Mark 14:12-16, 22-25
John 15:12-15
Celtic spirituality, both pre-Christian and Christian, has given us the language of thin places to describe places where it feels like the realms of the human and divine mingle. “Heaven and earth,” the Celtic saying goes, “are only three feet apart, but in thin places that distance is even shorter. Journalist and author, Eric Weiner, writes of thin places, “[They] relax us, yes, but they also transform us – or, more accurately, unmask us.”
People often talk about temples and cathedrals as thin places, or particular geographies – mountaintops or beaches – but in a New York Times travel article, Weiner argues that thin places can be more unconventional as well – a city park, a bookstore, or even a bar. Thin places give us a glimpse or a feeling of a reality different from what we typically experience – a reality more closely aligned with God’s spirit and intentions than we typically see.
With all respect to the ancient Celts, I think the idea of “thinness” can be expanded beyond geography to include experiences. I believe, anyway, that I have had experiences or interactions, or have been a part of events that feel particularly thin – close to God, close to the will of God. Experiences that open up my consciousness to who God is and what God wants in and for the world. Some happen over an extended period of time – a worship service, a well-timed walk with a friend, a service project or mission trip experience – but others are momentarily flashes – that moment right before the sun rises or sets, the squeeze of a hand lying on top of a hospital bed, a whole room of laughter and joy. Thin experiences call our minds and hearts both forward and backward in time, somehow at the same time, and can give us a new perspective.
The final scene of the movie The Wizard of Oz makes me think of thin experiences. Its that moment when Dorothy is waking up from her journey through Oz. Aunt Em is assuring her it was all just a dream, but Dorothy insists it was something else. As different people enter the scene and come to greet her and check on her well-being, there’s a glimmer of confused recognition as the memory of the technicolor experience shines new light on her old friends. The veil between dream and reality, or alternate reality and reality, is lifted and she recognizes for the first time her companions through Oz who showed such bravery and wisdom and compassion, are her companions back in Kansas as well. “You were there, and you were there,” she discovers, recognizing that the important part of what was true there, the friendship and interdependence and commitment to one another, can be true in this life as well.
On the night that we commemorate when we gather on Maundy Thursday, Jesus gathered with his disciples to share their last meal together. I’ve come to read this story, and the uncountable communion services it has inspired worldwide ever since, as thin experiences. Of course, in the Upper Room the disciples were in his presence physically. In some ways their whole journey with Jesus was a thin experience, where the intent of heaven is played out on earth. But in this meal, in this time of foot washing, as Jesus teaches and prays for his disciples – those in front of him and those yet to come – we have a such a unique vision of what God intends, such a complete picture of the divine realm and divine will for creation.
All of the disciples are there. Not just the ones who always said and did the right things. (Here’s a hint: there weren’t any of those.) But all of them – even Judas who is one dinner away from betraying Jesus in the hands of authorities who will see that he is put together. The kingdom Jesus proclaimed, the kingdom he ushered in with his presence and proclamation, it is a kindom for all people – not the perfect ones, not the holiest ones, not the greatest – whatever any of those superlatives actually mean. God’s kindom, God’s forgiveness, God’s table is for all, and it’s a table of love.
It’s in this Upper Room at this table while sharing this meal, in this thin place and thin experience, that Jesus reiterates what his life is all about and what he desires, no commands, his disciples be about as well. “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love another.” That love, he expands later, is the love that breaks down barriers and hierarchies. It’s a love that is mutually giving and sacrificial. It’s a love the brings his followers together not just as folk sharing the same time on the same earth, but as friends, who share life and purpose and mission, who give each other wisdom in times that confound, care in seasons of sorrow, bravery in the face of seemingly insurmountable challenges, and a place of rest and welcome in a lonely world.
Recalling that meal that Jesus shared with his disciples, along with so many others he shared throughout his ministry, and the meal in the presence of God that is promised in prophecies and visions, we come to this meal from this table tonight. Like the supper in the Upper Room it is a meal to which all are welcome unmasked, with our faults, with our failings, with our betrayals, and with our doubts, for it is a meal of forgiveness and mercy. And like the supper in the Upper Room it is a meal of friendship, where we see one another as equals and partners, and love each other as companions on a journey of faith and discipleship. It is a meal where we meet Jesus. In the grain of the field and the fruit of the vine, in this thin experience, we receive the gift who has given himself to us. Amen.
For Some Reason 