I found it odd the sense of nostalgia I already feel for the seminary as I walk the brick sidewalks, smell the books as I enter the library, walk past my old student mailbox that now belongs to someone else. I found myself peering into former classrooms and remembering the voice of a particular professor or a specific day when some theological concept "clicked" for the first time. There was a sense of something holy, memories of the past coming alive in the present.
In Celtic spirituality there is a term for spaces like this, and they refer to them as "thin places," sacred locations where it appears the definitive line between the temporal and the eternal is made fuzzy and that which is beyond creation seems to be nearer than in other locations. In these spaces it is not only the memories of the past that come back but a spiritual presence that seems to hover in the present.
For many in our congregation, our sanctuary has been that thin place, a piece of holy ground where the Spirit of God hangs heavy. Memories of wedding vows taken, funeral hymns sung, water poured over the heads of newborns and adults, particular days of welcome or farewell. It is a great privilege to hear many of these stories when I have had the chance to visit in your homes.
The Bible reminds us, however, that "thin places" are not only designated religious sites but can be anywhere in creation. Jacob enouncters God while sleeping with his head on rock and recognizes that "surely the Lord is in this place and I did not know it" (Gen. 28:16). Moses was minding his own business with his herd when a bush caught fire next to him and he encountered I AM for the first time (Exodus 3:2). The Elder Samuel was visiting Jesse in the nowhere town of Bethlehem, when he heard the voice of God to anoint the youngest son to be the next king of Israel (1 Sam. 16:12). Peter encountered the risen Christ on a beach (John 21:1-19):, and the Apostle Paul was blinded on the way to Damascus to persecute followers of Jesus (Acts 9:1-19).
It is not only in temples or sanctuaries that we experience the momentary lifting of the veil between heaven and earth but in ordinary earthy places. Maybe it's a family farm, passed down for generations, and when you walk it in the early dawn with the dew on the grass, you can almost hear the voices of those from the past beckoning you to continue their work. Maybe its an ancestral home, where each creak in a floorboard reminds you where you came from and to whom you belong. It may possibly be a vacation spot or a school you once attended or a summer camp where you spent weeks year after year.
We all have these thin places, and when we make our pilgrimage to them we feel a restoration, a deep peace. In these spaces we remember the events and the people who have formed us, we release the anxiety, fear, or anger that seeks to cling to us, and we are regenerated, mysteriously, into our truest selves.
Deep peace of the running wave to you.
Deep peace of the flowing air to you.
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.
Deep peace of the shining stars to you.
Deep peace of the gentle night to you,
moon and stars pour their healing light on you.
Peace of Christ, light of the world, to you
-a Gaelic Blessing
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