The Thin Places: Where Heaven & Earth Meet
All Saints Sunday — November 1, 2026
St. George's, Lowville Revelation 7:9–17; Matthew 5:1–12
A scientist was asked, “What's the greatest mystery in the universe?”
“Consciousness,” she replied.
“You mean we still don't understand how the human brain produces awareness?”
“That's right.”
“Well, that explains a lot of what I see on the evening news!”
Actually, I've been reading a little lately about some fascinating research and theories concerning human consciousness, and it's raised some intriguing questions about the nature of reality itself. Neuroscientists have made extraordinary discoveries about the brain, but there's still considerable debate about what consciousness actually is. How is it that we experience the world as thinking, feeling, self-aware human beings?
There are even speculative ideas in philosophy and theoretical physics suggesting that consciousness might be fundamental to the universe itself. Perhaps our brains don't simply create consciousness, but somehow receive or filter it—a little like a radio tuning into a signal. That's not established science, of course, but it's an intriguing possibility.
And it isn't entirely new. More than a century ago, the American philosopher and psychologist William James explored a similar idea. James was fascinated by religious and mystical experiences, and wondered whether our ordinary waking consciousness might be only one way of experiencing reality.
What are Thin Places?
Perhaps there are dimensions of experience we don't normally perceive. Now, I'm certainly not going to solve the mystery of consciousness this morning. I'm not sure even the physicists have figured it out! But I wonder whether you've ever experienced a moment when there seemed to be more going on than you could easily explain.
Perhaps while standing somewhere beautiful in nature, listening to music, or during worship, when you felt unexpectedly overwhelmed by God's presence. Or perhaps at a funeral, when the music, prayers, and memories touched something deep inside you.
In some Christian spiritual traditions, we call these thin places—moments when the distance between heaven and earth seems especially small. And I wonder whether All Saints invites us to pay a little more attention to them.
When we speak of the communion of saints, we make an extraordinary claim: that we belong to a community reaching beyond the boundaries of time and death. Those who've gone before us remain held within God's eternal love, and we belong to that same communion, even now.
Finding God in Grief and Remembrance
In Revelation, John sees a multitude gathered from every nation, tribe, people, and language. They have endured tremendous suffering, yet John hears the promise that God will shelter them, lead them to springs of living water, and wipe away every tear from their eyes.
I've been thinking about that image. We sometimes imagine heaven as a place where nobody ever cries, and certainly John's vision promises an end to suffering. But what touches me is that God doesn't stand at a distance and tell people to stop crying. God draws close enough to wipe their tears away. And perhaps we've underestimated the spiritual significance of tears.
St. Ignatius of Loyola paid particular attention to tears in his prayers. Sometimes he understood them as a gift, a sign of his heart being moved by God's presence. I remember something of that from my own Pentecostal upbringing. There were times in worship when I found myself moved to tears—not because I was sad, but because I felt an overwhelming sense of something holy.
Think about funerals. How often have you heard someone describe a funeral as a beautiful service? It's a strange thing to say, isn't it? Nobody's glad the person has died. There may have been tremendous sadness and tears. Yet perhaps the music, prayers, and stories somehow honoured the person in a way that touched everyone deeply. Something beautiful happened in the midst of grief. Not because the sadness disappeared, but because it was given room—acknowledged, held within the love of a community, and offered to God. Perhaps that, too, is a thin place.
Blessed are Those Who Mourn
And it's interesting that today's Gospel, the Beatitudes, is often read at funerals. When we remember someone we love, we may recognize the qualities Jesus describes: mercy, gentleness, peacemaking, a hunger for justice. They weren't perfect. None of us is. But through their lives, we caught glimpses of something holy. Jesus begins his teaching on the mountainside with a surprising declaration: blessed are the poor in spirit, those who mourn, the meek, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, the merciful, the peacemakers.
If we were asked to describe a blessed life, I suspect we'd think of health, security, loving relationships, perhaps some success. But Jesus looks at people carrying burdens and uncertainties and says God's blessing is among them. Notice he begins with blessing. Before telling his disciples what to do, he reminds them who they are—and whose they are. Not that suffering is good, or that injustice should be accepted. Rather, God's kingdom doesn't operate according to the world's usual measures of success or power. God's presence isn't reserved for the people whose lives seem to be going well. And I've been thinking about what this means for our spirituality here at St. George's.
We often speak about the joy of our faith, and I love that. We sing, celebrate, and laugh together. But I've also been thinking about another important part of spirituality: lament. The Psalms are full of people crying out to God in sorrow, frustration, even anger. They ask why injustice prevails and why God seems distant. In fact, the Bible has an entire book devoted to lament. It's called—rather unimaginatively—Lamentations. Apparently, they weren't feeling especially creative when they chose that title!
And these expressions aren't treated as failures of faith. They are part of the prayer life of God's people. Perhaps church is one of the few places where we can give grief and anger room without immediately trying to fix them or pretend everything's fine. We know this isn't just about personal loss. Sometimes we see the suffering and injustice in our world and feel outrage. Anger can become destructive, certainly, but sometimes it begins with love—with that conviction that this isn't right; this isn't how the world is supposed to be.
The Beatitudes bless those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. They remind us that spirituality isn't escape from the world's pain. It can open our eyes to what needs healing, and call us to participate in that healing. And what about our life together?
We've had some quieter Sundays this fall. Some people have been recovering from surgery, and our families have been juggling school-year schedules. We miss them, and I know some of us have wondered about the smaller gatherings. I have, too.
Our anniversary celebration was wonderful: a full church, lively singing, the energy of being part of a crowd. There's something deeply spiritual in that. But perhaps there's something spiritual in a quieter gathering, too: sitting together in our circle, hearing one another's prayers, noticing who's beside us, or simply allowing room for silence. Maybe a smaller gathering isn't necessarily an obstacle to experiencing God. Perhaps it's another way into that experience. Of course we want others to join us. But perhaps faithfully being who we are means recognizing the gifts of each gathering, rather than measuring every Sunday against the one when the church was full.
Perhaps our task isn't to manufacture spiritual experiences for people, but to become a community attentive enough to recognize them, and welcoming enough to make room for others to do the same. A community where joy is genuine, but nobody has to feel joyful all the time. Where grief, questions, doubt, and anger at injustice have room. And where we help one another look beyond what is toward what might yet be.
Becoming a Thin Place for Others
Christian hope isn't pretending everything is fine. It's trusting that the brokenness of our world doesn't have the final word. William James was interested not only in unusual spiritual experiences, but in their fruits—what difference they made in the way a person lived. That seems an important question for us, too.
If we glimpse God's kingdom in worship or in remembrance, what grows from that experience? More mercy? More courage to seek justice? More patience with one another? More willingness to make peace?
The Beatitudes don't simply describe something to admire. They invite us into a way of life. Sometimes we recognize the kingdom through an experience that moves us to act. And sometimes it's through the very act of showing love that we recognize God's presence.
We recognize the kingdom by participating in it.
And perhaps that's how we become a thin place for others: not by manufacturing a certain spiritual feeling, but by making room for people, accompanying them in sorrow, celebrating with them in joy, and sharing in God's work of mercy and peace. In a few moments we'll gather around this table. We never gather alone, but with the whole communion of saints—those whose love has shaped us, and whose stories remain part of our own.
After Communion we'll light candles in memory of people we love but see no longer. Perhaps in remembering them, we'll glimpse one of those thin places, a moment when heaven and earth seem nearer. And perhaps we'll leave this place a little more attentive to such moments in everyday life—and a little more ready to become signs of that love ourselves.
God isn't finished with St. George's. We can keep faithfully being the community we're called to be: a place for joy and lament, wonder and questions, hope and compassion. A thin place where others might glimpse the kingdom of God and discover there's room for them, too. Amen.
At St. George's, Lowville, we believe church can be a place for joy and lament, wonder and questions, hope and compassion. Whether your faith is longstanding, uncertain, or just beginning to take shape, there's room for you here.
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