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What if I told you that we have an awareness within ourselves of the presence of God? What if I told you that even when we don’t fully grasp the concept of God intellectually or philosophically, that we nevertheless have a way of knowing that God is there?

I’m talking of ‘thin places’, a phrase coined by the Celts and later adopted by Christians in Scotland, England, and Ireland and eventually passed down through the Anglican Church. What are thin places? Well, as a priest once said, “When I talk about thin places, I’m not talking about the gym or your local juice bar.” Thin places are big experiences of the Divine, places where God feels especially present.

Two quick stories about thin places that I’ve experienced. The first was in Morocco. Andi and I had been travelling through the Atlas mountains in a 15-passenger van. The days were long—usually 16, 17 hours of driving each day. At the end of the trip, we had an overnight stay in the Erg Chebi dunes. We rode into the desert on camels. I don’t recommend it. It seemed like a good idea at the time. It turns out camels are mostly used to transport belongings—not people, but Western tourists have this romantic notion of riding camels, so there we were.

We rode into the desert. We set up camp. We were sitting under the stars and Andi suggested we open the bottle of wine we’d been saving for a special occasion. Alcohol is really difficult to find in Morocco, only a few stores sell it. I had gone out specially one night to buy a bottle. As I brought it out, I was feeling really chuffed with myself. I presented it to Andi. It was her favourite. She said, “Oh, it’s not a screw top?” 

I said, “I know! I thought I’d splurge and get one with a real cork!” 

She said, “No, Helen, it’s not a screw top and unless you packed a corkscrew, we’re not getting into that bottle anytime soon!”

Now, if you know me, you know I’m a pretty determined person, especially where romance is concerned. So, out came the nail file, and for the next hour, with a blanket of stars overhead and the crackling sounds of a campfire behind us, I chiseled away at that cork until at last, a celebratory dribble poured out. We toasted to love and to travel, and to our upcoming nuptials (please God may this not be a metaphor!).  

It was the trip back the next morning, when I felt that thin place. We were once again on our camels. It was a 2 hr trot to the van. 30 minutes in, my legs went numb. But there was something about watching the sunrise after 24 hours of feeling totally and completely useless, totally and completely dependent on this animal which really is not the graceful picture of transport that you see in magazines, and I’m sure, didn’t wake up thrilled with the idea of carting tourists around on its back. There was something about being on the other side of that experience, heading home towards the rising sun. God was especially close there. 

The second story about a thin place is actually from right here at St Clement’s. Ash Wednesday—which is next week—on Ash Wednesday every year Peggy, Elizabeth, and I kneel on that bottom step there, draped in purple stoles, purple garments. And, together with the congregation, we begin the litany of penitence: “Most holy and merciful God, we confess to you, to one another, and to the whole communion of saints in heaven and on earth, that we have sinned by our own fault in thought, word, and deed; by what we have done, and by what we have left undone.”

Then, as a church, we continue with the prayers, holding up to God all that is wrong with the world, all that is heavy on our hearts, trusting that we will catch a glimpse of God on the other side of this glass, through which we see now only darkly. That is a thin place for me. 

Moses met God in a thin place on Mount Sinai. He didn’t realize that as he came back down the mountain his face was shining. So much so, that it kinda freaked out the people who were waiting for him at the bottom. So, he put a veil over his face. We do that sometimes, don’t we? When we’ve experienced a particularly sacred moment, we keep it close, not sharing it with others right away because we need some time before we have to explain it. And, that’s okay. 

Peter, John, and James went up a mountain with Jesus. They see Moses and Elijah there, two of their ancestors. Moses and Elijah are talking to Jesus in the same way they used to talk to God. Peter, John, and James are a little freaked out. So, they get busy making some shelters. It’s kind of like when something big happens, but you’re not allowed to tell anyone yet, and you don’t really know what to do with all that anxious energy, so you start making a casserole, or reorganizing the furniture in the living room. But Moses and Elijah aren’t there for casseroles, and neither is Jesus. 

A cloud, just like the one that used to come over Moses when he was talking to God on Mount Sinai, a cloud comes over them and a voice from heaven says, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!” 

As soon as the voice is finished speaking, the disciples are there by themselves with Jesus. This is their thin place, standing next to the person of Jesus, in whom God has shown themself to be especially present. They keep quiet about it for a time, because they’re maybe feeling that feeling where you’re not quite ready to share something special for fear of it somehow becoming less special, or less real—for fear of it getting explained away. 

A wise retreat leader once told me to keep to myself for a little while, and maybe even for a long while, the encounters with God I’d had while away on retreat. I needn’t rush home and tell everyone about it. Rather, in recognition of how delicate these experiences can be, she counselled me to keep them close for a time.

I wonder where God, through the ministry and teachings of Jesus, has shown themself to be especially present to you? I wonder what thin places await you? Whatever they are, I wonder about keeping them close, even if only for a little while? It is a very precious thing to be in the presence of God. Amen.