Jesus didn’t teach us to pray so we’d sound holy.
He taught us to pray so we’d build something.
“Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”
—Matthew 6:10
Not just a poem.
Not just a lyric.
A blueprint.
Heaven is the top of the mountain.
Earth is the base.
And the call?
Bring the top down.
Before Moses ever led people, he climbed.
Before he gave commands, he received them.
Before he changed the world, he was changed.
“Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Come up to Me on the mountain and be there; and I will give you tablets of stone, and the law and commandments which I have written, that you may teach them.’”
—Exodus 24:12 (NKJV)
Not do there.
Be there.
Because if you don’t learn to be with Him,
you’ll have nothing to give from Him.
Isaiah echoes the same rhythm.
“Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord. There He will teach us His ways, and we will walk in His paths.”
—Isaiah 2:3 (NLT)
This is practical.
This is mystical.
This is a command.
Jesus basically says, “Ministry is to look this way.”
The Temptation
The temptation, when we haven’t gone up the mountain to be with the Lord,
is to replace the mountain with a man-made model.
A successful-looking substitute.
Something someone else built—
that once worked.
So we replicate.
Again and again.
But replication is not revelation.
The crowd size at an event?
Doesn’t frame success.
The offering total?
Doesn’t frame success.
The YouTube views?
Not it.
Even a viral moment?
Still not it.
Heaven On Earth
Heaven on earth—that’s the measure.
Catalytic moments that bend gravity.
Moments that shift culture.
Moments that pull history in the direction of glory.
That’s the only model that matters.
So here’s how the pattern plays out.
You go in to go up.
Not to escape the world, but to receive something for it.
You create space. You fight for minutes. Because minutes create moments.
The kitchen table becomes Sinai.
The car ride becomes sacred.
But it’s always uphill.
It costs time.
It costs silence.
It costs honesty.
The mountain will always cost you something.
You’ll want to skip it.
You’ll want to serve before you’ve sat.
You’ll want to talk before you’ve listened.
You’ll want to react before you’ve abided.
That’s what makes the mountain hard.
But that’s what makes the mountain holy.
And when you go up, go to receive.
This isn’t a retreat.
This isn’t a quiet time with curated vibes.
This is covenant.
You don’t go up to feel something.
You go up to receive someone.
Moses didn’t walk out of the cloud with a feeling.
He walked out with a greater relationship, and tablets.
Truth you can carry.
Words that still set captives free.
“And He gave to Moses… two tablets of the testimony, tablets of stone, written with the finger of God.”
—Exodus 31:18
Moments with God aren’t just for memory.
They’re for mandates.
And then—
you come down.
Because the mountain isn’t the mission.
The mission is what you bring down from the mountain.
Newton said what goes up must come down.
But heaven says what goes up must come down with glory.
You weren’t filled to stay full.
You were filled to be poured out.
So your job? It’s your ministry.
Your home? It’s your mission field.
Your street? It’s your sermon.
The evidence of the encounter isn’t how you felt in the cloud—
It’s how you live in the crowd.
The fire wasn’t meant for storage.
It was meant for cities.
And Eden—this is the pattern.
Go in. Go up.
Receive. Come out.
Bring it down.
Not once.
Not someday.
Every day.
Because the world isn’t transformed by people who had a moment at the mountain.
It’s transformed by people who came down glowing, commissioned, and generous.
“Now it was so, when Moses came down from Mount Sinai… the skin of his face shone while he talked with Him.”
—Exodus 34:29
IN is UP.
OUT is DOWN.
That’s the rhythm of revival.
Let’s go.