Have you ever been to a “thin place”? The idea comes from Celtic spirituality, and it applies to a location where the barrier between earth and heaven feels, well, thin. In spots like this, we can feel ourselves closer to the divine.
The rugged Scottish island of Iona is one of the most famous ones. You might expect other thin places to be equally remote and lonely, but that’s not always the case. The first one I encountered was in the very center of Paris.
I was 16, on a tour of Europe with a bunch of other teens. My mother had told me that the church called the Sainte-Chapelle was a Parisian sight I could not miss, so I was puzzled as we crossed a courtyard filled with cars and walked through a narrow door.
Okay, the ceiling of the room we entered was vaulted. And painted blue, with gold stars. It was pretty, but nothing special. Then, one by one, we climbed a winding staircase and emerged into the chapel. I don’t remember what happened to my friends after that. I just remember the light.
The Sainte-Chapelle was built in the thirteenth century by King Louis IX to house his collection of Christian relics, which included what was then believed to be the original Crown of Thorns.
But I had eyes only for the immense stained-glass windows that line the walls, and the enormous rose window at the end. In fact, the walls are little more than frames for all of those tiny bits of blue and red and yellow glass, depicting scenes from the Bible.
It is impossible not to be dazzled by the sheer beauty of the place. By the amount of labor and inspiration that went into it. By the fact that this building and its windows have survived for more than 750 years.
But there’s something else as well. An unmistakable presence, something unearthly. Even with the buzz of tourists’ voices, the contact with the heavenly is palpable.
I’ve been lucky enough to visit Paris several times since that trip, but it wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I went back to the Sainte-Chapelle. My husband, Rick, suggested we go to hear a string quartet play there.
“It will still be light when the music starts,” he said. “We’ll have time to sit with the windows.” I was a bit apprehensive: Would it still be magical, still feel “thin”?
It was a golden evening, and I was almost reluctant to go indoors. But we crossed the low-ceilinged entrance and climbed the winding stairs into the glowing jewel box of the upper chapel. We found our seats, but we could not tear our eyes away from the windows.
Yes, the magic endured. Even the musicians felt it. In the moments when they weren’t playing they gazed, awestruck, at the glorious rose window.
Last year our 27-year-old son spent a weekend alone in Paris. He’s not a huge fan of medieval architecture or classical music, so we were surprised when he said he’d been “blown away” by a string-quartet concert at, you guessed it, the Sainte-Chapelle.
Only we weren’t really that surprised. Just delighted that he’d discovered this “thin place” in the heart of the city, where heaven meets earth.
Download your FREE ebook, The Power of Hope: 7 Inspirational Stories of People Rediscovering Faith, Hope and Love.
