The Third Chair: Where Connection Meets the Divine
By Jeff Tacklind

Where do you go in times of stress? Each of us reacts differently. Some attack, while others freeze. Many flee. But I prefer to simply disappear—to ghost, to withdraw to what feels like a comfortable distance, alone.

As an introvert, I’ve mastered the art of the Irish goodbye, avoiding the drawn-out formalities of social exiting and vanishing at the moment when no one is paying attention. I realize now that my mind is becoming wired this way, constantly noticing the moments when one could exit, even when I’m not ready to leave.

I sometimes point out these moments of opportunity to my extroverted wife, who rolls her eyes.

“We could totally leave right now.”
“You want to leave now? We just got here.”
“No, I’m just saying if we wanted to, we could.”

What am I protecting by withdrawing? My energy, for one. I am aware of how precious this inner warmth is and hate to leave the sauna door of my heart open for too long (hat tip to Nouwen’s The Way of the Heart). I know that if I extend myself too much, my enchanted, horse-drawn carriage of energy will turn back into an unimpressive pumpkin. The magic vanishes.

But this withdrawal has its price. Isolation rarely brings the comfort I imagine. As I reflect on this today (from the solitude of a retreat at a friend’s cabin), it occurs to me that maybe what I am longing for is not less connection, but more. Not alone time, but actual intimacy—to be truly seen, known, and understood.

To be seen in this way has become so rare. What a precious gift it is when we experience it. And what an honor it is to see another through that same, intimate lens.

This kind of seeing takes an intentional shift in perspective. It requires restraint—setting aside my own needs to give my full attention to the other requires making room for a second chair. This is the foundation of any relational, contemplative practice: creating space, rather than desperately filling space with myself.

When we do this, a depth occurs. Our reality expands. By adding a second chair, we add an additional dimension to our lives. Geometrically, we move from a singular, isolated point to a line connecting the two chairs. We gain height and length. Area. Our reality become more spacious.

But too often, we stop there. We must be careful not to create another false ceiling to our reality, preventing further growth. In spiritual direction, we refer to this as the third chair.

It is a discipline that reminds us that something more happens when two or more are gathered. An additional reality—already present but too often unseen—comes into view.

"Once, on being asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God would come, Jesus replied, 'The kingdom of God is not something that can be observed, nor will people say, "Here it is," or "There it is," because the kingdom of God is in your midst.'"
—Luke 17:20-21

The added dimension is God in our midst. It is God who occupies the third chair. It is God’s very presence that takes us beyond the immediacy of the present moment and places us in the realm of the eternal. It connects us to more than what we see. It places our experiences in the context of both past and future, reminding us of the power that redeems our past and the deep hope that awaits us in the future. It invites us into a posture of trustful freedom, allowing God to function as the director.

So often, when I have truly held space for another, I find that this emptying of myself is a gift not just for them, but for me. It creates a spaciousness in my heart to receive what I am truly longing for—the love of the One who knows me so intimately.

But to receive this, I must engage, not withdraw. I must lean in. Instead of pulling away, I must extend the height and width of my love. And as I do, I experience the breadth and depth of God’s love for me—the kind of love that casts out fear, that allows me to lie down in green pastures, that fulfills the deepest longings of my heart.

As a spiritual director, I keep a literal third chair open during my times of direction. I do this for both myself and my directee. This practice removes from me the burden of saying the right thing or giving the best advice. It frees us from the pressure of needing to be profound.

The third chair reframes the moment. It invites us to wonder—not just at the height but the depth, not just at the length but at the breadth of God’s love. It is a love that surpasses knowledge. And in its fullness, we are made whole.