The mountain didn’t budge.
Emily stood in the quiet of pre-dawn, fingers wrapped around a chipped coffee mug, eyes fixed on the blue-gray silhouette rising behind her neighborhood. Just yesterday, she had prayed again. The same prayer. The same ache. “God, please make this go away.”
Except it didn’t.
The grief still hovered. The diagnosis remained. The silence on the other end of the phone still stung.
She remembered the verse from Sunday School—Jesus' words, etched into her memory with glitter and glue: “Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move…” (Matthew 17:20, NIV).
So she prayed with all the faith she could muster. Just a mustard seed. That’s all He asked for. But nothing changed.
Had she misunderstood Him?
When Jesus spoke those words, His disciples had just tried—and failed—to drive out a demon from a suffering boy. They came to Jesus wondering why. He didn’t shame them, but gently showed them the gap. “Because you have so little faith,” He said. Then He offered what sounded impossible. Not just victory over demons or sickness—but power over mountains.
There it is again in Mark: “Have faith in God,” Jesus says. “Truly I tell you, if anyone says to this mountain, ‘Go, throw yourself into the sea,’ and does not doubt in their heart but believes… it will be done for them” (Mark 11:22-24).
It sounds like a miracle vending machine. Put in your faith coin, get your answered prayer. But we both know—it doesn't always work that way.
And here’s where the pivot happens: Jesus wasn’t teaching a formula. He was offering a relationship.
These words weren’t about changing God with our faith; they were about being changed by trusting Him. The mountain-moving language? It was the kind of vivid, rabbinical picture Jesus often used—hyperbole that wakes up the soul. He wasn’t saying faith would make life easy. He was saying: when you learn to lean hard on Me, even the immovable becomes possible.
In Jewish culture, “moving mountains” was a common expression. Rabbis would call wise teachers “mountain movers”—those who could unravel the hardest truths. Jesus takes that image and breathes power into it. He’s not just suggesting we solve hard problems. He’s inviting us into a life where nothing—nothing—is outside the reach of God’s hand when we walk in His will.
But what if the mountain doesn’t move?
What if healing doesn’t come… the job doesn’t work out… the child doesn’t return?
Sometimes God changes the mountain. Other times, He strengthens our legs for the climb.
I’ve learned that faith isn’t the absence of doubt—it’s the decision to trust God while doubt shouts in your ears. Maybe you’ve felt that too: the ache of prayers unanswered, the weight of waiting.
But what if the point was never to control the mountain?
What if the real miracle was the shift in your heart, the growing courage, the sacred whisper that you are not alone in this place?
Faith doesn’t always get us the outcome we hoped for—but it always roots us in a hope that holds. A hope that says: He sees you. He hasn’t forgotten. He is still God—even when the mountain stays.
That’s the quiet power behind His promise. That we are invited to believe boldly, to pray honestly, and to trust deeply—regardless of the outcome.
Emily let out a breath. The mountain still stood, its shadow stretching into her kitchen. Maybe it wouldn't move today. Maybe she would climb it. Maybe He would carry her part of the way.
That’s what Jesus meant. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what He still means now.
The mountain didn’t budge.
Emily stood in the quiet of pre-dawn, fingers wrapped around a chipped coffee mug, eyes fixed on the blue-gray silhouette rising behind her neighborhood. Just yesterday, she had prayed again. The same prayer. The same ache. “God, please make this go away.”
Except it didn’t.
The grief still hovered. The diagnosis remained. The silence on the other end of the phone still stung.
She remembered the verse from Sunday School—Jesus' words, etched into her memory with glitter and glue: “Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move…” (Matthew 17:20, NIV).
So she prayed with all the faith she could muster. Just a mustard seed. That’s all He asked for. But nothing changed.
Had she misunderstood Him?
When Jesus spoke those words, His disciples had just tried—and failed—to drive out a demon from a suffering boy. They came to Jesus wondering why. He didn’t shame them, but gently showed them the gap. “Because you have so little faith,” He said. Then He offered what sounded impossible. Not just victory over demons or sickness—but power over mountains.
There it is again in Mark: “Have faith in God,” Jesus says. “Truly I tell you, if anyone says to this mountain, ‘Go, throw yourself into the sea,’ and does not doubt in their heart but believes… it will be done for them” (Mark 11:22-24).
It sounds like a miracle vending machine. Put in your faith coin, get your answered prayer. But we both know—it doesn't always work that way.
And here’s where the pivot happens: Jesus wasn’t teaching a formula. He was offering a relationship.
These words weren’t about changing God with our faith; they were about being changed by trusting Him. The mountain-moving language? It was the kind of vivid, rabbinical picture Jesus often used—hyperbole that wakes up the soul. He wasn’t saying faith would make life easy. He was saying: when you learn to lean hard on Me, even the immovable becomes possible.
In Jewish culture, “moving mountains” was a common expression. Rabbis would call wise teachers “mountain movers”—those who could unravel the hardest truths. Jesus takes that image and breathes power into it. He’s not just suggesting we solve hard problems. He’s inviting us into a life where nothing—nothing—is outside the reach of God’s hand when we walk in His will.
But what if the mountain doesn’t move?
What if healing doesn’t come… the job doesn’t work out… the child doesn’t return?
Sometimes God changes the mountain. Other times, He strengthens our legs for the climb.
I’ve learned that faith isn’t the absence of doubt—it’s the decision to trust God while doubt shouts in your ears. Maybe you’ve felt that too: the ache of prayers unanswered, the weight of waiting.
But what if the point was never to control the mountain?
What if the real miracle was the shift in your heart, the growing courage, the sacred whisper that you are not alone in this place?
Faith doesn’t always get us the outcome we hoped for—but it always roots us in a hope that holds. A hope that says: He sees you. He hasn’t forgotten. He is still God—even when the mountain stays.
That’s the quiet power behind His promise. That we are invited to believe boldly, to pray honestly, and to trust deeply—regardless of the outcome.
Emily let out a breath. The mountain still stood, its shadow stretching into her kitchen. Maybe it wouldn't move today. Maybe she would climb it. Maybe He would carry her part of the way.
That’s what Jesus meant. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what He still means now.
