Thin Places and Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas … oh, wait, it’s a little early for that, isn’t it? After all, we still have Advent 4 to prepare for the main event next week which is Christmas.

I’m a huge fan of Christmas. I love the season, but I just don’t show it in the exuberant, deck-the-halls, ho-ho-ho kind of way as I used to. I still love the lights and the carols and most the trappings of Christmas, but, now that I’m a lot older,  it seems that my exuberance has given way to patient waiting, and peaceful enjoyment.

I remember the years where I lived right across the street from the church of my childhood. Their traditions were different than the traditions I enjoy as an Episcopalian, but still, one thing I always loved was to walk out my front door, through the gate in our white picket fence, move down the street to see the candles burning in the windows of the church. We never really turned the lights on full inside the church for this service, except on the choir and the pulpit, so the rest of the church was basically in semidarkness. We sang Christmas carols; we prayed, we listened to a sermon, and then still in semidarkness walked out the church door to return home. For me, it was a very short walk, but somehow there was something about the walk back that was different than any other walk home from church at night. I didn’t have the words for it then, but I felt it, that difference.

I’ve since learned that that particular feeling corresponded very nicely with the definition of what people call thin places or spaces. It means a place, time, or both that is invisible but can be felt in an almost tangible way. It’s a feeling that there’s only a step or two between heaven and earth, and any second you could take that step through what some call the veil of heaven. It wasn’t like anticipating death, but rather an illumination or a joining.

Christmas Eve wasn’t the only time I experienced thin places or times. Quite often in my later years, I have experienced it in certain areas like the National Cathedral, or walking through some of the cemeteries, and on the Eve of All Saints, as well as times on All Souls Day when  I unexpectedly encounter this thinness as an immediate, intimate presence of God. Christmas Eve, though, was something similar, just more intense.

When we moved to Arizona, we bought a house that was a similar distance to the walk I used to take as a child. Luckily I was old enough to stay out and walk to the midnight service, unlike the 7 pm Candlelight service of my childhood. We didn’t have candles in the windows, but we did have a semi-dark nave with lights for the choir the pulpit and the altar.  It was almost as if I could feel the gathering of angels and holy souls around me.

I loved it when the high service for Christmas Eve began about 11 or 11:30 at night. The streets were quiet, most of the Christmas lights that people had put up had been turned off for the evening, and traffic was sparse. Coming out just after the Eucharist, my thin space would be waiting for me. I would look up in the sky and see some of the stars, not as many as if I were out in a dark field, but certainly, more than I usually saw when stepping outside after dark. The crisp air added another dimension, sharpening my senses and urging my feet to walk faster while my heart begged to go slowly to savor every possible second.

The whole thing was the feeling of God being right there, right next to me or in front of me or behind me perhaps. Maybe God was all around me, but the veil between heaven and earth was so thin that it would almost send chills down my spine. It was the holiest night of the year, the night of the Nativity, and here I was, walking through the darkness, on my way home.  Still, I felt I carried within me a light that felt like gossamer and yet a steady flame that would only be extinguished when the night was over.

Every Christmas Eve, whether I’m in church or not, I look for that thin space. Sometimes I can walk outside my house and look up at the sky and see stars that remind me of the ones that I saw on my midnight walks to church. It is different to drive home at that time of night, and most churches have now begun to hold their services much earlier in the evening. It’s not quite the same, even though it celebrates the same holy event.

This year I will look for the thin space. I will listen to a recording of King’s College doing their lessons and carols.  I will sit with just the lights on the tree lit, and join in with that experience listening to the readings and the glorious music that they present. I’ll look for that thin space because it represents a precursor of heaven to me. Like something I need from time to time, but which always or almost always shows up unexpectedly.

During this upcoming Christmas season, think about finding a thin space somewhere in your life whether it’s in church, walking around the neighborhood to see the lights, or even in your own home sitting quietly and opening up to God. Find the thin space. It will be an experience you won’t soon forget.

God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café, Saturday, December 22, 2018.

Labyrinths - an Advent Exercise

One of the things I like best about Advent is that I’m more aware of things, and more alert to words and actions and thoughts than probably any other time of year. This week think it was on Facebook, I saw the word labyrinth. I don’t remember in what context nor do I remember where precisely I saw it, but I do remember seeing the word and having it buzz through my brain for most of the day.

A labyrinth is used frequently as a meditative tool, a chance to walk a directed path and allow the mind to pray, meditate, or even to be deliberately empty of thought and open to sorts of epiphanies.

Many people confuse mazes with labyrinths. The difference is that a maze is quite often square, the paths between tall walls of some thick material like a hedge, cornfield, or pile of hay. A walker must choose one of several routes that will lead them to an exit somewhere other than the point of entry. The object is to make one confused and needing to backtrack to a junction to choose a different path. A labyrinth, on the other hand, is quite often in the form of a circle with a definite way in and out, both beginning and ending at the same point.

I learned about labyrinths in the 80s, when I heard the word, and it caught my attention. I found a book by The Rev. Dr.  Lauren Artress entitled Walking the Sacred Path, which explained the history of labyrinths, their meaning, and their purpose. It describes the various types of labyrinths and how to use any size or shaped labyrinth as a tool for spiritual growth.

Most of us are familiar with the labyrinth in Greek mythology that held the Minotaur.  In the Middle Ages, to walk a labyrinth was taken as a substitute for a pilgrimage to  Jerusalem for those who were physically or financially unable to make the actual journey.  The labyrinth in Chartres Cathedral (ca. 1201 CE) is undoubtedly one of the best-known and sparked Dr. Artress’s interest in labyrinths. It is considered the classic form, circular with 11 circuits. Others can be just a few circuits in length.

An opening in the path invites a walker to enter and follow the winding way to a circle or resting place in the center. On the way in, it is recommended that the pilgrim thinks about why they are making this journey such as looking for clarity on a topic, asking a question, opening up oneself to what could be a new way of thinking or a closer communion with God. Pilgrims walk slowly and deliberately as there is no rush, no specific length of time that is necessary to spend on the journey to the center and beyond.  

The center is a place that encourages the walker to stop and rest, after which they begin the path back to the It could be a time for a message from God or a prayer to God. One finds that when one walks out of the labyrinth it’s been basically out the same and the same way that you came in only a little different.

I have walked several labyrinths, and I also have done them online where I can take my finger and trace the path, I have seen some little sand labyrinths that can be used to trace with a finger or stylus, and a wooden labyrinth that can be done the same way. Labyrinths can be large,  many feet across, or a foot or less. It’s not the size of the circuits; it’s a process of moving along its path that is important.

I think that Advent makes an excellent time to think about walking a labyrinth if one is available. Advent is about preparing, looking at something familiar and looking to see it with new eyes. It’s a manner of connecting with God in the form of motion rather than quietly kneeling or sitting when one prays or reflects. Advent is a good time to use the motion to begin to learn to do things like theological reflections or meditations while one is moving, whether through a park, on a beach, or even just around the neighborhood. It’s the idea that connections with God can be made when the body may be engaged in something active. I imagine that the people who initially walked to Jerusalem offered up many prayers on that journey for whatever it was they were seeking from the mission. I know that the times that I have walked labyrinths, I found it to be a calming experience, one that allows me to just be empty in my mind and not having to concentrate on running into somebody on the sidewalk or reaching a corner and having to stop to allow traffic to go by. I follow the path that’s laid out, whether by natural stones, shaped pieces of granite or marble, brick pavers, outlined with low hedges or simply lines drawn in sand or soil. Its benefit is allowing me to put aside whatever worries and anxieties I have and move with intent but also with peace.

Take a look around your area. Is there a labyrinth handy that you might want to explore? If the snow is a foot deep on the ground and the labyrinth can’t be seen, use the Internet to pull up an image and lightly follow it on the screen using the same intent that you would if you were actually walking. Most of all, think of it as an exploration and at the and look for an epiphany of new ways of serving, listening, or praying.

Give it a try. Think of it as a new Advent exercise that can also be done almost any time of year. Most importantly, remember that you are going with God. The rest will come.

God bless.

Links to resources on labyrinths:

Artress, Lauren; Walking a Sacred Path: Rediscovering the Labyrinth as a Sacred Path.

The Labyrinth Society  - includes sources for finding labyrinths in local areas.
Veriditas -  Original organization started by Dr. Artress. Site has lots of information on history and resources.

Originally posted at Speaking to the Soul at Episcopal Café Saturday, December 15, 2018.

Using Darkness

The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined. – Isaiah 9:2 (KJV)

Last week in our Education for Ministry (EfM) group’s theological reflection, we started with the word darkness. The word seemed relevant since the days are shorter and the nights longer. Many people suffer from such a reversal of light to dark. They become depressed, and sometimes they can be rather unpleasant to be around because there’s so much darkness. Short of propping themselves up underneath a particular lamp that simulates daylight, there are either two choices: either putting up with it or moving to a sunnier climb that climate. Of course, even in the hot sunny places like Arizona, we still have more darkness than light, and this week we’ve had overcast skies and even some rain, thank God, but other places have had lots of snow, freezing temperatures, and inconveniences like delayed flights, slippery roads, traffic pileups, and snow days closing schools.

Another thing about darkness is how it’s used to speak of depression, whether chemical or sometimes emotional or sometimes circumstantial. It seems like, for me anyway, a lot of losses that I have been in the mid-winter before and after Christmas and have been family and friends, and it makes it hard not to be a little bit down when contemplating those losses. It’s hard to lose loved ones no matter when, but it seems hardest to bear when accompanied by darkness physical darkness and cold.

Darkness also is seen as a contrast to light. It’s a symbol that is often used, like in the Star Wars movies, to represent the dark side, the evil that can lie inside people, organizations, and countries.  It often represents a set of opposing beliefs or practices to a system that attempts to produce good things and right actions to benefit as many as possible.

What comes to mind for me is a verse from Isaiah, familiar to those of us who to the Handel oratorio, Messiah. Sung by a bass,  it sounds deep, seeming to bring the illusion of darkness to the piece and color to emphasize the feeling of the verse.

Isaiah, of course, was referring to the Israelites during their captivity in Babylon. That captivity was a punishment for the who had disobeyed and even forgotten about God and turned more towards the material things of the world. They walked in darkness, but God and God’s grace did not wipe them out but instead put them in captivity much as we would a apply a prison sentence for someone who has committed a crime or, as we think of it, a great sin. They realized what they had missed by being materialistic. They eventually recognized the importance of God and obedience to God’s commands, so even though the Babylonian captivity may not have been all peaches and cream, yet, as the captivity in Egypt centuries before, it came to an and.

During Advent, the darkness outside is probably a perfect time to think about where I am walking in darkness, what caused that darkness, and also what that darkness means. Sometimes you have to I have to walk in a dark place to understand where I am and what I am lacking. It may seem to last a very long time, but then, it may be that I need that time to figure out where I have messed up and how I can make amends.

This week, I am hoping the darkness that comes from having things happen, like the washer breaking down, or losing a program on my computer that I depend on quite a bit, or, Lord knows, what else could go wrong.  I have to learn not to let these things get in the way of my walk towards the light of faith and obedience. It is a good exercise during Advent to look for the light but to also be aware that there is a  darkness that can be overwhelming. Maybe this week I’m being tested by different kinds of darkness all mixed into one, then there are dark things that are utterly wonderful, like dark chocolate. So darkness doesn’t always have to be a bad thing; in fact, it can be excellent because it reminds us that we are people who tend to wander away from the truth sometimes and from the way that we should be living. I’ll have to keep my mind on that.

This week I have also to realize that the darkness and coldness are giving the opportunity to do other things, like look at the lights on the Christmas tree and enjoy the little tiny bulbs that show many colors. It gives me a chance to sit in my rocker and look at my fake fireplace. It would kind of strange to do that in summer, although I can. At this time of year, it’s another kind of light that shines in the darkness. And then again there’s the chocolate.

This week may we all walk towards the light. May we all seek to be a light to others who may be walking in their own form of darkness. As we light another candle on the Advent wreath tomorrow, may we seek to find ways to make things better for the whole world and not just ourselves. We pray for those in trouble, sorrow, ill health, or any adversity, and not forget to give thanks for the good things that we ourselves enjoy. It’s going to be a busy week of thinking, but luckily sitting in the rocking chair, with the tree, the fireplace, and, of course, the cats on the lap, there’s time and space to do that.

God bless.

Originally published at Speaking to the Soul at Episcopal Café on Saturday, December 8, 2018.

A Lesson in Contentment

The other evening I had one of those small epiphanies that come into my life now and then. It’s not always in the form of a lightning bolt or an angel knocking me off my donkey in the middle-of-the-road, but it does come, and it does make me think. It’s rather a nice thing to have.

The insight that I had as I sat in my rocker with the lap robe over my legs and feet, a cat curled up on my lap, a good book in my hands, a lit Christmas tree, and my fake fireplace giving off not quite realistic flames but close enough for me. As I observed all of this, I suddenly had this feeling of utter contentment. It was something I noted because it so rarely has happened over the last decade or two — just plain total absolute pleasure. I didn’t want to be anywhere else, I didn’t want or need to be with anybody else, and I didn’t need anything else, except maybe a cup of hot tea, to make life better. I’ve tried to recapture that moment, and I’ve almost succeeded. I have allowed myself to feel happy, although it hadn’t reached the point of total contentment that I had previously. Still, it was something that I could retain in my mind and work towards once again.

Henry David Thoreau once said, “Some men fish all their lives without knowing it is not really fish they are after.” So many people, including men and women of my acquaintance, enjoy fishing, whether in a freshwater lake, in the mountains, on a beach, from a boat, or even off a pier. Many of them would say, “I fish because I like to catch my dinner and I like the fresh fish.” But a lot of those people are also catch-and-release fisherpeople;  they enjoy fishing, but let the fish go back to its natural environment, hopefully, to live another day. There are some that are fly fisherpeople who continually flick their rods and reels to make a fly on the end of the line attractive enough to a fish to get it to jump joyfully upon a pointed barb that pierces its mouth before dragging the poor fish through the water and put in a net. It sounds little brutal, but then, so many things in life are.

A third kind of fisherperson is one who calmly sits either in the boat or on the beach, throws the line out, and sits back to enjoy the gentle lap of the waves against the boat or the pier, and feel the pure enjoyment of just being outside. They may appear to be doing something productive, but mostly they are just letting things go, resting and relaxing. In that case, a fish for dinner is a bonus.

I am one of those third type of fisherpeople.  I don’t care if I catch a fish; I am just as happy if I don’t. The important thing is putting the line in the water and patiently waiting for something to happen or not happen. It’s a time to think, to contemplate, to just let the mind go blank, and perhaps even fall asleep. It’s a time of tranquility, a significant component of the state of being content.

I wonder how many of us really can say this was a moment where we felt perfect contentment. The circumstances for someone else would probably be entirely different than what I experienced, but then all of us are different, and it would be rather presumptuous of me to say that my way was the only way.

Good old apostle Paul, once again he has given us some words of wisdom that we might apply to the issue of contentment. “… [Be] content with what you have, because God has said, ‘Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you.’ “ (Hebrews 13:5b). That brings to mind another experience of contentment when I was much younger. I would go to the Revolutionary War monument in my hometown. The column overlooked my river, my favorite sacred place, and one which I enjoyed visiting often. There was a particular pine tree just over the brow of the bluff on which the monument stood, and I used to go and sit underneath that pine tree to watch and listen to the river and feel utter contentment. Sometimes I’d take my Bible along and find myself reading Psalms, which added another dimension to my happiness, but just sitting there with nature all around me and a kind of invisibility to the rest of the world was a place of comfort. Even more than half a century later, I can still return to that place in my mind, l to try and recapture that contentment. There was a knowledge that God was there. It wasn’t that I saw God sitting on next to me or across from me or even under the same tree. I knew God was not a person that would do any of those things, but I knew that God was always present. And I think that’s what added to my contentment at that time.

I think this week I need to try to recapture those moments of contentment and put them in a faith-based context. After all, tomorrow is the first day the first Sunday in Advent, and we must be content with waiting for the Nativity of a small child will change the world. Perhaps the fishing metaphor might be appropriate for people we can help or ideas we can foster during this coming season.

God bless.


Originally published at Speaking to the Soul on Episcopal Café Saturday, December 2, 2018.