When the Moments Swell Larger Than Life

The ancient Celtic notion of "thin places" is increasingly recognized -- those specially evocative locations where the membrane separating heaven and earth seems breathtakingly thin.  We resonate with the idea because we have stood in such places.  For my Mother heaven draws near along virtually any beach with their almost hypnotic and undulating intersection of surf and sand thresholding an endless expanse of horizon.  For others it is the golf course and interplay of tree and bunker and fareway and green.  For me it is the mountains -- sun-splashed hillsides of vertical palettes; moist and musty trails illuminated by dappled light squeezing around leafy canopies above.  If Vermont in autumn isn't heaven itself, it is at the very least a place incredibly, heavenly thin.  We return to such places year after year for their predictable and reliable renewal.

But my guess is that more common, but less commonly named, are "thin moments" -- experiential episodes when the breath of heaven breezes through quite by surprise.  The key unlocking the door may be a passage of music or a flash of insight or a baby's coo or the silent fall of moonlit snow or a puppy's nuzzling sleep.  Since moving to the country the staring face of deer just out our window causes me to stop and be almost absorbed into their steady gaze.  Nourishing moments in which we cannot remain forever nor to which we can reliably return, but which reach out into the grandly normal and, catching us by surprise, feed us with awe.  Such moments may not happen often, but often enough, I suppose, to sustain us with the memory, and often enough to keep us looking; keep us hoping that some such thing might happen again.

Talking with colleagues about the familiar story of Jesus' Transfiguration, we noted all the usual clues and typical lessons -- the foreshadowing of Jesus' glorification; the alignment with heroes of the past; the white garment of martyrdom; the identifying voice of God.  I wouldn't dispute the significance of any of those clues, but if any of this report actually happened my guess is that the gift of it for those who chanced to be along was less the details of the symbolism involved and more the simple and arresting power of the moment.  As with any mountaintop experience, the value is less in what you learn in your head and more what you digest in your soul.  And something about such episodic spiritual food, served in such thin moments, keeps us going.

When I mentioned that it is a little like golf, in which even the rare and occasional birdie is enough to keep the golfer coming back, one of my friends replied with the wry observation that "we are cheaply bought."  It doesn't take much to keep us happy.

I'm not sure he meant it as a compliment, but I somehow think I'm grateful for the truth of his words. 
A red leaf.
A perfect snowflake.
The softness of a kiss.
The lilt of a doe.
The roll of a wave.
The familiar pungence of cumin sprinkled into the simmering pot.
A full moon on a snowy, cloudless night.
"I love you."

It doesn't take much to keep me going.