Liminal Space
Scripture Reading: Mk 15:42–16:8
Reflections from a Nun
Some years ago I listened to the pastor of a Protestant church speaking to a class of adult inquirers. People were asking questions about the resurrection, and he said that the most compelling depiction he had ever seen of the resurrection was the Orthodox icon that we honor today. He spoke of how the empty shroud evokes a sense of mystery, and helps us to understand that earthly matter can no longer contain the God-made-human. The body that God took on has mysteriously vanished.
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Just as earthly matter can no longer contain God, so also there is no need, it turns out, for the ointments the women have brought. As we sing on Holy Saturday, and again today: “An angel greeted the myrrh-bearing women as they neared the tomb: Mortal death deserves the soothing balm of precious spices, but death’s corruption can never defile Christ!” Christ has left that state of being behind.
A closer look at the icon may give us a hint of where he has gone. In many versions of this icon, including the one here in our Holy Wisdom Temple, the angel has one wing pointing up, one down. Now, I am no iconographer, but this suggests to me an ambiguity, a duality: a space that is neither heaven above nor earth below.
Jesus is no longer in the tomb, nor has he yet re-appeared to anyone on earth, nor is he sitting in glory. Jesus is in an in-between space. There’s a word for it, liminal space. From the Latin “limen”, or threshold, it is the transition from one space to the next. The first time I encountered this concept, or indeed the very word, was in reading about the spirituality of monastic life. Monks and nuns have sought out liminal spaces for centuries. The Desert is the ultimate liminal space – between the worldly space of the city and the truly un-worldly space of Heaven. Monks and nuns seek out liminal spaces because they are seeking transformation, and any transformation includes a passage through liminal space, a stepping over a threshold.
Both the icon and our hymns seem to be drawn from Matthew’s version of the story; Mark’s version, which we read today, has a different emphasis. In reading Mark, we are left hanging at the edge of the abyss, peering into liminal space. Ironically, after so many admonishments throughout the Gospel, to “Go, tell no one what you have seen”, for once the women are told this time to “Go quickly and tell the disciples”, but they cannot. Instead, they flee in terror.
The edge of liminal space is a scary place to be. It represents the end of the world as we know it. Years ago – many years ago – I was sitting at breakfast with several of my classmates in the college dining hall. One young man started talking about a strange, terrifying dream he had just had, in which it suddenly became clear that he was going to die in two years. It was a very convincing dream, and he was clearly scared. Suddenly I thought a bit about what was really likely to happen to him in two years, and I said “Jeff, that wasn’t death, that was graduation”.
College graduation is a quintessential liminal experience, a rite of passage, a coming of age. Suddenly, everything changes in terms of what a person can expect and what is expected of him or her. No wonder it’s terrifying, and no wonder so many young people take time off to travel or engage in some very different sort of endeavor, for a limited time, to “find themselves” before moving on to adulthood. For most, it is a time in which all expectations are suspended, when one is expected to drift a bit. Properly used, this in-between time can be a wonderful gift; it can make all the difference in terms of helping a young person make a smooth transition into a successful career.
A year ago, I was taken to the edge of the abyss, to peer into liminal space, with the new diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. Short of a total miracle, there is no hope of a cure (“cure” being defined as five-year survival). At first it was scary, to be sure. It took a few weeks – a few months, really – to sort out what it meant. There was sadness. Lilacs were in bloom, and I remember thinking it might very well be the last time I enjoyed the sight and fragrance of them. I had been looking forward to raising a puppy, the next time Brother John had one he wanted to keep for the breeding program, and I realized I would not be able to do that. Yes, there are lots of things I will not be able to continue enjoying or doing.
But gradually I realized I was in a new sort of liminal space. And this space has been filled with a number of remarkable gifts. First, and most important, has been the gift of appreciating each day for what it is. Once I realized there was no clear answer to the question of how much time I have left on earth, I began to visualize the time I have left as an unfurling scroll, like the scrolls used for scripture in antiquity. Fastened at each end to a stick of wood, that which has already been read is rolled up on one stick, that which is yet to be unfurled is still wound on the other, and in between is the present reading. What I have is the now, the part that is unrolled before me at the moment. Rolled up on one side is the past, rolled up on the other is – who knows? But for now, I have what is before me.
Another major gift I have found in this space has been the gift of re-connecting with old friends, and building closer relationships with family and others who have been around me all along. When you realize that all you have is the “now”, you pick up that pen and paper, or put fingers to keyboard, and make the connection. You speak the words that you have not quite spoken before. A third gift – and this is also part of building those closer relationships – has been learning to accept the help and support I need, that is here for the asking; to become Mary, to leave the Martha in me behind.
So here I am, a year later. The lilacs are coming out again. This time, almost certainly, is the last time I will see them. But what an amazingly rich and remarkable year it has been.
Thanks to the greater message of this entire Paschal season, thanks to the angel’s wing pointing toward heaven in the icon, I have faith that I will come out of this liminal space into something new and better. Like other major transition points in our lives, this is the threshold into the next great adventure.