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| Photo by Jametlene Reskp on Unsplash |
Years ago, when we lived in Houston, I was trying to lose some weight and decided to take up mountain biking. One Saturday morning at Memorial Park, I came upon a particularly demanding hill—and yes, contrary to popular belief, there are small hills in Houston! I tried to pedal up that steep path several times, but each attempt ended with me tumbling sideways into the dirt or sliding all the way back to the base. Catching my breath and nursing my pride, I became convinced that climbing that trail was simply an impossible task. Just then, another rider rushed right past me, attacked the incline with steady determination, reached the summit without stopping, and disappeared down the trail. After the shock wore off, I looked down at the mud beneath my wheels and noticed something I had missed: dozens of distinct tire tracks pressed into the earth. Other riders had faced this exact climb before me, and they had made it to the other side. I won’t tell you that I suddenly hopped on my saddle and effortlessly conquered the hill that day, but seeing that rider and studying those tracks provided an immense burst of encouragement: the climb was not a dead end.
That is the holy, comforting mystery we remember on this All Hallows' Eve as we look toward the Church Triumphant. In our Reformed tradition, we confess that death does not sever the communion of the saints; rather, because of the beauty and finished work of our Redeemer, Abraham’s bosom is not a vacant memory, but a vibrant harbor crowded with real sinners whom He has carried all the way home. Tonight, our worship is never directed toward the saints themselves, but exclusively toward the One who is holy, faithful, and sovereign over every valley. He is so rich in mercy and mighty in deed that He has secured an unshakeable inheritance in glory for a weary sinner like me. Yet, we thank our God for their testimony. Their fragile, imperfect lives—held fast in the scarred hands of Jesus—were the very instruments the Holy Spirit used to encourage our sanctification and teach us the secret of Christian contentment. Looking at the trail of grace they left behind rescues us from our frantic self-reference, reminding us that our present sorrows and fleeting delights are not the final horizon, but the wise appointments of a Father preparing us for an eternal weight of glory.
Ultimately, beloved, the good news of the gospel is not an empty promise that our earthly pilgrimage will be free of sweat, tears, or steep climbs, but that we can face total reality with quiet, courageous hope (Romans 8:18; 1 Thessalonians 4:13). Christian contentment is not gritting our teeth in stoic resignation; it is the deep, inward rest of knowing that our union with Christ is stronger than the grave. You may feel stranded in the dust at the foot of an impossible hill this evening, but take heart: the trail is marked with the footprints and tire tracks of thousands who were sustained by the exact same grace that holds you now. Look up from your circumstances to the Author of your salvation. The Lord is at hand, He is coming back soon, and the faithful Shepherd who brought them safely through will surely bring you home!
Blessings.
-AV
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