The past few weeks have been full of interviews, questions, answers, and reminders to “breathe, Libby”. And one question one I think I’ve received more times this month than any other is simply to describe my call story. Those of you who were here on Wednesday heard me speak about growing up Lutheran, attending Catholic and Episcopal schools, and being active in Penn State’s Lutheran Student Community. But there’s one formative experience that I’m not sure I’ve shared with you all.
And that experience was Camp Mount Luther in Mifflinburg, PA- my camp Nawakwa. I spent many summers there, from the ages of seven to seventeen, making friends, hiking, going on camel hunts (ask me later), and when I was in seminary, as a week’s chaplain. I love camp. It’s always been an important part of my summers, and one of the places that encouraged me to think critically about faith and its intersection with adolescence. The last time I was there, I noticed a sweatshirt one of the counselors, Grace, was wearing. It simply mentioned: Camp Mount Luther: a thin space.
Now, I’ve never heard the term before, so I asked Grace what it meant. She said that a “thin space” is a place where the barrier between heaven and earth is thin, and where we feel the presence of God’s majesty that first came from the ancient Celtic Christians.
Camp Mount Luther absolutely is a thin space for me. When I’m there, I feel the presence of God in the landscape, the nature that surrounds the area, and the campers as they too experience and learn more about God.
You’ve probably felt a thin space before too- a sunrise, the fist warm spring morning of the year, a peaceful walk on the Battlefield.
Today’s Gospel story takes place on a thin space of its own. Throughout the Bible, we see mountains as traditional thin spaces. It’s on mountains where the line between heaven and earth is blurred, where God is experienced, and where lives are transformed.
It’s on a mountain where God visits Moses, bringing the 10 Commandments to the Israelites. It;s on a mountain where God grants Moses a glimpse of the promised land, where Solomon built a temple to his God, and where Jesus prayed to his father before his crucifixion.
And in today’s story, Jesus brings three of his disciples, Peter, James, and John, up with him to a mountain, where Jesus was transfigured.
The text tells us that Jesus was clothed in white, and he is joined by Elijah, and Moses, and at the time, Peter does not know what to think, telling the group that he will build three dwellings for the church forefathers.
God tells those who are gathered, “ This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” and all Moses and Elijah disappear, leaving Jesus alone with the disciples.
I’ve always loved the story of the Transfiguration. It’s a story of dichotomies: God’s wonder and majesty, against and above our own humanity in the character of Peter.
I love Peter. He is the disciple that I relate the most to – I often say things at the wrong time, speak before we think, and don’t always understand what Jesus is trying to tell me.
And I can really connect with Peter in this Transfiguration moment. . I understand where he was going with his comment, because I do the same thing. I think we all do.
When we experience those thin moments, those mountaintop moments, ones where we experience the grandeur of God, the times in our lives where we know we are at the right place at the right time, when all seems to be wonderful, it’s easy. It’s easy to believe in God, to relish in the glory of God’s goodness. When we are up on those mountains, in those moments, when life is good, we want to capture it, to remember it. We want to do anything to keep it that way. We want to build a shrine to commemorate God’s goodness and wonder and love. We want to celebrate good moments in our church’s history. We are like Peter.
Case in point (and a confession): I take way too many photos. This past year as an intern at St. James, I’ve taken approximately 1,504 photos.In total, I have over 5, 400 pictures stored on my phone. Granted, most of those 5,400 photos are of my cat, or my nephew Ollie. But I digress.
We may not all tell Jesus that we want to build dwellings and celebrate those mountaintop moments we experience, but we do try to capture those moments though photographs.
Because when we take a picture, we can grasp the magic of a moment – the first time meeting a new baby, a peaceful cat taking a mid-afternoon nap, a beautiful flower, or a peaceful walk in the midst of snowfall. Those thin-space moments where we too get to glimpse God’s wonder and majesty.
Photographer Aaron Siskind reminds us that: “Photography is a way of feeling, of touching, of loving. What you have caught on film is captured forever… It remembers little things, long after you have forgotten everything.”
And while those mountaintop photo-worthy, important moments are good reminders of God’s glory, those stagnant moments are not to which we are called. Peter wanted to build a dwelling to keep Jesus, Moses, and Elijah on the mountain, but doing so would get in the way of the work and the service they needed to do.
But what makes thin spaces beautiful is that they don’t last. Beautiful sunsets or flowers or beautiful birds at our feeder are beautiful, but they don’t last. And the Transfiguration didn’t either. Right after the Transfiguration, the disciples go back down the mountain with Jesus, inspired perhaps from the incredible mountaintop experience they had, determined to heal a little boy with an unclean spirit. And they tried, but they failed. Their emotions likely went from mountaintop to valley, from wonder and glory to discouragement and frustration.
We know, like the disciples did, that God calls us to a life of service. James, John, and Peter didn’t stay on the mountain; they walked down it, gathered their other disciples, and got to work.
But that work is difficult. Often, we find ourselves in valleys of our own-discouraged, hopeless, off, and we don’t feel equipped to serve others. We may find ourselves seeking a new job, and wondering how we’re going to pay bills this month or how we are feeding our families until our next paycheck. Maybe we are struggling with the sudden loss of a friend, lost in the midst of grief. Perhaps we’re worried about our children or our loved ones, hoping and praying that life’s challenges will turn out okay. We may feel, like the disciples, that we are failing in our efforts to care for others because we need spiritual sustenance ourselves.
Friends, we may find ourselves on a mountaintop experience today. I know I am.
But what matters more than what today will bring or how you all will vote after church is the work that you do here. The people you serve, and the love that is shown not only in these walls but the love that is extended outside this holy dwelling. Not just on mountaintop or thin-space moments where the pews are few and people are giving to support our mission, but also for moments that are more valley-like in nature.
Times where we may feel divided, when we’re not as present as we would like to in the community, when our pews are a little emptier, or we find ourselves in a spiritual crisis.
But when that happens. May we remember that God goes with us. Jesus didn’t leave the disciples to struggle to heal the little boy on their own. Jesus followed, full of love and grace and understanding, to walk with them and help when things get hard.
What matters is that God is with us, all of us, as we travel this journey of faith together. God is never far away- in mountain top moments or in our valleys. So let us continue to house the homeless here at St James, clothe the naked by supporting Lincoln Elementary’s shoe drive, visit those among us who are lonely, and build up the kingdom of God- knowing that always, God is with us in thin spaces and everywhere. Amen.
Amen.
Sermons at St. James Gettysburg 