By Christine Darragh
Romans 8:22-23 ‘For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. 23 And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first-fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.
I first read about “Thin Places” in a blog whose writer referenced a New York Times article, now 3 years old, but I knew immediately what she was talking about. Though she was speaking from her own loss and fragility, the thinness actually references a proximity to eternity. A spot, usually geographical, where the divine is present.
Though we ascribe divine aspects to our experiences of spiritual depth, emotional strength or relational closeness, sometimes we forget to pay attention to the ground where our feet tread, treating it as holy. However, places often resonate more eternally than my feelings, which I’ve taught myself are fleeting, and spiritual highs can be just as ephemeral. That perfection is most palpable for me at the waters’ edge.
By the shores of the great lakes, whose familiarity is comforting, imbued with qualities I seek in busy daily life: enjoyment with the present, contentment, relaxation and contemplation. These meditative moments mean that while I walk the shore with my family looking for perfect skipping stones, I also see the expansive sand meet the water in a sharp edge that extends beyond sight.
While I lay, just listening to the sounds of fun and laughter, I also notice the sky with its often-changing blues; Sometimes soft with the cotton beds of clouds who float lazily along, sometimes foreboding and gray, following the lead of an agitated wind.
Listening to those shore sounds which comprise a symphony to summer allows me to drift away in my mind to bigger things, stressors in daily life, which when given the space seem less imposing. So, there on the shore, I use the pause to find answers to the questions that swirl, seeking a resolution.
But the moment that I enter the water, especially in the calm moments near dawn, and maybe again at sunset, the whole of myself seems to be washed away. Soft pastels paint the sky and the ridged sandy bottom holds a still pattern of the surface’s own movement, a photographic representation of the watery ripples which wrinkle the surface softly then disappear.
I wade out among these, my toes disturbing slightly the sandy bottom, legs churning the glassy surface. But the lake is large, and I am small. The grey-blue stillness only whispers at the agitation I create quickly finding again its placid facade.
While my body is covered in this icy calm, surrounded by a greater meditation between air, water, sky and ground, I find that my thoughts have stilled to meet the quiet around me, and I pause in the silent acknowledgement of a veil, whose thinness here, transfers the holiness of heaven into this moment.
I pause in the silent acknowledgement of a veil, whose thinness here, transfers the holiness of heaven into this moment.
Maybe it’s not just the delicate fabric of our physical realm that induces me to the experience of being able to reach out and momentarily touch the perfection for which I so long. Maybe the truth lies in my own spirit, whose veil can be lifted through submission, the laying aside of pride that blinds me to the glory I most want to feel near.
Maybe the truth lies in my own spirit, whose veil can be lifted through submission, the laying aside of pride that blinds me to the glory I most want to feel near.
I sense this too, at the waters’ edge, where my self-regard is swallowed by the mouth of a lake infinitely greater than any measured part of me. In a contest of wills, I’ve already lost, and I would rather feel the moist cool touch of its embrace than an icy sharp stab of fury. Somehow, this marks the divine for me more tangibly than a thousand bible verses. In this sense of awe, I am humbled and need nothing of myself, my vanity surrendered willingly. A completion accomplished through my own void.
Romans 8:26 ‘Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words.’
But I groan, along with creation, for a perfection that can only be grasped as hope – a promise – whose fulfillment is borne in my pain. In my ragged, desperate moments, when my spirit is worn to shreds in the tides of a life which courses with shame and guilt, I call without speaking in a voice only a Loving Creator could hear and understand.
These pleas are lifted like incense, groans of pain and agony in an appeal before the greatness of God-in-eternity to reach through the fabric of my separation and cast a finger of help into my broken life. This window is not a carefully sacrificed pride, or a calm meditation, but a panicked clawing, a tearing in the only direction from which I perceive any help can come.
This window is not a carefully sacrificed pride, or a calm meditation, but a panicked clawing, a tearing in the only direction from which I perceive any help can come.
These moments are populated with salty tears – a mourning over my own pride – whose survival has meant my certain death. A destructive curtain drawn, achieving my separation from the promise of completion in Jesus. But simultaneously, I sing a dirge for that same vanity, which must now die, saying goodbye to my sometimes favorite past times, the sins which bring me an immediate, tangible sense of fulfillment, always carrying me far away from the forgiveness which promises me unity with my Savior.
How though, can I find an answer when my desperation is long and the tearing and tears seemingly bring me no closer to help? In my quiet moments of grief, I’ve turned back to my selfishness as a protection, ceasing to seek the worn places, only to shore up my longing behind a wall of pride – its surest shield.
No longer crying out, rather staring stonily ahead in a stoic display of nonchalance. If the thinness I seek will not reveal itself to me, than I shall declare myself sufficient and no longer seek it. Full of pride. Broken, but unyielding.
Some people would call us creatures, an insulting term, even by Webster’s understanding when used to describe people. You prove them wrong. Can a creature write so beautifully as this? Does a creature experience such deeply spiritual feelings, experiencing God’s creations in this world, as you clearly do? Does a creature even have such feelings and expressions? No. Not even close. No creature is made and lives in the image of the Creator of All Things as we do. No creature has a soul, as we do, that is our only true self, apart from these shells we call our bodies. Only people live on eternally, even if our bodies die and turn to dust.
It seems to me, though, that you contradict yourself when you speak of a veil. I mean, your feelings and your beautiful expression of such wonderfully spiritual and human feelings, show us that, with the guidance of the Holy Spirit, you have torn away the veil. The Spirit of Truth lives and thrives and roars to life in your bewilderment, your suffering, you striving to reach Him. Indeed, I believe I can promise you- when you reach out to Him, as you have done, you touch the face of God.
Jim – You’re right. There’s a contradiction, which I think is a paradox. Because sometimes the closeness we feel to God is Himself inserting us into our moments, and sometimes it’s because we’ve chosen through obedience to draw near to him. Likewise, our sinfulness can get in the way of that closeness, though we want with all our souls’ to dwell in that nearness …
Yes. I think the very nearness of God at times can totally overwhelm and befuddle us. It’s like when the shepherds saw the angels- they were very afraid. Sometimes we pray and ask God- show me what to do. Tell me what to do. But if He actually sent an angel to speak to us, we would totally freak out. We probably would act crazy, and people would think we are crazy. That is probably why He speaks to us in that still, small voice.” Sometimes what we need most is to relax, rest in the peace He gives us when we reach out to Him any way we can. Asking how do we do that is like asking how do we receive the Holy Spirit. How do we receive the “peace that passes understanding.” I can only speak to my own experience, and I don’t know how definitive that is for other people.
The Holy Spirit is often spoken of as the Breath of God or the Breath of Life. I think we can relax, after sincerely expressing our concerns to God, take deep breaths as in meditating, taking in real breath as we literally take in the Holy Spirit. We relax as in meditation, but it is the Holy Spirit that really does hand us a special peace for the moment that calms and soothes and strengthens us for the task ahead. This way, God gives us a way to move forward in faith, even if we do not understand everything that is going on right now. It is a wonderful and amazing feeling to me. With practice and His blessing, we can actually collect ourselves in a brief moment and reach this point of peace to some degree almost anytime we need it. It’s like having a spiritual canteen strapped to our belt to drink from anytime we are thirsty.
I will never forget the first time I experienced this kind of peace. I was five years old. Either I had not started school, or I was home from morning kindergarten. Most of the kids in my neighborhood in the old Willow Run Village were older than I was, so they were all at school. I was all alone for hours at a time- or at least it felt that way to me. Anyway, I was sitting there on a swing in a little playground in the middle of a huge field feeling very sorry for myself. Even when I was that young, I listened carefully to sermons, and my parents both taught Sunday School. I had a real faith that God loves me and I would go to Heaven someday and live for ever. Thinking about that, I felt like hell. What a terrible thing it would be, I felt, to live for ever- forever sad and lonely like I feel right now, here all alone on this swing.
Then I heard a voice call my name. I have no doubt that I heard this voice. I recognized the voice as that of my father. But Dad was at work. Again, I heard the voice call my name. And yet a third time I heard my father call my name when he could not have been there. And he was not there. I sat and thought. Suddenly I I thought to myself that I was hearing my father all right- I was hearing my Heavenly Father call my name! Suddenly a peace came over me that I will never forget. It brings tears of joy to my eyes to think of that moment even now. I HAVE NEVER BEEN SEVERELY DEPRESSED OR WORRIED ABOUT MY ETERNAL FUTURE SINCE THAT MOMENT. I doubt myself. But I never doubt God.
Just a small boy’s imagination? A year or so ago I was listening to a Christian radio show. I turned it on in the middle of something. Some guy, a Christian singer, was telling my story. It was the very same thing. I felt like I did the first time I saw that movie, A CHRISTMAS STORY. How could someone else know what I went through? How could anyone else tell my story? How could anyone else experience such a personal and intimate moment of MY life? Well. There is one answer. It was truly the Holy Spirit-our Holy Father- speaking to him and to me. Again, I received that amazing feeling of peace and joy. It is always available to me now. It is available to all of us who reach out to believe and ask Him for this very special blessing.