The Mountain of Trust

There’s a story about a team-building exercise at a mountaineering camp in Colorado. At the summit of a smaller peak, a climber was blindfolded and asked to make the final ascent—only a few hundred yards—but with one catch: he could only rely on the voice of his guide. No hand signals. No physical help. Just the voice.

He moved slowly. Cautiously. With every step, his foot probed for stable ground, his hands stretched for ledges. “Step to the left. Now up two steps. Good. Watch the loose rock.” The guide’s voice never wavered. The climber followed, inch by inch, until he reached the summit and removed the blindfold.

Someone asked him afterward how he did it without panicking. His answer was simple: “It wasn’t that I wasn’t scared. It’s that I trusted the one who was leading me more than I feared the mountain.”

That line stayed with me: I trusted the one who was leading me more than I feared the mountain.

And I think that’s what our text today Genesis 22 is trying to get us to see.

Before we hear today’s Scripture, let’s remember where we are in the story.

We’ve been spending this summer in the mountains—watching how God meets people in high places. Last week, we stood on Mount Ararat with Noah and saw what it means to begin again. A world washed clean. A family saved. A promise sealed in a rainbow.

But the story of God's redemption doesn’t end with Noah. It narrows. God doesn't just start over — He starts a family. A people.

Enter Abraham.

Genesis tells us that God calls Abraham to leave everything — his home, his country, his family — and go to a land that God will show him. That’s the first act of trust. And God makes a promise:

“I will make of you a great nation. Through your descendants, all the families of the earth will be blessed.”

But then… nothing. Years go by. No children. Sarah grows older. They grow impatient. They try to help God out by having a child through Hagar — and Ishmael is born.

But Ishmael is not the child of the promise. And though God does not forget or forsake Hagar and Ishmael — in fact, God blesses and protects them — the story shifts again.

Years later, when Abraham is 100 and Sarah is 90, the impossible happens: she conceives. Isaac is born. Laughter fills the tent. Joy explodes after decades of waiting. This is the child through whom God will build the covenant people.

So when we arrive at Genesis 22, we’re not just reading a story of one man and his son.

We’re standing at the peak of God’s long, mysterious movement through one family — from Noah’s faith to Abraham’s call, from barrenness to birth, from promise to testing.

And now… this.

Let’s hear the Word of the Lord.

Genesis 22:1–14 NRSV

After these things God tested Abraham. He said to him, “Abraham!” And he said, “Here I am.” He said, “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains that I shall show you.” So Abraham rose early in the morning, saddled his donkey, and took two of his young men with him, and his son Isaac; he cut the wood for the burnt offering, and set out and went to the place in the distance that God had shown him. On the third day Abraham looked up and saw the place far away. Then Abraham said to his young men, “Stay here with the donkey; the boy and I will go over there; we will worship, and then we will come back to you.” Abraham took the wood of the burnt offering and laid it on his son Isaac, and he himself carried the fire and the knife. So the two of them walked on together. Isaac said to his father Abraham, “Father!” And he said, “Here I am, my son.” He said, “The fire and the wood are here, but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?” Abraham said, “God himself will provide the lamb for a burnt offering, my son.” So the two of them walked on together. When they came to the place that God had shown him, Abraham built an altar there and laid the wood in order. He bound his son Isaac, and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood. Then Abraham reached out his hand and took the knife to kill his son. But the angel of the Lord called to him from heaven, and said, “Abraham, Abraham!” And he said, “Here I am.” He said, “Do not lay your hand on the boy or do anything to him; for now I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son, your only son, from me.” And Abraham looked up and saw a ram, caught in a thicket by its horns. Abraham went and took the ram and offered it up as a burnt offering instead of his son. So Abraham called that place “The Lord will provide”; as it is said to this day, “On the mount of the Lord it shall be provided.”

Let’s not sugarcoat this: Genesis 22 is a hard story. Disturbing. Gut-wrenching. It begins with a sentence that makes our theological alarms go off:

“God tested Abraham.”

And the test? “Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and offer him as a burnt offering on a mountain I will show you.” What do we do with that?

You and I are modern readers with modern sensitivities. We don’t do well with stories about divine commands that sound like child sacrifice. Even the ancient Israelites condemned that. So let’s pause here and say something clearly and honestly, in true Wesleyan fashion: We don’t know why God asked Abraham to do this. And maybe that’s the point.

John Wesley, our theological forebear, always reminded us to read Scripture through the lens of love. And love doesn’t shy away from hard questions. Love doesn’t require us to pretend things make sense when they don’t. In fact, Wesleyans have always been okay living in the tension of mystery. If something is unclear or unresolved, we don’t need to rush to defend God or sanitize the story. We just say, There’s mystery here.

That’s what we do with Genesis 22. We don’t explain it away. We sit with it.

And when we do, something powerful begins to rise out of the story: This is not about what Abraham understood. It’s about who Abraham trusted.

Three days. That’s how long Abraham walked with Isaac to Mount Moriah.

Three days of silence. Three days to wrestle. Three days to imagine telling Sarah what he had done. Three days to plead with God or turn back.

But he kept walking. Because somehow, Abraham had come to believe that God is who God says God is. That God is not cruel. That God is not arbitrary. That God is not done writing the story—even when we can’t see how.

The book of Hebrews puts it this way when discussing Abraham’s faith:

Hebrews 11:19 NRSV

He considered the fact that God is able even to raise someone from the dead—and figuratively speaking, he did receive him back.

That’s not because Abraham had seen a resurrection. It’s because Abraham had seen God.

When they arrive at the mountain, Abraham builds the altar. He binds his son. Raises the knife. And then—

“Abraham! Abraham!” “Here I am.” “Do not lay your hand on the boy… now I know that you fear God.”

And then Abraham sees it. A ram caught in a thicket. Not a coincidence. A provision.

So he names the place:

“YHWH Yireh – The Lord will provide.”

And that becomes the banner not just over that mountain, but over the whole story of salvation. Not death. Provision. Not abandonment. Presence. Not sacrifice from us—but sacrifice for us.

So what are we supposed to take from this? Why does this story matter for you and me—on a hot July morning, with regular life awaiting us tomorrow?

Because faith still feels like this sometimes, doesn’t it?

You’re walking up the mountain with questions you can’t answer.

You’re carrying burdens you never asked to carry.

You’re holding on to promises that seem too long in coming.

And the only thing you have left is trust. Not in outcomes. Not in certainty. But in the One who says, “I will provide.”

Faith is not the absence of fear. It’s trusting God more than you fear the mountain.

So how do we do that? How do we live lives that trust God this deeply?

Let me offer three practical invitations for the week ahead:

1. Be Honest with Your Questions.

Abraham didn’t stuff his emotions. Neither should you. God is not afraid of your wondering. Take 10 minutes this week to journal or pray honestly. Say things like:

“God, I don’t understand.”

“This doesn’t make sense.”

“Help me trust you anyway.”

The Psalms are full of that kind of raw honesty. And God welcomes it.

2. Name What You’re Holding Tightly.

For Abraham, it was Isaac. What is it for you?

Your children?

Your image?

Your money?

Your future?

Write it down. Speak it out loud. Ask, “What would it look like to trust God with this?”

God never shames us for holding things close. But God does invite us to open our hands.

3. Practice Micro-Trust.

You don’t build trust in one giant leap. You build it in dozens of small, faithful steps. Pick one this week:

Say yes to something that stretches you.

Rest when you want to strive.

Give even when it feels tight.

Forgive when you’d rather nurse the grudge.

Every time you choose trust over fear, even in something small, you make space for God to meet you with provision.

At the end of the story, Abraham doesn't say, “The Lord tested me,” or “The Lord demanded from me.” He says: “The Lord will provide.”

Because that’s who God is. Not a God who plays games with our faith. But a God who walks with us through mystery. A God who provides what we need—sometimes at the last moment—so that we can keep walking, keep climbing, keep trusting.

So may we go from here not with all the answers, But with faith enough for the next step.

Because the One who leads us is trustworthy. More than the mountain is terrifying, God is faithful.

And on this mountain—this summer—we learn again to trust.

Amen.