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 touch: those moments, those times when divine and human reach toward each other and remind us of how close and interconnected the two really are.
And yesterday as I read the Daily Office gospel lesson, I was startled by the scenes in which heaven and earth literally touch: a woman in a crowd, suffering twelve years from hemorrhages, who believes Jesus can heal her and so reaches out to touch him; and a dying girl, the daughter of Jairus, whose hand Jesus takes as he bids her to rise.
Jesus, the incarnate thin place––the Word become flesh to live among us––joins heaven and earth for those who, in these stories and many like them, are at the point of utmost despondency. And it's the touch, the physical connection––in one case a woman extending a hand toward Jesus, in the other Jesus extending his to a child––which makes present the miraculous.
Which makes sense as I consider those thin places I've experienced. Because in each one, there's been a measure of contact with others: of sitting with, speaking with, singing with, praying with; of embracing, of giving, of receiving. In each one, the touching of heaven and earth came alongside a willingness to be with: to hear and to be heard, to see and to be seen, to understand and to be understood. In short, I've frequently found the nearness of God to be communicated by and through nearness to neighbor.
May we all know the touching of heaven and earth: the unmistakable presence of God surrounding us. And may it be found powerfully in those moments when, having been loved by God, we turn that affection outward to love and be loved by others.
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 touch: those moments, those times when divine and human reach toward each other and remind us of how close and interconnected the two really are.
And yesterday as I read the Daily Office gospel lesson, I was startled by the scenes in which heaven and earth literally touch: a woman in a crowd, suffering twelve years from hemorrhages, who believes Jesus can heal her and so reaches out to touch him; and a dying girl, the daughter of Jairus, whose hand Jesus takes as he bids her to rise.
Jesus, the incarnate thin place––the Word become flesh to live among us––joins heaven and earth for those who, in these stories and many like them, are at the point of utmost despondency. And it's the touch, the physical connection––in one case a woman extending a hand toward Jesus, in the other Jesus extending his to a child––which makes present the miraculous.
Which makes sense as I consider those thin places I've experienced. Because in each one, there's been a measure of contact with others: of sitting with, speaking with, singing with, praying with; of embracing, of giving, of receiving. In each one, the touching of heaven and earth came alongside a willingness to be with: to hear and to be heard, to see and to be seen, to understand and to be understood. In short, I've frequently found the nearness of God to be communicated by and through nearness to neighbor.
May we all know the touching of heaven and earth: the unmistakable presence of God surrounding us. And may it be found powerfully in those moments when, having been loved by God, we turn that affection outward to love and be loved by others.
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