The Mountain of Revelation

It was a quiet Sunday morning—May 18, 1980—when something ancient and powerful awoke beneath the surface of Mount St. Helens in Washington State.

For weeks, geologists had warned the public: this mountain wasn’t dormant. Earthquakes had rattled the region. A visible bulge appeared on the mountain’s north face—growing two feet a day, as if the earth itself were inhaling. Waiting.

But no one predicted what came next.

At exactly 8:32 a.m., the entire north side of the mountain collapsed in the most massive landslide ever recorded. The pressure chamber beneath the volcano burst, releasing a superheated blast of ash, gas, and rock that raced outward at 300 miles per hour—flattening trees, boiling rivers, and darkening skies.

The sound of the explosion was heard over 200 miles away. Ash fell like snow across eleven states. Entire landscapes vanished in seconds. And when the eruption finally stopped, Mount St. Helens was 1,300 feet shorter.

But what stunned people the most wasn’t just the destruction. It was the transformation.

The mountain had changed shape. Maps had to be redrawn. Entire ecosystems were redefined. What was once familiar was now something new.

I start there because the mountain we come to in Exodus 19—Mount Sinai—is that kind of mountain.

Not because of a geological eruption, but because of a spiritual one.

It’s not the kind of mountain you admire from a distance. It’s the kind of mountain that, if you’re willing to stand at its base, will reshape who you are.

At Sinai, God doesn’t just hand down rules. God reveals the divine heart. God gives identity. God redraws the map of who His people are and who they are called to become.

This is where a ragtag community of rescued slaves becomes a kingdom of priests.

This is where a fearful, wandering people become a covenant partner with the Living God.

And the good news? That mountain still speaks. If we have ears to hear it.

Now, to truly understand the magnitude of what happens at Sinai, we have to go back.

Back to Abraham.

Last week we heard God call Abraham out of everything familiar—his land, his family, his future. God promised him descendants as numerous as the stars. Abraham trusted, and God began forming a people who would bless the whole world.

Abraham’s son Isaac had a son named Jacob. God renamed him “Israel,” and he had twelve sons—each the head of a tribe. One of them, Joseph, was sold into slavery by his jealous brothers, exiled to Egypt.

But God was with him. Joseph rose through the ranks in Pharaoh’s court and, through his leadership, saved Egypt and his family from famine.

So Jacob’s family settled in Egypt—70 people in all.

And they stayed.

For centuries.

But over time, Joseph’s legacy faded. A new Pharaoh came to power who saw the Hebrews not as guests, but as a threat. Oppression followed. Forced labor. Brick quotas. Infanticide.

And yet Scripture says this:

Exodus 2:24–25 NRSV

God heard their groaning, and God remembered his covenant with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. God looked upon the Israelites, and God took notice of them.

And into this moment of suffering, a child was born.

Moses entered the world under the shadow of genocide—his life spared only by the ingenuity of women. Placed in a basket and hidden among reeds, Moses was found and raised by Pharaoh’s daughter.

He grew up between two worlds—Hebrew by blood, Egyptian by privilege and circumstance.

But one day, Moses saw an Egyptian beating a Hebrew slave. In a moment of rage, he struck the man and killed him. Fearing retribution, he fled into the wilderness of Midian, where he lived for 40 years as a shepherd.

It seemed like the end of his story.

But it wasn’t.

One day, while tending his flock, he saw something strange: a bush that burned without being consumed.

And then, a voice:

Exodus 3:5 NRSV

Then he said, “Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.”

At that burning bush, Moses had his own mountain of revelation.

He encountered the Living God.

He learned the divine name: “I AM who I AM.”

And he received a call: Go back. Face Pharaoh. Lead my people out of slavery.

God’s revelation always comes with a calling.

Fast forward—past plagues and Passover, past parted seas and manna from heaven—and the Israelites are free. They've been liberated from Pharaoh, but they’re still disoriented.

They are no longer in Egypt but they don’t know how to live. They’ve never had to make decisions and live together in freedom. They’ve been formed by years and years of Egyptian culture and oppression. God has taken them out of Egypt, but now it is realized: They need Egypt taken out of them.

Have you ever been there before? Like liberated from whatever situation was dragging you down? A relationship, a job, whatever. But you find that the habits, the ways of thinking and being that you learned in that situation continue to crop up in your life? Like I thought I left this behind me, but I’m carrying it with me still nonetheless.

Thats where the Israelites are.

It’s been three months since they left Egypt. They're camped at the foot of Mount Sinai. They’ve seen God act, but they haven’t yet heard God speak directly to them. They don’t know how to act or how to live. They been grumbling and planning to even head back to Egypt.

And then the mountain begins to shake.

Exodus 19:16 NRSV

On the morning of the third day there was thunder and lightning, as well as a thick cloud on the mountain, and a blast of a trumpet so loud that all the people who were in the camp trembled.

Fire falls. Smoke rises. The ground quakes. A boundary is drawn—no one may touch the mountain, lest they die.

And then, for the first time, God speaks—not just to Moses—but to all the people:

Exodus 20:1–17 NRSV

Then God spoke all these words: I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I the Lord your God am a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents, to the third and the fourth generation of those who reject me, but showing steadfast love to the thousandth generation of those who love me and keep my commandments. You shall not make wrongful use of the name of the Lord your God, for the Lord will not acquit anyone who misuses his name. Remember the sabbath day, and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work—you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your livestock, or the alien resident in your towns. For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but rested the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day and consecrated it. Honor your father and your mother, so that your days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving you. You shall not murder. You shall not commit adultery. You shall not steal. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor. You shall not covet your neighbor’s house; you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or male or female slave, or ox, or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbor.

Otherwise known as: The Ten Commandments

Not just laws. Not just restrictions.

Revelations of relationship.

This is how God defines covenant life:

You’re not slaves anymore. You are beloved.

You’re not defined by Pharaoh. You’re defined by YHWH.

You’re not aimless wanderers. You are a holy nation, a kingdom of priests.

This mountain doesn’t just inform the people. It forms them.

And now, church, here we are—thousands of years later—standing at our own mountain.

We live in a culture obsessed with self-discovery, self-expression, and self-definition.

But Sinai tells a different story: You don't discover who you are by looking inward. You discover who you are by listening upward.

God reveals God’s self—and reveals who we are called to become.

So what does that mean for us?

It means that we are not what the world says we are.

We are not our past. We are not our worst mistake. We are not our productivity. We are not our popularity. We are not even our success.

We are a people set apart by grace, called to live lives shaped by mercy, justice, and covenant love.

We are called to be a community through whom God’s voice continues to echo.

And here’s where the story gets even better:

The voice that thundered from Sinai later took on flesh.

Jesus didn’t just speak the law—He fulfilled it. He didn’t just echo God’s revelation—He embodied it. He brought the mountain down to the valley. Revelation wasn’t confined to smoke and fire anymore. It came wrapped in skin and sandals.

Jesus took the power and purpose of Sinai and carried it to fishermen, tax collectors, women at wells, and outcasts in the streets. And then He turned to us and said: “Go. Make disciples. Teach them everything I’ve commanded you.”

In other words: Keep the revelation going.

So what about you?

What if today, God is speaking not just to your heart, but to your identity?

What if God wants to redraw your map?

To speak into your weariness, your wandering, your fear—and call you again to covenant life?

The voice still speaks.

The mountain still stands.

And the God who revealed Himself in fire and thunder now whispers through the Spirit:

“You are mine. You are beloved. You are called.”

Let that revelation shape everything.

Amen.