Thick Rocks and Thin Places
DATE: August 30, 2009
SCRIPTURE: Genesis 28:10-22
The title of this sermon is "Thick Rocks and Thin Places." After the scripture reading you may have figured out the "thick rocks" part, but you still may be wondering about the "thin places." Let me assure you it doesn't mean the local branch of Weight Watchers—nor, in these recessionary times, is it referring to your wallet No, a "thin place," according to ancient Celtic wisdom, is a particular location where the sense of God's presence is especially strong. It was said that in such a spot the distance between heaven and earth is as slender as tissue—it is a thin place.
So how do you find such a location? Well, one way is to drive down to Newark, New Jersey, board a transatlantic flight to Glasgow, Scotland, and then, after a bit of respite to let your body adjust to the time change, take a northbound train out of Queen Street station to the coastal village of Oban. There, some three hours later, drag your luggage from the train station to the Cal-Mac terminal and board the ferry headed for Craignmure, on the Isle of Mull, in the Hebrides. Once on Mull, hop a bus that travels on a single track road across that rugged Scottish island, dodging cars and sheep along the way, and finally, in Fionphortt, take the five-minute ferry ride across the narrow channel and disembark on the island of Iona—truly one of the most historic thin places of the world.
That's basically what I did two weeks ago. I went to Iona to experience a week of prayer and silence and worship and learning. I went to Iona to experience the presence of God.
Iona, even though it is only three miles long and one mile wide, has been revered as a thin place for centuries. From 563 on, when the Celtic monk Columba and twelve of his followers established the first monastic community on the tiny island, Iona has held a special place in Christian and secular history. It was so revered in the Middle Ages that Scottish kings came there to be crowned, and then later, to be buried. It is said that Macbeth himself lies in the hallowed ground of Iona.
More than one monastic community has flourished on the island. And more than one has fallen into ruin. Such was the case with the centuries old Benedictine Abbey which was abandoned in the 19th century.
But then in the 1930s, a Presbyterian minister named George McLeod spearheaded a move to rebuild the Abbey and use it as a focal point for Christians dedicated to prayer and social justice. Today the rebuilt Abbey stands as a reminder that God has and does, stir on that special island. And even as Iona served as home base for the ancient Celtic monks who carried the gospel throughout Northern Europe, so the renewed Abbey serves as a touchstone for the modern Iona Community, as its members, scattered around the world, work to bring to life the gospel message of peace and justice. Its thick rocks bear mute testimony to God's presence in that thin place.
Our passage from Genesis is a story about another thin place. Jacob, you may remember, tricked his brother Esau out of his inheritance, and then, ran for his life. It is on that journey that he comes to a spot in the desert where he falls to the ground so exhausted that a stone is good enough to serve as his pillow.
As he sleeps, he has a dream. He sees a ladder, ascending into heaven—with angels climbing up and down. And at the head of the ladder, he sees God, who promises him protection and presence. "I will not leave you," says the Holy One.
When Jacob wakes up, he speaks in amazement: "Surely, the Lord is in this place," he says, "and I was not aware of it!" (Genesis 28:16) And then, so that he might never forget that reality, he takes the stone he'd used as a pillow and sets it upright, like a pillar. And he calls the place Bethel—which means "house of God." And so it is that Jacob uses a thick rock to mark a thin place. As one scholar notes: "The stone becomes a public witness to his own experience [of God]." (Terence Fretheim, New Interpreter's Dictionary of the Bible, I:541) The stone of Jacob, the rocks of the Abbey at Iona, both bear public witness to the experience of thin places.
Part of the modern Iona experience is called the Pilgrimage. It happens every Tuesday. Guided by members of the resident staff, guests take a seven mile, five hour hike across the island. Sometimes you are on roads and obvious paths. But more often you are scrambling across rocks and bogs and sheep filled pastures. Periodically stops are made along the way, where the staff members offer up a bit of history, a word about how it all connects to modern life, and a prayer. A stop is made at the Nunnery—the old convent which has never been rebuilt. There guests are reminded that often in history, the role of women has been forgotten. A stop is made at a remotely located circle of rocks, the foundation of what may have been the Hermit's Cell. It is far from anything else on the island, and reminds us of the importance of solitude. And, a stop is made at Columba's Bay, the point on the island where Columba and his twelve followers landed after their trip across the Irish Sea.
It is here that one hunkers down to eat lunch—sandwiches and chips (or crisps as they are known in the UK) that you've brought along from the kitchen. Later in the day you'll be met at the only crossroads on the island, if you can call the intersection of a dirt path and a single track paved road a crossroads—and there you'll be served hot tea and flapjack. Not pancakes, but rather a kind of oatmeal bar.
Obviously there is much to learn on the Pilgrimage, both about Iona's history and why it has been such a thin place over the centuries, but also about your own personal stamina. I'm a daily walker, but my legs were mighty sore on Wednesday!
But personally, my most important lesson on that day two weeks ago, the point when the tissue between heaven and earth was at it's thinnest, the time when I was drawn closest to God, had very little to do with history, or prayer or even the rigorous nature of the hike.
You see, what I've not told you is the fact that every day we were on the Island, it rained. Some days it was just a passing shower, and others it was off and on all day. But that Tuesday, it was constant—all day.
And so there were puddles everywhere. And the bogs were especially, well, boggy At points your boots sunk into the mud almost to your ankles. And by the time I stopped with the others at Columba's Bay to eat my egg salad sandwich, I was soaked. Despite my waterproof coat, my sweatshirt, my t-shirt, my jeans, my soaks and my Red Sox cap were all drenched. Even my Fruit of the Looms clung to my body!
And so I had a choice. I could choose to be miserable. I could choose to dwell on the fact that the rain was unrelenting, that there was a chill in the air, that my boots were squishing and I was soaked to the skin—or I could simply accept that that was how it was going to be and take in the strange beauty of the day as we traipsed about the island.
It was in that moment that I realized the divine lesson I was meant to learn on Iona. For isn't that often how life works? There are things and circumstances, like rain and muddy boots and soggy sweatshirts that can distract us from really living life fully. There are things that can make feel miserable. But we can always choose—we can choose to accept those things we can't change, those circumstances, for what they are, and instead, focus on discovering the good, the true and the beautiful—the things of God, if you will—in each moment of this precious gift called life.
I didn't erect a stone that day in Columba's Bay, it's already filled with rock formations and sea-smoothed stones, but I did pick up three small stones to take with me. One for my prayer table, one for my desk at church—and one to carry in my pocket.
And like the thick rock erected by Jacob, it is my hope, my prayer, that each time I see or touch one of these tiny bits of Iona, I too will remember to look for God. For in the end, one needs not travel 3,500 miles to find heaven. One need not take a car, a plane, a train, two ferries and a bus to find the holy. In fact, you need look no further than your own home or office or church. For the truth of the matter is this: in the end, all places are thin places, if you are only willing to pay attention. For even as God never left Jacob, and was always present, so too God is always present for you, and for me. Rain or shine.
Amen.
John H. Danner