sola gratia

It's been a few years since I first encountered the phrase "thin places."  I wish I could recall precisely where I read or heard it––my best guess is that it was during my seminary studies––but I'll never forget the chord it struck with me, because of what it conveys. The notion of thin places is especially popular in Celtic spirituality, and has to do with the idea that there are some places––not necessarily physical locations––where the presence of the divine is most tangible, most real .  I can myself point to a number of experiences wherein God's closeness was so overwhelming that even if for a moment I felt we could be no closer.  My baptism.  Most every time I've baptized another.  The sharing of the Eucharist in nursing facilities.  Conversing with persons who are incarcerated.  Worshiping with congregations of other racial and ethnic identities.  These are the sorts of places that, for me, are so "thin" that it feels as if heaven and earth

One of the issues I’ve most frequently bumped up against in my relatively young ministry is that of the use of ritual in worship.  To clarify, the arguments against ritual have normatively been aimed at use of specific liturgical elements—responsive readings, recited creeds, written prayers, et cetera (rarely, if ever, has anyone groaned about lighting candles, processing the Bible, or offering a benediction at the conclusion of worship—though these are ritual too).  All the same I’m sympathetic to those who are hesitant to embrace ritual, because I’ve been there.  I’m well aware that it can feel cold, rigid, or uninspired.  I realize that, at times, it seems like dropping formalities in favor of extemporaneity can facilitate a feeling of “Spirit-led” worship. Yet the problems so many Christians have with ritual stem, in my opinion, from a lack of understanding about what it is.  Ritual is, in reality, just a particular way of doing something.   It’s a customary practice.  But we