To think of “thickness” rather than “thinness” might just help us to emphasise that the divine is here, in the ordinary mess of life, just as much as out in the wild. Wherever thick bonds of love bind people and places together, God is present. Wild places are great, but the nappy-changing table, the hospital ward, and the care home are thick places, too.
Kerri ní Dochartaigh agrees: “Places that anchor and nurture us do not have to be beautiful, cut off, or even what might be described as wild. I’m not just talking about forests, mountains, and wild coves. I am also thinking about supermarket car parks with even just one tree; the back of housing estates where life has been left to exist; dump-piles in burnt-out factories where insects glisten; dirty streams at the edges of things, full of waste but still brimming with something like renewal.”
I KNOW of no thicker place than the altar rail. People kneel side by side, the threads of so many lives, different pains and joys, brought together and thickly woven with the grand story of God’s love. In the bread and wine, all this love and longing thickens until it can be touched, tasted, and shared.
In Toni Morrison’s novel Beloved, the character Seth is accused of having a love that is “too thick”. She responds: “Love is or it ain’t. Thin love ain’t love at all.”
"I have begun to wonder whether this language of 'thinness' is helpful. It might seem to imply that the 'thick' materiality of this world is an impediment to our encountering the divine," writes Rob Hawkins#Creationtidehttps://t.co/VbCjqudEN9
— Church Times (@ChurchTimes) September 6, 2025