Devotion 10/21/2021 Bryan Gatten

For many years I’ve been fascinated by the idea of what the ancient Celtic Christians called “thin places.” These are described as “a place where heaven and earth meet,” or at least are very close. In these spots, it can seem that our world is in touch with something that is beyond, and it can be emotional and, sometimes, even disorienting. Thin places are not necessarily a place that is tranquil or considered “sacred,” though they can be. Maybe there was a place and time where the voice of God seemed to be particularly strong, or comforting, or challenging. A place where our world and our experience seemed to “touch” that of heaven.

One moment of a particularly strong thin place for me was at a concert by the Canadian rock band Rush. Their drummer, Neil Peart, had always been a hero of mine and I was a fan of the band, so I expected the experience to be good. I did not expect, however, that during their song “Presto,” at a particular cymbal crash, that I would experience what I would later learn was a thin place. I can remember it vividly; where the musicians were on stage, the lighting, the way the crowd was and the sound of it all. It seemed to be a moment of perfect harmony, and I don’t mean in a literal musical sense. The ancient description of the veil thinning, or two worlds becoming one, was the only way I could describe it. The concert was extremely loud, the crowd was intense, and it had rained that day which made me worried about attending an outdoor event; all of these things would lead one to believe that a thin place might be impossible.

But thin places are often unexpected. Some might say that the expectation of one can actually keep the experience from happening. But that moment in that concert was a sacred event, and that ground I was standing on was sacred earth.

I’ve experienced quite a few thin places before and after that event, mostly in the form of both making and experiencing music. But there was another time in 2016 that comes to mind. Julie and I were hiking on some trails near Seven Bridges Road here in Duluth, during the peak of the autumn leaves. We came upon this one section in the woods where the trees were all shimmering yellow, almost uniformly. The trees arced to form a type of canopy over where we were walking, and there were leaves falling, slowly gliding toward the ground so peacefully, and with very little wind. We stood there in awe for minutes, just experiencing the wonder of it. There was no other sound, but the trees were singing loudly and majestically that day.

We have since tried to find that spot again each year, but without success. Perhaps that is a lesson. Thin places are unique moments in time and space, not to be repeated, but to be appreciated, if we allow ourselves to be open to them. The voice of God and the beauty of heaven can be experienced in many ways if we are not closed off to the possibility, or trying to force it to happen.

I think it’s sometimes tempting to compartmentalize what is considered “holy” or not. To think, as an example, “a church is sacred, a bar is not.” But I can think of instances where the reverse proved to be true. Experiencing something holy is a gift, and one would need to be receptive in order to receive a gift. I believe that it’s also important to remember that what isn’t a thin place for one person may be one for somebody else, and to not stand in the way of that.

We have spent most of the last year and a half, before FLC’s doors opened again, dealing with the reality of what it means to be a church but not in the church building. I think thin places serve as a reminder, and an example, of what church can mean outside of four prescribed walls, and that can be especially important to remember as we worship in new ways, whether it be in person in the space (or outside of it), via the livestreams of either service, or listening on the radio.

God, allow us to be open to the thin places around us, to be receptive to spontaneous holiness, and to be part of that holiness for others. Amen.