A Mountain Raised

There’s a box sitting in my mom’s garage up in Philadelphia.

Not a fancy box. One of those old cardboard boxes that’s been taped too many times, bowed in the middle, sitting on a shelf between Christmas decorations from the 1980s and tools nobody’s used since the Phillies last won the World Series.

But inside that box is a treasure.

It holds a real turntable—one of those heavy ones that feels like it was built when things were made to last. And underneath that turntable are stacks of vinyl records.

Some from my family. And some from a former boss of mine—records he gave me when he found out how much I loved music.

This guy was a vinyl collector the Philadelphia way—not by browsing boutique record stores with white gloves, but by being an honest-to-goodness trash picker in the city. He’d roll through alleyways and peek behind old rowhomes to see what people tossed out. And let me tell you, Philadelphians throw out treasures.

He found crates of old vinyl that people didn’t realize were valuable. And when he discovered I loved music, he passed some gems on to me. That’s how I ended up—at least on paper—with the entire Led Zeppelin discography. And a stack of albums from The Misfits, an old punk band that only a Philly trash picker would think to keep.

But here’s the thing: I don’t actually have those records.

Not with me. Not in Florida.

They’re still sitting in that box in my mom’s garage, gathering dust. They’ve been there for years—long enough for me to forget the box even existed. Life kept moving—seminary, marriage, moving, ministry, kids—and that box never made the trip.

And in the back of my mind, I’d always thought, “I’ll get those someday.”

But I didn’t.

Then something surprising happened. Over the last few years, vinyl made a comeback—not a fad, but a full-blown reboot.

Record shops reopened. New shops appeared. Young people—who weren’t even born when CDs were a thing—started buying turntables.

Vinyl became the fastest-growing format of music.

And suddenly I remembered that box.

Now? Now I want it. I want the turntable and those Led Zeppelin records. I want my mom to bring the box the next time she visits. I want to pull it off that shelf, wipe off the dust, set it up, and hear the warm crackle of an old song becoming new again.

What I thought was outdated… isn’t. What I assumed was forgotten… isn’t. What I left behind in the garage… still has value. It just needed the right moment to be rediscovered.

That, friends… is where Advent begins.

ISAIAH’S WORD TO A WEARY PEOPLE

Isaiah speaks to a people who feel like that forgotten box—tucked away, dusty, overshadowed, overlooked.

And he gives them this vision:

Isaiah 2:1–5 (NRSV)

1 The word that Isaiah son of Amoz saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem.

2 In days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it.

3 Many peoples shall come and say, “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths.” For out of Zion shall go forth instruction, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.

4 He shall judge between the nations, and shall arbitrate for many peoples; they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.

5 O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!

This is not a text spoken to a triumphant people. This is spoken to people who feel forgotten. Buried. Overwhelmed. Tired. People whose hope feels like a dusty box in the garage.

Isaiah gives Israel a vision of something rising that they thought had fallen. Something shining that they had stopped looking for. Something worth rediscovering.

Just like vinyl, Rising again. Reviving. Rebooting.

It wasn’t vinyl that changed—it was our vision. It was our attention. It was our longing for something real and warm and human and alive.

Isaiah is saying:

“God isn’t done with you. Your story isn’t over. Your hope isn’t dead. I am lifting up a new mountain.”

In Scripture, mountains are where heaven touches earth:

Abraham encounters God on Moriah

Moses receives the law on Sinai

Elijah hears God’s whisper on Carmel

Jesus is transfigured in divine glory

Jesus climbs Golgotha to redeem the world

Isaiah’s raised mountain is not a topographical prediction. It’s theological poetry.

It means: God’s presence will rise. God’s hope will become unmistakable. God will reboot what has been forgotten.

This is the Advent truth: The old story is coming back into rotation. The needle is dropping again. Hope is making a comeback.

God is raising new hope from places we thought were finished; Advent invites us to walk in the emerging light.

Isaiah ends with:

“Come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!”

He doesn’t say: “Sit still and wait.” “Cross your fingers for better days.” “Hope someone else fixes it.”

He says: Walk. Move. Step into the light God is already shining.

Advent is not about pretending the world is perfect. Advent is about choosing to walk toward the God who is bringing light into imperfect places.

It’s believing that:

Darkness does not get the final word

War does not get the final word

Fear does not get the final word

Cynicism does not get the final word

Hopelessness does not get the final word

God does.

Where in your life is the forgotten box?

Where have you said:

“It’s too late.” “It’s too broken.” “I’ve moved on.” “That part of me is long gone.”

Advent whispers back:

“Go look again. Hope is still there. You may have forgotten it—but God hasn’t.”

Maybe it’s:

A relationship

A dream

A calling

A joy

A part of your story that feels lost

A faith that feels dusty

A hope you haven’t touched in years

God’s not finished with it. Or with you.

Your hope may be dusty, but it is not dead.

Your future may feel uncertain, but it is not empty.

Your story may feel quiet, but it is not over.

Advent is God saying:

“I’m rebooting hope. Don’t throw it out. Take it off the shelf.”

I haven’t opened that box yet. But I will. Next time my mom visits, I’m making sure she brings it. Because I want that turntable. I want those records. I want to drop the needle on Led Zeppelin IV and listen to Stairway to Heaven the way God intended it to be listened to: on creaky maybe dusty vinyl.

I want to hear something old become new.

And that is the invitation of Advent.

God is lifting the mountain. God is raising the hope. God is dusting off the old promises. God is rebooting what we thought was lost. God is dropping the needle on the ancient song of salvation again.

And the question Isaiah asks is the same question to us:

“Will you walk in the light?”

Because the light is coming. The hope is rising. And the world is about to hear the music of God again.

Amen.