Guardian writer Oliver Burkeman
tells of visiting the church of Santa
Maria delle Grazie in Milan to see “The Last Supper.” He says, “I'm aware this was a boringly
predictable location in which to feel the spine-shiver of something beyond
words (transcendent? divine?). But I did, and powerfully. I'm no expert, but
maybe there's a reason this particular picture of some guys eating some bread
is more celebrated than any other.”[i]
Burkeman believes the Milan church is a “thin
place.” A “thin place” is a “Celtic
Christian term for "’those rare locales where the distance between heaven
and Earth collapses.’"[ii] He writes of attempts from the field of
psychology to explain this indiscernible phenomenon believers all over the
world have described with great intensity, especially in specific locales. Maybe science can demythologize these
numinous encounters.
However Burkeman says, “I'm not sure I want to
know what brain scans tell us about thin places, or how people respond to
psychology questionnaires right after visiting the Grand Canyon. We're in the
territory, here, of the ineffable: the stuff we can't express because it's
beyond the power of language to do so. Explanations aren't merely useless; they
threaten to get in the way. The experience of a thin place feels special because words fail, leaving stunned silence.”
Burkeman writes as if he wants to believe
something divine has touched him in these “thin places,” but is embarrassed, or
at least hesitant to do so. Such an
encounter does not align with a disciplined modern scientific sensibility. The reticence in fully embracing the
unexplainable signals a spiritually uncertain worldview.
Easter and resurrection free the enlightened,
scientifically aware think/believer from living unnecessarily tethered to
positivistic presuppositions. In other
words, one can accept the conclusions of science, but not be bound by those
conclusions so that they exclude the supernatural. A person can believe in God and accept
science.
I stood in a “thin place” just last week. I stared into the glory of Heaven, not
knowing exactly what I was seeing, unable to see, but in the recesses of my mind,
knowing what an unseeable glory lay before me.
It happens just about every year in the weeks and days leading up to
Easter. I don’t know if other pastors
experience this, but I do, often.
I am in the empty church parking lot. I am either coming to the building, or
leaving it. Either way, coming or going,
I am unaware of my steps. How did I get
from my desk to my car? I don’t
know. My body did it. My mind (and sight) was focused on … do we
have what we need for the Maundy Thursday service … what angle should I take
for the Easter Sunday sermon … who’s in the
hospital … did I talk to that guy from the insurance company … did I
forget to call my wife back … who was it that was mad at me? All these thoughts coalesce in stream running
through my brain.
But then, the noise fades to the background to
silence. I, in the empty parking lot,
look at the building where week after week, month after month, year after year,
I clumsily try to unfold the mysteries of God to a congregation that tolerates
my hypocrisy and futility. The cacophony
empties into void. How can I begin to
speak of the things of God, me, schlub that I am? Convinced of my complete insufficiency, in
that moment, God lets me look into the expanse of Heaven. For a moment, I know beyond a doubt that
everything around me – the church, the congregation, the United States, my life
– everything is temporary, soon to be
gone. In that moment, I am put in touch
with the realness, the transcendence of the story of Jesus’ resurrection. Nothing is as real as that story and what it
means.
In that moment, I am shown Heaven’s vast
glory. Note what I have written. I am
shown. I did not say I see Heaven’s glory. The degradation of a world dying in sin
blinds my pre-resurrection eyes. Mary
did not recognize the risen Christ (John 20:15); neither were the disciples
walking to Emmaus able to see Jesus even when he was with them (Luke 24:16).
Similarly, in that moment in the empty parking lot when earth fades to black
and God shows me Heaven, I am unable to see.
I can feel it. I am physically
aware that the glass door separating heaven from earth has been shattered. I can reach my arm out and feel the warmth of
Eden. But, my feet are rooted here, my sight
restricted to this shortsighted, temporary, pre-resurrection existence.
It’s usually shortly after that moment that I
write the Easter sermon, or at least stop worrying about it. I don’t know if these experiences began the
year I became a senior pastor, 1997. I
don’t recall when it began. I just know
when it happened last week, it felt very familiar. It felt like, “Oh yeah, I’ve been to this
place. This has happened for as long as
I can remember.”
And I know that next week or next year, if I look
for that experience, I won’t find it. There’s
no conjuring up divine visitations, no discovering “thin places.” These moments come at God’s initiative. Any place becomes a “thin place” when God
appears there and opens our eyes, even just a little.
I hope God invites you to a “thin place” and
gives you an experience you cannot explain.
If that happens, don’t try to explain it. And don’t write it off because you can’t explain
it. Just worship. In that moment, no matter where you are, even
in an empty parking lot, worship.
[i] https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/mar/22/this-column-change-your-life-heaven-earth
[ii]
ibid
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