Thin Places

Exodus 24:12-18; Matthew 17:1-9

I grew up in Southern Indiana and Western Kentucky, living along the banks of the Ohio River. My exposure to large bodies of water was mainly limited to the River. Yet on a few precious occasions we journeyed to the North Carolina coast to visit family friends. I remember pulling up to the beach, spilling out of the car, racing to the ocean’s edge, and sinking my toes in the wet sand while the surf danced around my ankles. In those childhood moments, it was as if I melted into the vast mystery of the ocean waters.

Fast forward a few decades, to this day I delight at the opportunity to visit the ocean. After making ocean pilgrimages with me, my husband Ray has learned to give me an hour or so after reaching our beach destination to just be with my ocean friend.

The first time we took our son to the ocean was no different. We pulled up at Bethany Beach with one-year-old Alex, and as always I made a dash for the water. Shortly thereafter Alex toddled over and stood in the tide in front of me. This energetic little guy honestly stood anchored in place, both of us facing the horizon for a good hour. He joined me in my communion with the God who created heaven and earth. As he stood leaning against my chest, heart to heart, with eyes cast on the same scene, we took in the awesome power and vastness of it all – mystery of unexplained depths, the pounding rhythm of the waves that resonate with something deep within, the salty wind that allows nothing to remain tame. The presence of God in our midst, vibrantly alive in the richness of that moment.

It was one of those moments for me that the ancient Celts would certainly have called a “Thin Place”, a place, event, moment, where the veil is lifted, opening us to something greater than ourselves, where for perhaps for a blink of an eye we glimpse the glory of God, the peaceable kingdom here on earth. There is a Celtic saying that “heaven and earth are only three feet apart, but in the thin places, that distance is even smaller.”

The Celts saw certain geographic features as more likely than others to offer such an experience. Mountains were one of those places, a place where heaven and earth seemed to literally touch. They also saw the changes of seasons as especially sacred times… we stand in the wake of such a moment today, the end of the season of Epiphany, and the dawn of the season of Lent. The already-not-yet as it were.

I would wager that while you might not have had language to describe such an event, that you have at some point experienced such a time of indescribable clarity, mystery, oneness. I invite you to think of a time when you encountered one of these Thin Places, a place of breathtaking sacredness. Perhaps a memory of a geographical place – I have never been to the Grand Canyon, but that would certainly be a good candidate. The ocean, the vista viewed from a mountain. The view of the sky while lying on your back, looking up through dazzling fall leaves.

Maybe it is a moment or an event – a surprise encounter with a wild animal in the wilderness, holding a newborn, falling in love, living through a shared tragedy like September 11th where the world seems to stand still and our communal grief draws us out of our isolated fortresses and for a brief moment we experience a connection to those outside of ourselves.

Or it could be worship – the music, the welcoming embrace of a friend, the passing of the peace, participating in communion or baptism, the proclamation of scripture. Maybe for you it is when we recite the Lord’s Prayer, speaking these ancient words in unison, in a rhythm as natural as breathing.

This glory of God, it is everywhere. But it takes an awareness that is cultivated through time, stillness, and a trust in something beyond ourselves. Elizabeth Barrett Browning captures this concept so well:

“Earth’s crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees takes off his shoes, the rest sit around and pluck blackberries.” (Aurora Leigh, Book vii)

This morning’s gospel reading is about a Thin Place as experienced by the disciples. They stood with Jesus, their teacher, on a high mountain, a place where earth and sky touch. And their eyes are opened. They see their teacher transformed into a being that glows like the sun, in the company of Moses and Elijah. This passage clearly points to the transformation of Jesus.

But I wonder about the transformation that took place among the disciples that day. We are not told why only three of the disciples accompanied Jesus, but I guarantee they were not the same after this encounter. I have so often imagined this text as an event taking place before the eyes of the disciples. But I wonder if what they saw that day was more of an awakening to what had been before them all along, but to which they were blind. Perhaps the only thing that changed in that moment was their openness to what was always within their grasp.

These three disciples experienced this mystical event, this thin place, and their response was to fall to their knees in fear. I can relate to this. For it is hard to encounter the power of the Holy Spirit without encountering a call to change, move, grow. Recall the wrestling match of Jacob along the shores of the River Jabbok – he wrestled with a strange assailant. In the end he emerged alive, and blessed, but with a wounded hip. As our eyes are opened and the veil is lifted, we often see our painful complicity in the brokenness of the world exposed, and we are issued the call to take that next step toward our own wholeness, which always leads us closer to wholeness for our broken world.

Paula D’Arcy tells of a friend’s dream where God came to him saying, “If you give me half your heart I’ll show you half my power. If you give me all of your heart, I’ll change your life.” If we are willing, when we experience these thin places, they have the power to crack us open, and through those fissures the Holy Spirit seeps in and changes us forever. The disciples were right to be frightened. Encountering the force of God is no neutral experience. It will change us, transform us, into new creations – over and again. Thanks be to God.

Throughout the interview process here, in my conversations with the APNC and with Roy, we talked a lot about this idea of Christian Formation and discipleship, of being a community where Spirit and Service Come Together. What does this mean, and how do we do it?

Well, there is no easy answer. But what I am certain of is that such change and deepening of a lived faith is a process, a journey, that never ends. It is a series of events and shared experiences that time and again crack us open, remind us of who and whose we are. The gift of Thin Places is that they serve as wake up call to the lives that God desires us to live.

This week we enter into the season of Lent. Lent is a time of preparation, self-examination, and waiting. I invite you during this season to be on the lookout for the Thin Places along your journey. Trust that they are there, and seek them out. Be open to the work of the Holy Spirit in these fleeting moments of wakefulness, and to the teachings and insight offered to you. Treasure these moments, reflect upon them, and then in time be willing to share the stories of your encounters with the Divine – the One who is always present, always active in our midst.

In the spiritual journey, we are each given glimpses of Heaven on Earth. If we pay attention, opening ourselves to the mysteries of God that almost always surprise us and defy our expectations and understanding, and then choose to open ourselves to the power of such raw encounters with God, we are time and again given the gift of new life, the veil is parted, we awaken that much more, and each time we are changed, never to be the same again.

“Earth’s crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees takes off his shoes, the rest sit around and pluck blackberries.”

I say let’s skip the blackberries, cast off those shoes, and let’s dance by the light of the bush afire with God’s glory. It may cost us what we think of as important. It may mean risking what we call security. It may mean looking like the fool. But in the end, it is the only way to live