When we lived in New Mexico I often wrote blog posts about Cooke’s Peak, 30 miles south east of our house. This morning I said my prayers looking a mile to the south of our house to Little Mountain. Instead of an 8000-foot bare rock, jutting up from the desert plains, Little Mountain rises just a couple of hundred feet up from the flat delta of the Skagit River and covered in forest. It’s a big rock that the glaciers left here millennia ago standing rather randomly among the flatlands around, in a stark contrast to the fertile farmland in which food and flowers are grown. People don’t farm there, they go there to hike, to see the sights, to visit one another, and to relax. Little Mountain is a different sort of place.
Martin Luther King, Jr was a different sort of man. He was a big rock raised by an ancient tradition in a flatland in which injustice and inequality were abundant crops that benefited a few at the expense of the many. He stood in stark contrast to that society, a solid rock in the midst of malleable soil, calling for a different kind of crop to be grown, one rooted in a much higher view of humanity. He was like the One he followed, a rock that causes many to stumble, but upon which the kingdom is built.
The new crops are being raised much more now, but there is still work to be done. African-Americans, Latinos, LGBTQ+, Trans, Natives, women, and even now white males, suffer at the hands of an unreflective soil that grows weeds rather than life-giving food. We need to stumble over the rock of the truth of the oneness of all, fall off the thrones of our egos, and find that, when we’re all down in the dirt together, we are a different sort of human being—one that, for the life of us, cannot see our divisions.