“In Praise of Thin Places”
Sayings of Jesus, as compiled in the Iona Abbey Worship Book
I probably don’t need to tell you that each and every one of these 29 sayings of Jesus is worthy of its own sermon—or a whole series of sermons.
But this morning I’m not interested in exegesis.
This morning I want to invite us to step back. To take in the big picture. To let the words land and consider how they make us feel. To remember—or maybe discover for the first time—who Jesus is and what he is about. To separate the words of Jesus from all the white nationalism, cultural baggage, and harmful theology that have been attached to him.
To notice that in these 29 sayings there is not a single harsh word— only expressions of love, encouragement, guidance, explanation, and invitation.
Do not be afraid.
Seek and you will find.
Don’t worry.
Love God and each other.
Love your enemies.
I love you.
Come to me, and I will give you rest.
I have come that you might have life in its fullness.
Follow me.
This morning I want to invite us to think about what it means to follow this Jesus, to worship this God.
I want to invite us to consider the possibility that being a church, being a vibrant community of Christian faith, means creating places and times and contexts in which anyone and everyone can encounter this God and follow this Jesus and, in so doing, channel the kind of love that transforms and heals, empowers and delights, and participates in the creation of a whole new world.
I realize this may sound vague and vaguely pie-in-the-sky. I would understand if you’re wondering what all this has to do with your real life—and maybe even what Jesus has to do with our real lives.
Of course, I can only scratch the surface of these important questions in one sermon, and I don’t want to suggest that there are simple, one-size-fits-all answers. But I will mention here a few words and phrases that I find helpful: community, for one; the power of so-called “thin places,” for another; and, over and above all that, what it might mean to follow Jesus.
As most of you know, I began my recent sabbatical with a week-long retreat at Iona Abbey, on the tiny Isle of Iona in Scotland. But one doesn’t need to spend time with the Iona Community in the abbey to experience Iona as a “thin place,” a place where one can be more aware of and connected to the spiritual, the mystical, the eternal, the Holy, and the great Love at the root and center of all things.
A thin place doesn’t have to be naturally beautiful or peaceful—though Iona—the abbey, as well as the island itself—happens to be both. A thin place doesn’t have to have a holy history—though Iona’s dates back to the year 563, when an Irish monk named Columba who had behaved badly was looking for a new start and landed his small boat on Iona, where he and 12 companions founded a mission. A thin place doesn’t even have to be a place, really. It could be a community of people, such as a church; or a sacred ritual, like worship; or, more specifically: Communion, beautiful music and liturgy, a hymn, a prayer, a scripture reading, or the bare-bones words of Jesus.
For the purposes of our discussion today, the thin places I want to praise are any and every situation and relationship that help us to feel closer to God, reveal to us how close the Holy One is to us, and help us to feel connected to everyone and everything.
For you that place might be the woods or the beach, or any place and time outside your normal routine. A particular person or relationship may be a thin place for you.
And Christ—the Jesus who lived and loved and died, and the Christ we encounter at Communion—can be a thin place for us all, a window who invites us into the great mystery and tender love of God and the fullness of life.
I come today not only in praise of thin places, but also with an invitation for us to acknowledge our longing for such places and people. And I want to encourage us to think about how we and our church might facilitate the creation and flourishing of such places and people and rituals.
Because amazing things happen in thin places. In those places and situations our hearts are either broken open or can relax open in ways that the normal places and demands of daily life don’t always allow. And when our hearts open more widely to the God is who Love, the Holy One who is ever near, all kinds of things can happen: healing and renewal, sure, but also redemption, clarity, renewed vision and commitment, reconciliation, and a coming home to ourselves and to God.
One of the paradoxical things about thin places is that some amount of commitment and structure is often conducive—perhaps even necessary—for such holy openings and connections to occur.
The commitment may be both as simple and as difficult as making time. It may be as important as deciding to open our heart and mind, and as complicated and challenging as fully arriving in that place (getting to Iona not only required me to fly across the Atlantic but also, once I was on the western coast of Scotland, to take a ferry, a bus, another ferry, and then to walk to the abbey). Thin-place structure may be as holy as twice-a-day community worship, as simple as a basic schedule, as concrete as rules or expectations, as practical as a job or a task that needs doing.
At Iona Abbey, every guest is assigned to a task team, and at the same time every morning (immediately after breakfast), guests do the practical work that makes space for the Holy: washing dishes, chopping vegetables, cleaning bathrooms, and tending to the worship space. I had what I considered the best job of all: As a member of the Sacristy Team, I tended four ancient chapels, making sure they were adequately supplied with candles, matches, small slips of paper, and pencils for writing down prayer requests. As I made my rounds each day after morning worship, I was both inhabiting and nurturing the blessings of thin places.
And so it was, that through the heart-opening beauty of liturgy, sea, sky, and ancient stone; the soul-stirring disciplines of service; the gentle rhythms and simple joys of community life; and frequent exposure to the person and people of Jesus, I began to be transformed—from called and exhausted pastor and leader to grateful follower of Jesus and happy participant in beloved community.
Not that these these roles are mutually exclusive. In fact, it was the morning after I came to a deep clarity that a key purpose of my sabbatical would be to step away from stressful leadership and return to my first call to be a follower of Jesus that the warden (pastoral leader) of Iona Abbey asked me if I would be the Communion celebrant at that evening’s special service.
And if, in that moment, I was tempted to laugh at God’s ironic timing and sense of humor, the sublime beauty and surprise of the Communion service that evening—surely one of the thinnest places I’ve ever been in—brought me to my knees in humility, wonder, gratitude, and praise.
Beloveds, the good news is that we don’t have to cross oceans or go on sabbatical to experience the transforming, healing power of thin places. The good news is that we, as individuals, can be thin places for one another and everyone we know.
The good news is that we, as a church, can become a thin place for our wider community and the world. We can, through our purpose, our practices, our structures, and even our building serve as a window into a restored creation and a new world. We can point the way toward transformative love, peace and justice, healing and wholeness, forgiveness and reconciliation, beauty and joy, and whole new ways of living with our neighbors and all creation.
Do not be afraid, Jesus says.
Seek and you will find.
Don’t worry.
Love God and each other.
Love your enemies.
I love you.
Come to me, and I will give you rest.
I have come that you might have life in its fullness.
Follow me.
