The Mountain of Restoration

I’ll never forget the first night I flew into Athens.

From the air, it was breathtaking. The Aegean Sea shimmered in the moonlight. The city lights sparkled, roads tracing their way through the hills like glowing veins. And then, right in the heart of the city, rising above it all—the Acropolis. Golden, illuminated, almost suspended in the night sky. A beacon of civilization, beauty, and history.

As our van wound its way through the city streets toward the Best Western hotel where we’d be staying, I couldn’t help but marvel. This was the cradle of democracy. The birthplace of philosophy. The ground where Paul once preached about the “unknown God.” It felt like stepping into another world.

But then, as we drew closer to our hotel, I noticed something that unsettled me. The neighborhood shifted. The polished streets gave way to graffiti, shuttered shops, and clusters of weary people huddled on sidewalks. The streets around our hotel had become a hub for refugees—men, women, and children fleeing war, famine, and terror, searching for a new life.

And then we pulled up to the hotel doors—and there he was. A guard. Standing at the entrance. Dressed in black. Armed with an assault rifle.

The Acropolis glowed above us, but on the street where we stood, the world felt fractured, dangerous, and fragile. The city was beautiful, but it was broken.

That night in Athens gave me a picture of the tension we live in every single day. And it’s the same tension the writer of Hebrews names in our scripture this morning: the tension between Sinai and Zion, between what is and what will be, between the world’s brokenness and God’s promise of restoration.

Today is the final sermon in our series “Summer in the Mountains.” We have travelled so far together! Today we will make our final ascent up what is know as Mt. Zion.

Our text comes from the book of Hebrews. The book of Hebrews is a unique work in the New Testament. We don’t know who wrote it—though over the centuries people speculated about Paul, Barnabas, Priscilla, Apollos. What we do know is that it was written to a group of Christians who were weary. They had followed Jesus faithfully, but they were living under pressure—pressures of persecution, disappointment, and temptation to simply give up and go back to the safety of their old religious patterns.

Hebrews reads less like a letter and more like a sermon. And the central refrain of the sermon is simple: Jesus is better.

Better than the angels who delivered the law.

Better than Moses, the great prophet.

Better than Aaron and the priests of Israel.

Better than the sacrifices offered in the temple.

Why? Because all those things—angels, priests, prophets, sacrifices—were only shadows pointing forward to the substance. And the substance is Christ. Jesus is the once-for-all high priest, the once-for-all sacrifice, the once-for-all mediator of God’s covenant.

By the time we reach chapter 12, the preacher of Hebrews is building to a climax. They draw on one last Old Testament image—two mountains. Mount Sinai, where Israel received the law with fear and trembling, and Mount Zion, the heavenly Jerusalem, where Jesus’ blood speaks a better word.

Our passage today, Hebrews 12:18–24, is a call to see that we do not stand at Sinai anymore. We stand in Zion—the place of welcome, mercy, and restoration. This is the heart of Hebrews’ message: God has fulfilled all his promises in Jesus, and because of that, we live now in the unshakable hope of God’s kingdom.

Hebrews 12:18–24 NRSV

You have not come to something that can be touched, a blazing fire, and darkness, and gloom, and a tempest, and the sound of a trumpet, and a voice whose words made the hearers beg that not another word be spoken to them. (For they could not endure the order that was given, “If even an animal touches the mountain, it shall be stoned to death.” Indeed, so terrifying was the sight that Moses said, “I tremble with fear.”) But you have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering, and to the assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven, and to God the judge of all, and to the spirits of the righteous made perfect, and to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel.

The writer of Hebrews draws a sharp contrast:

Mount Sinai was fire and thunder, smoke and trembling. A holy God, untouchable, unapproachable. The people of Israel were terrified, begging that no further word be spoken because they could not bear it. Sinai represents the brokenness, the fear, the trembling of our human condition.

Mount Zion, by contrast, is an entirely different vision. “You have come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem.” Zion is not fire and fear, but festivity and fellowship. It is angels singing, people gathering, Jesus welcoming.

And here’s the detail we can’t miss: the writer doesn’t say, “One day you will come to Zion.” He says, “You have come.” Already. Right now.

We live in the overlap. Between Sinai and Zion. Between what is and what will be. Between the beauty of the Acropolis shining in the night and the armed guard on the street corner. Between Athens at its best and Athens at its most broken.

And let’s be honest—we feel the Sinai more than the Zion most days.

We live in a world where refugee camps overflow, where wars rage, and where children go hungry while leaders argue over policies and power.

We live in a world of rising violence, where armed guards stand at hotel doors, where we lock our homes and install cameras, where fear becomes a normal part of life.

We live in a world of personal Sinai—where cancer diagnoses arrive, where relationships fracture, where loneliness eats away at our souls.

The ground beneath us shakes. We long for Zion, but too often all we feel is Sinai.

But Hebrews says: There is a better word. There is a truer mountain.

The vision of Zion is not pie in the sky—it is ultimate reality breaking in.

Zion is the city of the living God—not a city of death and decay, but life in all its fullness.

Zion is the gathering of “innumerable angels in festal gathering.” The word here literally means “celebration.” Picture heaven’s biggest party, joy unconfined.

Zion is the assembly of “the firstborn enrolled in heaven.” In other words—you and me. Citizens already claimed. Names already written.

Zion is the place where Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, welcomes us—not with fear, but with grace. His blood speaks a better word—not vengeance like Abel’s, but restoration.

At Sinai, people trembled at God’s voice. At Zion, people rejoice in God’s presence.

And notice the grammar: “You have come.” Already. Zion is not just a future hope—it is a present reality breaking into the here and now. Every act of justice, every prayer, every meal shared, every wound healed is a glimpse of Zion on earth.

Athens gave me a picture of what this looks like.

The Acropolis stood above as a reminder of what was—the glory of human achievement, philosophy, culture. But at street level, refugees reminded me of what still is—displacement, hunger, longing. And yet, in those same streets, there were glimmers of Zion. Churches opening their doors. Volunteers handing out food. Children laughing as they chased a ball. Signs that the story isn’t over.

The Acropolis tells us what humanity has been. The refugee camps tell us what humanity still is. Zion tells us what God is making us to be.

So what does it mean for us, here in Fort Pierce, to live as citizens of Zion?

We live with hope in the midst of despair. Not a shallow optimism, but a defiant confidence that God’s kingdom is unshakable. When the world shakes, God’s kingdom stands.

We pledge our allegiance to Jesus above all. Every knee will bow, every tongue confess. Not to empire, not to ideology, not to violence, but to Jesus Christ who restores all things. Our lives point people not to political platforms, but to the cross and the empty tomb.

We join God’s work of restoration. If Zion is our home, then we are its ambassadors. That means we forgive when others would hold grudges. We serve when others demand. We love when others hate. We create communities of welcome for the refugee, the lonely, the outcast. We live now as citizens of what will one day fully be.

John Wesley once said, “The best of all is, God is with us.” That’s Zion. God with us. God restoring us. God restoring all things.

Friends, our ultimate hope does not lie in what we can build, defend, or achieve. Our ultimate hope lies in God’s hands.

The writer of Hebrews says later in this chapter: “We are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken.” One day, all that is cracked will be mended. All that is broken will be restored. All that is fractured will be made whole.

The promise of Zion is this: the city of God is coming down. Not an escape from this world, but the restoration of this world. Not some ethereal heaven in the clouds, but a new heaven and a new earth.

And on that day,

the refugee will find a home,

the hungry will be fed,

the sick will be healed,

the lonely will be embraced,

and every knee will bow, every tongue confess, that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

So here we are, at the end of our journey through the mountains:

From Ararat’s new beginning,

to Moriah’s trust,

to Sinai’s revelation,

to Carmel’s decision,

to Nebo’s longing,

to Hermon’s fulfillment,

to Calvary’s love,

to Olivet’s vocation, and now to Zion’s restoration.

The end of the story is not fear, but joy. Not brokenness, but wholeness. Not despair, but hope.

So lift up your heads. Not all is lost. Not all is chaos. We are marching to Zion, beautiful, beautiful Zion. And one day, the city will shine, the cracks will be healed, and the bells will ring.

And until that day, we live as citizens of Zion here and now. Hopeful. Faithful. Restorers in a fractured world.

Because the best of all is this: God is with us.

Amen.