If we are very fortunate, every now and then our senses encounter a moment of beauty so transcendently marvelous that the experience becomes for us a portal or gate to the eternal. Wordsworth saw in such moments an “intimation of immortality,” a memory of the soul’s eternal existence before our birth, when “trailing clouds of glory, we comef we are very fortunate, every now and then our senses encounter a moment of beauty so transcendently marvelous that the experience becomes for us a portal or gate to the eternal. Wordsworth saw in such moments an “intimation of immortality,” a memory of the soul’s eternal existence before our birth, when “trailing clouds of glory, we come from God.” Celtic Christianity described the event more biblically as a “thin space” or “thin place” where whatever separates the seen and unseen dimensions becomes almost transparent.
Scripture knows such encounters — Jacob’s ladder bridging earth and heaven, Moses’ burning bush, Saul’s Damascus Road experience come readily to mind. For us, the vehicle might be a piece of music or a work of art. In the physical world it takes a thousand forms: the scent of honeysuckle, a perfect sunset, the face of a child. Marital intimacy can become such a sacred pathway, and so, at times, can a prayer. Many have experienced it in reading great literature; some, in the contemplation of pure math. If we open our spirits to the sacred romance, such secular sacraments can become icons through which the divine light shines through the distractions that constrict our usual vision and becloud our world.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning was right: “Earth is crammed with heaven, every common bush afire with God.” But, as she also reminds us, “only he who sees takes off his shoes; the rest sit around and pick blackberries.” Many households in early 20th century England contained a wardrobe. One set of children found a gateway to Narnia. On the Mount of Transfiguration, Peter, James and John were eyewitnesses of Christ’s majesty, but when they came to Gethsemane they all fell hard asleep.
Perhaps it is children who most often discern these magical moments — “for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Let us resist with all our might becoming so jaded that we no longer see and hear. And let us remember that, while these intimations can enchant and entice us to aspire to realities not yet seen, they cannot of themselves fulfil the deep and silent longings which they nevertheless inspire. Here we are always pilgrims, but pilgrims who sometimes catch a faint echo of the Father’s voice calling his distant children home. from God.” Celtic Christianity described the event more biblically as a “thin space” or “thin place” where whatever separates the seen and unseen dimensions becomes almost transparent.
Scripture knows such encounters — Jacob’s ladder bridging earth and heaven, Moses’ burning bush, Saul’s Damascus Road experience come readily to mind. For us, the vehicle might be a piece of music or a work of art. In the physical world it takes a thousand forms: the scent of honeysuckle, a perfect sunset, the face of a child. Marital intimacy can become such a sacred pathway, and so, at times, can a prayer. Many have experienced it in reading great literature; some, in the contemplation of pure math. If we open our spirits to the sacred romance, such secular sacraments can become icons through which the divine light shines through the distractions that constrict our usual vision and becloud our world.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning was right: “Earth is crammed with heaven, every common bush afire with God.” But, as she also reminds us, “only he who sees takes off his shoes; the rest sit around and pick blackberries.” Many households in early 20th century England contained a wardrobe. One set of children found a gateway to Narnia. On the Mount of Transfiguration, Peter, James and John were eyewitnesses of Christ’s majesty, but when they came to Gethsemane they all fell hard asleep.
Perhaps it is children who most often discern these magical moments — “for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Let us resist with all our might becoming so jaded that we no longer see and hear. And let us remember that, while these intimations can enchant and entice us to aspire to realities not yet seen, they cannot of themselves fulfil the deep and silent longings which they nevertheless inspire. Here we are always pilgrims, but pilgrims who sometimes catch a faint echo of the Father’s voice calling his distant children home.