Find a thin place

For the sake of your soul and the soul of the movement

Dear Soulful Revolutionary,

Have you ever been in a thin place?

Celtic spirituality speaks of “thin places” as those physical locations where divine presence is more readily experienced — where the soul feels its worth as the material and the spiritual realms effortlessly kiss.

The world over, there are places famously recognized as thin. Places of breathtaking natural beauty, places of profound history, places where thousands or even millions have trod in hopes of experiencing a spiritual breakthrough.

But there are also thoroughly ordinary thin places. I tend to think that thin places are ever ready to avail themselves to us, if we are paying attention.

The concept is captured by Elizabeth Barrett Browning when she writes:

Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God,
But only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round and pluck blackberries.

I am taking today’s essay to share three very different sorts of thin places I have experienced with you. I would love to hear from you about the thin places you’ve known. Remembering these encounters (and learning about those of others) can help us stay attentive for thin places present in our daily lives.

These thin places matter immensely to our souls, and to the spiritual wholeness of our movements for liberation. While late stage capitalism lays the earth waste with its voracious consumption of the material world, thin places are a lifeline. They take us beyond our compulsion to consume or produce, beyond our hunger to own and control, as they invite awe and wonder, connecting us to our most essential selves. They invite us to dwell in simply being human.

The Arkansas House of Prayer

A few weeks ago, I visited the Arkansas House of Prayer in the suburbs of Little Rock. Conceived as an interfaith space for silence, meditation and contemplation, it is one of the most peaceful places I’ve ever been — one of the thinnest places, so to speak.

Situated amongst dense, old growth forest is a small, unassuming building. Guests take off shoes and observe the rule of complete silence before entering a small round prayer room, where sunlight cascades from a large skylight. Chairs line the walls, while meditation cushions surround a pit filled with dirt— brought to the site by all of the communities of various faith traditions that made this vision (conceived 20 years ago by an Episcopal priest named Sarah Sims Smith) a reality. The dirt from these collaborative communities extends down to the building’s foundation.

I was told the only time anyone has spoken aloud in the room was when a group of Tibetan monks visited. Observing that people had left much behind spiritually in the space — the heaviness of so many hearts unburdened — they asked if they could chant in the space to help move this energy. Their request was granted.

In this sacred space, I felt at once buoyed and grounded. My heart lifted. Distractions fell away as my focus shifted inward. It felt easy to pray. To breathe. To be.

The ponds at the Littleton Audubon Society.

For the last year, I have been walking the trails of my local Audobon Society a couple times a month.

Wandering around the ponds, I can never pass up the chance to head out onto the docks, with the same eagerness for discovery which I had at the pond I frequented as a child.

I pause to look at birds resting their wings and kneel to see grasshoppers and caterpillars.

I stroll the Platte river, in awe of how it changes with the seasons. In the spring it is a torrent, as winter’s store is suddenly released from the mountains — come fall it will be little more than a trickle. Getting to know this place over time constantly deepens my sense of its sacredness.

I often spend a great deal more time than I plan in this place. And I never regret it. It slows me down, and I depart with spirit and body rejuvenated, feeling that I have touched something of immense beauty in my humble backyard.

Snapshots from the many memorials built in 2016-17 in honor of JR Thomas

I have also known thin places in the thick of protest (which I’ve talked about before as an experience of collective effervescence), like the time I danced salsa in my vestments, poster aloft, at the March for our Lives in Washington D.C.

And then there was the year I spent with friends building a weekly memorial to JR Thomas — a Black man murdered by police — on the steps of the Pasadena Police Department. We set up a placard with his photo, lit incense and candles, scattered flowers, and chalked messages about justice for JR and Black lives mattering.

Once, we anointed the whole area with holy oil — on hands and knees we massaged the stuff into the concrete, until the whole place smelled sweet.

That this became a thin place for me may seem ironic, given that we were gathered on the property of the institution that caused the harm we were lamenting. But, by insisting that JR’s life was sacred, that Black Lives Matter, our presence cemented the sacredness of that place. We said,

“There is no place where the Holy does not have jurisdiction. Even here, the Holy dwells, bringing healing and hope from violence and despair.”

Sometimes I wonder if the land itself — the land of the Tongva people — was trying to remind us: The blood of our siblings cries out from the land. When we hear them, and cry out with them, we remember that we walk on holy ground.

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I have known many other thin places, including the borderlands, prairies once home to the largest pan-Indigenous movement prior to Standing Rock, and the world’s largest gang-intervention organization. All of these have involved a returning to myself, an encounter with the Holy, and a reminder of the interconnectedness of all people.

Thin places are everywhere. Will we pause, walk, and pray our way around them long enough to notice and be transformed?

What thin places have you experienced? How have they helped you stay human? I would love to hear about them!