Music and the Thin Places

There is a Celtic saying that heaven and earth are only three feet apart, but in the thin places that distance is even smaller. Most often associated with wild landscapes, a thin place is where the veil that separates heaven and earth is lifted and one is able to receive a glimpse of the glory of God. One poet describes it this way:

“Thin place,” the Celts call this space,

Both seen and unseen,

Where the door between the world

And the next is cracked open for a moment

And the light is not all on the other side.

God shaped space. Holy.          (Sharlande Sledge)

In this same tradition, thin moments are times when this same source of mysterious power is felt, such as at the birth of a child, the return of a loved one from a faraway place, a moment of deep spiritual awakening. Thin places and thin moments are all around us, yet many people walk through life with their eyes closed, oblivious to the gift of the singing bird, the kind light in the eyes of a friend, the unbridled joy of a child playing in the fall leaves, the sunset and sunrise. So accustomed to God’s lavish love and gifts on a daily basis, we can become numb to his voice and presence.

I was poignantly reminded at a concert at James Madison University how the arts, and particularly music, can be this threshold, at the same time a thin moment and a thin place.  The Monticello String Quartet gave an exhilarating concert at the Forbes Center with a program that included Mozart (K. 421), Mendelssohn (Op. 13), and Jennifer Higdon’s “Impressions.” A one point in the concert I realized I had tears in my eyes, joy in my heart, and no sense of time or place as notes leaped and swirled in enlarging circles, pulling aside the curtain between earth and heaven. I felt a deep bond to the performers, the composers, the instrument makers, yet I was only listening. (Without one to hear, does the falling tree make a sound?). Much like my husband refers to the Longhorns as "our team," by my presence, I felt a part of this team of voyagers, treading where angel footprints are fresh and profuse.

In an age when many use music for entertainment, escape, self-affirmation, or relief of boredom, there is a whole world of music that exists at a higher level---the level where music is the door and moment that transports participants (performer/listener) to places where there is no question whether God exists, only what is he like, as one basks in great and glorious creations of sound that asks all questions and gives all answers with unfathomable depth and height, without words, with all the words of all worlds, in unexplainable soul-expanding breadth.  This is the type of music that, perhaps, isn’t fun, but it is enlarging. It expands one’s spirit to capacities that aren’t possible by imbibing kitsch or dull routine.

I sometimes wonder if this is why some people shy away from the higher art forms, afraid of the unknown horizons to which it might take them. Remember how Lucy asks (in “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe” by C.S. Lewis) if Aslan is safe? Mr. Beaver answers her, “Who said anything about safe? Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.” That’s how I feel about classical music---it will take you to places that may not be safe (you may have to stretch, grow, learn, explore) but in the end it will be good. Very good.

As I celebrate my birthday this week, I’m thankful that God called me to be a musician, and that I have had the deep and abiding joy of visiting thin places untold times, in many, many thin moments shared with family, friends, strangers, and angels unseen. Until God calls me home, I hope to continually be enlarging the circle of those I bring along for this incredible journey.