The Mountain of New Beginnings

My father’s side of our family is from the Adirondack Mountains in Upstate New York. Every summer we would spend a few weeks there. The natural beauty of the area is never lost on me. There is something centering about being up above sea level where undeveloped and unaltered terrain far outweighs the amount of space that has been altered by human progress. We get a glimpse of the world as God created it, rather than the world as humans have created it.

There is something about being in the mountains that demands that we slow down. There is a minimalist type of living that is almost forced upon us. And it’s beautiful. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. It’s a place of rest. It is a place where we can slow down and experience more of who God is.

Not coincidentally, the Bible is riddled with people having experiences with God on mountaintops.

And so I thought to myself, what if we could capture the mountaintop experiences that we have with God and use them as a congregation here at a measly 20ft above sea level? What if over the course of this summer we as a church could slow down and live in God’s presence. What if we could have a summer in the mountains together — without even leaving?

Now I know some of you online are like “haha jokes on you I’m in the mountains.” Well thats just excellent for you. But the rest of us down here in sweat valley are going to have to use our big imaginations for the next 9 weeks. So we are going to imagine that we are going to the mountains.

Are you there with me. Can you hear the streams and the birds? Ok Great.

So today we are going to be heading over to modern day Turkey. We are going to be spending the day in one of the most famous mountains in the world: Mount Ararat. Here’s a photo of it. Now Ararat is famous, because it is where the Bible states that Noah’s Ark rested after the flood.

This week I was reading about Dr. Friedrich Parrot, the first person known to have climbed to the top of Mt. Ararat. He made the journey up its 16,854-foot peak in eastern Turkey. The photos alone are stunning—snow-capped rocks, sheer ridges, cloud layers so thick you’d swear you were walking on heaven’s carpet. But what struck me most wasn’t the beauty—it was the fact that the climb to Ararat is not easy. The terrain is unpredictable, and the air is thin. Storms roll in without warning. For many, reaching the summit feels less like an Instagram moment and more like survival.

Yet there’s something about reaching a mountaintop—especially one like Ararat—that changes how you see everything. It's the view after the storm. It's a new beginning.

And maybe that’s why Noah’s story lingers on this particular mountain. Not because he was the world’s greatest sailor. Not because he had perfect faith. But because after the flood—the chaos, the waiting, the unknown—his feet landed on something solid. Something higher. Something new.

We learn about Ararat in Genesis chapter 8. The story of God and people is relatively young at this point. If you’re reading from the beginning of the Bible you’re like 8 pages in at this point. But some of the most important information about God and humans is contained in these very opening pages.

We learn that God created humans as very good and gave them a purpose in this world — to spread goodness and blessing across the face of the earth. But things spiral down very rapidly. Deception, violence, and the pursuit of power for the sake of power rather than for the sake of doing the works that God created us for take the center stage. There is rebellion by humans and as Genesis 6 alludes to — there is rebellion on the spiritual side of things too. There appears to be this desire across the created realms — both seen and unseen — for God’s creations to become God themself. And the consequences are dire. So dire in fact that God is left with no choice but to hit the reset button.

Now, this is a place in the story where as adults we realize — I have some questions. Because Noah’s ark seemed like such a cute story when you were a little one in sunday school. But you read about it as an adult and realize like hey… what the heck God. That’s a question I’m not here to answer today. Not because it isn’t a good question, but because we’ve not got enough time. What’s important is we know God is good and that humans had become so prone to evil that God decided, I’ve got to start this thing anew. So God calls a man named Noah to build a boat, put his family on it, preserve all the species of animals that couldn’t survive a flood, and then it rains for a long long time.

That’s where we are in the story. So here goes:

Genesis 8:1–4 NRSV

But God remembered Noah and all the wild animals and all the domestic animals that were with him in the ark. And God made a wind blow over the earth, and the waters subsided; the fountains of the deep and the windows of the heavens were closed, the rain from the heavens was restrained, and the waters gradually receded from the earth. At the end of one hundred fifty days the waters had abated; and in the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month, the ark came to rest on the mountains of Ararat.

Genesis 8:20–22 NRSV

Then Noah built an altar to the Lord, and took of every clean animal and of every clean bird, and offered burnt offerings on the altar. And when the Lord smelled the pleasing odor, the Lord said in his heart, “I will never again curse the ground because of humankind, for the inclination of the human heart is evil from youth; nor will I ever again destroy every living creature as I have done. As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, shall not cease.”

There are few stories in Scripture that deal more fully with the pain and promise of starting over than Noah’s. By the time we get to Genesis 8, we’re already emotionally exhausted. The flood has swallowed the world. The storm has lasted far longer than expected. The ark has become a kind of liminal space—a floating prison, a holy sanctuary, a desperate hope.

And then, finally: God remembered Noah.

It’s not that God forgot him, like you forget your keys or your coffee on the roof of your car. The Hebrew word for “remember” (זָכַר, zakar) means something closer to “God turned his attention toward.” It’s covenant language. It’s relational. It’s God saying: “I’m not done with you. This isn’t the end.”

And the ark comes to rest—of all places—on a mountain.

Here’s the one point I want to leave you with today: Every new beginning starts with remembering who you are and whose you are.

When you’ve weathered the storm—when the waters have risen and everything familiar has been wiped away—starting over isn’t just about rebuilding. It’s about re-rooting your life in the one who brought you through.

We all hit these “mountain moments.” New jobs. New diagnoses. Empty nests. First homes. Final goodbyes. Maybe your flood has looked like a season of depression, or a fractured relationship, or a vocational crisis. Maybe you’re standing now on what feels like dry ground for the first time in a while—but you don’t quite know where to go from here.

And Genesis 8 has a word for you: God remembers you. You are not forgotten. You are not disqualified. You are not starting from scratch—you are starting from grace.

Noah does three simple but powerful things after he steps off the ark:

He waits. Did you notice that even after the ark comes to rest, Noah doesn’t jump out? He sends birds, he watches the signs, he waits for God's voice. Sometimes the most faithful move after a long storm isn’t to sprint—but to wait attentively.

He worships. The first thing Noah builds isn’t a house—it’s an altar. Gratitude becomes the foundation for his new life. I wonder what it would look like if we let our own new beginnings be shaped not by panic, but by praise?

He listens. God speaks again. Not in judgment, but in blessing. “Never again,” God says. “As long as the earth endures…” God reaffirms the rhythms of creation—seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter. Life is not random. It is held in the faithful hands of a Creator who sustains it all.

Friends, maybe you’re in a place where the flood has passed but the future still feels foggy. Maybe you’re just now coming up for air after a season of crisis or grief or exhaustion. Genesis 8 offers us a pattern:

Wait. Worship. Listen.

Because when you do—when you ground yourself not in what was lost but in the One who saved you—you’ll find that the mountaintop of new beginnings is not just about a new view. It’s about a new identity.

You are remembered. You are renewed. You are ready.

When Friedrich Parrot climbed Mt. Ararat, it was an expedition fraught with adversity. Storms raged and threatened their progress. Giving up seemed like the best option. But they pressed on. Reflecting back he wrote “We stood on the top of Mt. Ararat” at about a quarter‑past three on September 27, 1829, after overcoming a violent snowstorm. Before my eyes, now intoxicated with joy, lay the highest pinnacle.”

Parrot describes how, on his third attempt, his team reached the summit despite challenging ice conditions—they had to cut steps into the glacier—and then paused in awe before planting a wooden cross, sharing a prayer, and gathering ice from the peak as a symbolic gesture of what they had overcome to be in this moment with their creator.

That’s the gift of grace, isn’t it? Not the absence of pain—but the presence of promise. Not a detour around the flood—but a God who brings you through it. Not a clean slate—but a sacred start.

We’ve been through it as a congregation already this year. Grief seems to be an inescapable rhythm for us. We have lost so many, and yet you all — the people of God continue to show up, press through, and continue to be the people of God. At the other side of every setback is a new beginning. A time when God speaks to us, centers us, and reminds us of who we are.

For many across our connection, today marks a new beginning as churches welcome newly appointed pastors. Pastor Jeff Brinkman of our congregation has begun a new interim appointment in Juno Beach. Many of my friends have entered their pulpit for the first time. Would you pray for them in their new beginnings today?

For many of you, you may be wishing that there was a new beginning — you’re not even at the mountain yet. You’re stuck in the flood of uncertainty, clinging to faith when doubt starts creeping. Waiting for the rain to stop. Will you hang on? Can we pray together for our beloved ones who are just hoping to get to the mountain of New Beginnings?

And if you are just entering a new beginning, wait — worship — listen. Allow God to direct your path. Lean on those around you. Beginning new doesn’t meant beginning alone. Pray for one another, rally around one another, cheer for one another. Love one another.

This week, wherever you are—on the ark, in the fog, or planting seeds in the new ground of life—may you know this truth:

Your story is not over. God remembers you. And the mountain you’re standing on? It’s just the beginning.