of reality. Yet faith was never meant to stay on the mountaintop. And they “came down from the mountain.”

But what we fail to understand is that (1) There is no life on top the mountain; and (2) Our mission exists in the valley.

First, There Is No Life on Top the Mountain.

Each summer, as we hike toward the mountaintops, we notice a shift in the landscape. The higher we climb, the thinner the trees become. Wildlife grows scarce. Vegetation fades. Near the summit, where the wind howls and the weather is harsh, little can survive. We often find ourselves scrambling over bare rocks and boulders, surrounded by emptiness. The vibrant life—the thick forests, the rich growth—is below, in the valley and along the hillsides.

Jesus understood this. He knew that true life—the kind that brings eternal hope—was found not at the mountaintop, but in the valley. That’s where the people were. That’s where the mission lay. It was in the valley that He had to go—toward Jerusalem, toward the cross. He couldn’t remain in glory, standing beside Moses and Elijah. That mountaintop moment was a glimpse, a divine reassurance of what was to come—a preview of victory, meant to strengthen Him for the painful road ahead.

Jesus knew the path to resurrection led through suffering. He knew that for us to receive life, forgiveness, and freedom, He would have to walk through the valley—the long, dusty road to Calvary, to the nails, the thorns, and the cross. He could not bypass the pain. He had to endure it—for our sake, so the gates of heaven could be opened and our sins washed clean.

And the same is true for us. If we are to grow into the people God calls us to be, we cannot stay on the mountain forever. We must “step down” and walk into the valley. It is there, amid trials and sorrow, that we are shaped. It is in the valley that our faith is refined, that we learn to trust more deeply, to depend on God fully, to love Him more sincerely. The valley is not the place we long for—but it is where God does His deepest work in us. Paul expounds on this truth:

Moreover [let us also be full of joy now!] let us exult and triumph in our troubles and rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that pressure and affliction and hardship produce patient and unswerving endurance. And endurance (fortitude) develops maturity of character (approved faith and tried integrity). And character [of this sort] produces [the habit of] joyful and confident hope of eternal salvation. Such hope never disappoints or deludes or shames us, for God's love has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit Who has been given to us.

-Romans 5: 3-5 (AMP)

It is our trials, our sufferings, in the valley, that turn us to God, and when we turn to God we grow. Paul tells us in 2 Corinthians 3: 16-18 (The Message) what happens when we turn to God:

Whenever, though, they turn to face God as Moses did, God removes the veil and there they are—face-to-face! They suddenly recognize that God is a living, personal presence, not a piece of chiseled stone...Nothing between us and God, our faces shining with the brightness of his face. And so we are transfigured much like the Messiah, our lives gradually becoming brighter and more beautiful as God enters our lives and we become like him.

It is through our trials that we do the deep, often painful work of becoming the men and women God created us to be. In the valley, we learn to lift our eyes to Him, to confront and surrender the thoughts, attitudes, and habits that don’t reflect Christ. It’s there, in the struggle, that we are refined—where trust is forged, relationships are mended and strengthened, and we begin to learn what it truly means to serve and to love like Jesus.

Peter, James, and John still had much to learn. Their journey of faith was far from over. God wasn’t finished with them—not even close. He knew they needed to be shaped, stretched, and prepared for the road ahead. They would need to be taught, challenged, encouraged, and even broken at times so they could become more like His Son.

And so, they came down from the mountain.

Secondly, Our Mission Exists In The Valley.

Not only are we called to come down from the mountaintop into the valley to encounter God in our trials, to grow in faith, and to become the men and women He created us to be—but we must also descend because others are waiting for us. There are people in the valley who need what we’ve experienced—who need the hope, the truth, the grace we’ve found. There are people who need Jesus.

This calling is powerfully portrayed in Raphael’s painting, Transfiguration. At the top of the painting, Jesus is shown in radiant glory, flanked by Moses and Elijah, while Peter, James, and John lie overwhelmed beneath Him, awestruck and afraid. But in the lower half of the painting, the scene shifts—the valley is filled with chaos and need. A crowd surrounds a desperate family, among them the epileptic boy whom Jesus would heal after coming down from the mountain. Amid the confusion, one figure—perhaps a disciple—points upward, toward the transfigured Christ.

The message is clear: He is the answer. The world’s brokenness can only be healed by the One we encountered on the mountain. And so, we must come down—because the valley is waiting, and Jesus is needed there. Paul tells us we are “Christ’s ambassadors,” that God is “making his appeal through us.”

Jesus speaks to us, “Do you love me? Feed my sheep.” Jesus says, “Don’t just tell me you love me...show me...Show me by feeding, caring, and loving my ‘sheep,’ my children.”

David Humpal writes:

Let us not neglect our responsibility in caring for the family of God. We must be willing to minister to hurts, to encourage the disheartened, to pray for those who are sick, to help the needy, and to reach out to those who are drifting away. Let us never neglect the job that the Lord has given us to tend the sheep. We must not only care about them, but we must also take care of them.”

We are called to serve, to put our “love” for God into action by loving His people.

One day, Fulton Sheen—the renowned Catholic bishop—was visiting a leper colony in Africa. As he walked through the camp, he was overwhelmed by what he saw: people lying in the dirt, suffering from open, oozing sores caused by leprosy and other severe skin diseases. The sight was difficult to bear. He passed one man in particular whose legs were covered in wounds, and as Sheen leaned down to speak with him, the chain around his neck snapped. His cross fell—right into one of the man's open sores.

Sheen later confessed, “For a moment, I was repulsed. Everything in me wanted to recoil.” But then something changed. “Suddenly, I was overcome by love—love for this man who had nothing.” And so, instead of stepping back, Sheen reached into the wound and retrieved the cross.

That is the heart of Christianity. Not the comfort of mountaintops, but the compassion that compels us into the brokenness of the valley. We are called to descend from the heights of worship and spiritual experience to reach those who are hurting, lost, sick, guilt-ridden, poor, angry, and alone.

Yet too often, we as Christians insulate ourselves—not only from the world, but from our own woundedness. We bury our pain, mask our guilt, and hide behind polished appearances and busy church calendars. We stay active in ministry, so we don’t have to deal with the unresolved valleys of our past, our minds, our hearts. We build tabernacles not to worship—but to avoid. And because of that, little within us changes. We rationalize our behavior. We suppress the truth of who we are and what we need healing from.

And we do the same as the Church. We retreat into our buildings, surrounded by familiar faces, praising God while expecting those in the valley to come find us. We grow comfortable, content, safe—insulated from the pain of the world around us. But that’s not the call of Christ.

God reaches down, just as He did on the mount of Transfiguration, and says to us, “Arise, and do not be afraid.” Then He leads us down the mountain—into the valleys of our hearts, into the needs of our communities, into the brokenness of the world. There, in the valley, is where the real work begins: the work of healing, growing, serving, and loving as Jesus did. Not from a distance. But up close—right in the middle of the wound.

Ask God to lead you through the valleys—through the places of hardship and refinement—so you may experience resurrection and the fullness of new life.

Ask Him to help you trust Him along the way, to face the deep places within that still need healing—the attitudes, habits, and wounds that are not yet Christ-like. Pray that through every trial and every struggle, you will grow, be stretched, and become more like Him.

And as you walk that path, ask God to guide your steps outward as well. Pray that He will show you where to go, who needs to hear about Jesus, and whose names to place on your heart—those you can reach out to, pray for, and share life with. Ask Him to give you the words to speak, the courage to act, and the compassion to be His ambassador. Pray that your church won’t remain behind closed doors, but will go out boldly into the community, meeting people where they are and showing them the love of Christ.

I understand the desire to stay on the mountaintop—to remain in the comfort of God’s presence, where everything feels peaceful and secure. But life isn't lived at the summit. Our calling is in the valley. That’s where the hurting are. That’s where the mission lies. Christ calls us to come down, to walk the road that leads to the cross. And at the end of that road, we will find that God has been shaping us all along—transforming us into the likeness of His Son. We’ll discover again and again that He is faithful, that His grace is enough, and that He has filled us with His love and His Spirit—not just for ourselves, but for the sake of those we are sent to serve.

So let us lift our eyes—and like the disciples, see only Jesus. Let us take His hand and STEP DOWN, following Him off the mountain and into the valley, where love acts, where faith is tested, and where true transformation begins.