The Celtic Christians are some of my favorites among all the expressions of Christianity. Their approach to faith is grounded, simple, and deeply paradoxical.

The Celts were grounded in place. Poet John O’Donohue writes about the four elements and how fire, wind, water, and earth shape and speak to our lives.

They were also simple. They were never the seat of an empire. They didn’t have much. And yet they produced beautiful music and art.

And they were paradoxical. If it’s not a paradox, then it’s probably not of God. Jesus tells us to love our enemies and forgive those who harm us. Then he’s killed for it. And while dying, he forgives from the cross and tells someone being crucified beside him that he will be with him in paradise that very day, without a profession of faith or a new members class. This is what causes a Roman soldier, one of the people responsible for his death, to declare that Jesus was the Son of God. The guy killing Jesus is converted. How does that happen?

It’s a paradox.

Like how God is one and three. The Trinity was no big deal to the Celts. When missionaries arrived with this doctrine, I can imagine the conversation went something like this:

“Okay, so there’s this guy named Jesus. He says two things really matter. Love God with everything you’ve got. And love your neighbor as yourself.”

The Celts say, “Oh! That’s simple. We like it. Practical. We’re in.”

“Well, you might want to hold off. There’s this doctrine no one really understands. It’s called the Trinity. Jesus is God, and the Father is God, and the Holy Spirit is God. But Jesus isn’t the Father or the Spirit, and they’re all still God.”

The Celts respond, “Oh! Like a paradox? Yeah, our old gods had three faces. We get it.”

“Wait. Are you sure? People have had fistfights over this.”

“Nope. Sounds good. We’re in.”

“Yeah, but how are you okay with this? How can God be a person? We struggle with this!”

And the celts are like, “Oh, there’s your mistake. Using the mystery to explain a person is crazy-talk. But a person to help explain a mystery..? Well, why do you think we talk in stories all day long?”

One of my favorite gifts from the Celts is their concept of “thin space.”

This idea applies to both place and time. On my sabbatical to the redwoods, I walked among those towering ancients on the verge of tears. I was overwhelmed with awe. That place was a thin spot.

The Mohican River is one, too. I learned to canoe and kayak on that shallow, winding river. It’s gorgeous. I always feel the presence of God there. It was especially meaningful to kayak it with Kate and the kids in August. When I’m stressed or cold, which has been frequent lately, I think back to that time to settle my spirit.

Atwood Lake is another thin place for me. I was raised at the Atwood Fall Festival. My grandparents parked their camper there every first weekend in October to sell honey. I had free run of the whole place. It was a time of beauty and freedom. Kate was raised on the other side of the lake. We love returning to it and to her family’s cabin. It’s a thin spot. A place of rest and restoration. A place where time stretches, where past, present, and future mingle, and where God feels close.

I’m sure you have a place like that. Can you name it?

Time itself can be a thin space. Weddings are one example. I’ve done my fair share. The ceremony lasts fifteen to thirty minutes, but the vows made and the love embodied feel like they stretch forever. And in the best case, they do. Every year Kate and I watch our wedding video. I remember every detail. It was a thin space. It felt timeless. And yet it was one day, more than twenty years ago.

Early in my ministry, older clergy told me they preferred funerals to weddings. I thought they had lost their minds. Weddings are parties. No one has to die to have one. Jesus shows up at a wedding and makes it better with excellent wine. He shows up at Lazarus’ funeral four days late and ruins it by resurrecting him, which kind of makes the whole funeral a moot point.

I’m starting to understand what my mentors meant. Death reveals a depth that weddings sometimes miss. Weddings can become petty. People lose perspective. But funerals are thin space. We are close to the mystery. A life has ended, and we have to reassess our own. Who are we now? How do we carry their love forward? What about my own mortality?

Death doesn’t end a relationship. It ends proximity. Grief insists that we face the mystery. A person explains the mystery, so we tell stories about them.

After my own father died, I was surprised that I grieved him. I didn’t like him. But I was surprised by how deeply I loved him. For all the harm he caused and the absence that shaped me, I still felt love and grace at the end. I still do. I hope he rests in the fullness of God’s mercy and has found the love he could not find here.

The birth of a child is another thin space. Kate and I walked into a room together and walked out with another human being. Twice. It felt like an impossible magic trick. It’s one humans have been doing since the advent of our species. Birth is a thin space.

Jacob had one of these moments, too. On the run after stealing his brother’s inheritance, he dreams of a ladder with angels ascending and descending. When he wakes, he builds a small cairn of stones and proclaims, “Surely God was in this place, and I was unaware.”

That raises an important question. Where is God?

Some say God dwells in the temple, on Mount Zion, in the Holy of Holies. Psalm 84 reflects this longing: “How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord of hosts… Happy are those who live in your house, ever singing your praise.”

We get into trouble when we act as if God can only be in one place. If that were true, where is God now?

That question was asked during the Holocaust. It’s asked in Rwanda, in foxholes, in apartheid South Africa. It’s being asked today, in the halls of power and on the streets of Minneapolis.

Is God in Rome? That’s convenient for Catholics. I was raised that way. I’ve never been, but I’d like to go. And if I can’t find God in St. Peter’s, I’m confident I can find God in the pasta and gelato.

Is God in Mecca? Over a billion Muslims pray facing it, though they don’t believe God only resides there.

Scripture tells us the earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it. God is everywhere. My personal opinion is that two things can be true at once. God’s presence is everywhere, and there are also thin spaces. We experience that thinness differently.

I see God in an art museum. Others find God at a car show or in a garage. Some encounter God on the streets among people experiencing homelessness. Others in the slums of Calcutta, comforting the dying. Others still in the vaulted space of a cathedral.

This sanctuary is a thin space. For more than two hundred years, people have worshiped here. They have prayed, organized, and launched movements for the common good. Women’s suffrage. Anti-racism. Adult literacy. Hunger relief. LGBTQIA+ justice. Every church should have a letter of recommendation from the poor. I believe you have that in spades. You are a thin space.

There’s another thin spot on our bulletin cover today. Greg Zuehlke’s Eagle Scout pergola project. I really like Greg. A good kid, now a young man, serving his community as an EMT. His project brought beauty to our little postage-stamp lot. It inspired John and Virginia Jeandervin, of blessed memory, to generosity. They saw it being built after their weekly trip to the farmers market and responded with an incredible gift. That’s what we talked about last week. Generosity is a spiritual gift, and it’s also one we can practice and grow.

So where is God dwelling for you?

Many of you have said that, with everything going on in the world, God feels distant. I feel that too. Things can be overwhelming. I’m grateful for small practices that help reset my spirit. A good workout does that for me. I’m a better person afterward. Maybe you are, too. The body is a temple. Maybe it needs a little maintenance this week.

Maybe the cold has you feeling trapped and tired of your own four walls. Lighting a candle can change the atmosphere and open space for prayer. If you need a candle, just ask. I know a place.

Maybe it’s decluttering. Starting that house project you’ve been avoiding. The best time to start was a year ago. The next best time is now. It doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to begin. Cathy recently told me she did a deep clean and it was spiritual. Cleanliness is indeed next to Godilyness as they say.

If you are grieving, creating a small altar or intentionally tending the photos you already have can help. That practice can open a thin space, or at least remind you of one.

Whatever you choose, know this. God is with us. God is already there. There are little altars everywhere. May you feel God’s presence in your practice. And may grace and peace be yours. Amen.