Reflections on Three Thin Spaces

Martha talked about thin spaces during our week in Canterbury. It took me a while to understand - thin spaces (a Celtic Christianity term) are spaces in which you find yourself close to God.

The old church at St. Peter's is a thin space, as is, without a doubt, Canterbury Cathedral. There, God is found in every window, crack, and steeple. In the benches, and even in the boxes placed on the worn steps where we sat during Sunday's communion service.

The remains of St. Augustine's Abbey (described by Hal Kulp in another report) are a thin space, as is the churchyard surrounding St. Martin's, the oldest church in Canterbury, and the oldest active church in the UK. Although, the graves appeared relatively modern, the original church and the stone, including some Roman bricks, from which it was created, date to at least the end of the 4th century - well prior to the arrival of Augustine. Evidently, it was a present from King Ethelbert to his Christian wife, Bertha, and she is supposedly buried there. Unfortunately, when the Victorians opened her grave, all they found were an old man's bones, not hers.

The town of Canterbury centers on the cathedral. From every high place, you can see the spires and hear the bells peel. The same bells that pealed to announce the world wars, and then, remained silent until the war's ends - I can't imagine Canterbury in silence.

Inside the great Cathedral, it was the stained glass drew me - from the oldest surviving glass to the most recent - the depictions of Christ's life and the lives of Saints and monarchs were beautiful. Some of the windows were lost during the War bombings, but much was saved by the courageous fire brigades who manned the roofs to put out the bomb created fires before they could take hold. As my eyes were drawn upwards to the spires and windows I could barely see, I blessed and thanked those unknown heroes.

There were too many tourists - some pilgrims, some not; perhaps the non-Pilgrims find more there than they expect and become drawn to God. I can only hope.

The music continued to soar - our rendition of Benjamin Britten's Te Deum in C (with a beautiful solo by Soprano Section Leader, Mary Lee Slemmer), had the Dean of the Cathedral at a loss of words and voice. It took two broken tries for him to regain his composure and say the final prayers.

The commissioned Daniel Pinkham rendition of "Beloved, Let us Love One Another" was the perfect ending for a perfect week. There, amongst the WWII veterans from all sides - Japanese, German, English, Italian, and American, we called to God for forgiveness and love. We asked that we forgive our former enemies - something, I am not sure is as easy as it sounds, especially for those (on all sides) who lost their friends, families, and neighbors in the Wars.

Canterbury Cathedral is close to God. It holds centuries of history, from death and destruction, to wonderful music, art, writing, and philosophy.

In order to have survived this violent history and welcome the creation of such goodness as that which we sang, it must close to God. A place of ultimate forgiveness.

A thin space.

Dianna Robin Dennis
Composer/Writer
Templemoyle Lodge
Shudane, Athenry
Co Galway, Ireland