If you’ve ever walked into a church that’s been home to a large congregation over a long period of time, you’ve probably felt that the space is special. As you look at the worn pews and the grooves in the kneelers, you can almost hear the soft prayers of the generations echoing off the aged wood. The barrier between this world and the New Kingdom has become so thin you can practically see through it, like gossamer. You can feel the other side breaking out. The building didn’t start that way, it has been worn thin by years and years of earnest prayer. The space has become a threshold. It has become liminal.
I’m quite fond of using that word to describe old churches: liminal. It takes its root from a Latin word, limen, which refers to a space that is between two places, or on the boundary of both; essentially, a threshold. You don’t need to stretch the metaphor very far to understand why liminal is such a perfect word for describing a church. The building itself is straddling two places; this world and the New Kingdom. In fact, the majority of our experiences in churches are centered on the Sacraments; rites and rituals which are themselves markers of the biggest transitions in our lives (like birth, adulthood, marriage, and death.) Those sacramental “markers” are like thresholds that take us from the world we knew before into a totally new world where everything takes on a different character.
The liturgies of the church stand (in part) as communal celebrations of those experiences, but of course, only a few of our most important moments will happen within the walls of a church. When those moments happen outside of a church, the spaces where they occur become new and different. The details of the space are burnt into our minds and memories and we can never enter that space again without feeling some shadow of that special moment. The space becomes liminal (at least for those of us who experienced those moments.) But unlike a church that’s been filled with nearly endless prayer over the course of many years, these other spaces feel different to us, but might not have changed for others.
For me there’s a place in Chetek, Wisconsin that’s like that. Many years ago on the 4th of July I took my (then) girlfriend there and we snuck onto an empty dock to watch the fireworks over the lake. As the show drew near, I began to tell her all about the history of fireworks. After several minutes of purposefully boring stories, I finished by saying that after all those centuries of development, people shoot fireworks every July 4th to commemorate our independence, but from now on, they’d be doing it to remember the night I asked her to marry me. I held out the ring and she smiled in a way that she isn’t aware of (but is my absolute favorite) and took the ring just as the fireworks started. (I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever read. I agree with you.) That dock has a liminal quality for me now. It has transcended its original purpose and now carries with it a taste of every sweet (and sour) memory of our relationship . Even fireworks carry that liminality and whenever they go off (in any place, for any reason,) my mind is drawn back to that dock and I’m struck with everything that has come from our relationship. In that one moment, the dock, the town, and even the very concept of fireworks all gained a liminality for me.
The same thing happens with the Sacraments, but in a special way. For example, in marriage two disparate people enter a space. The world seems to function in the same way it always has, but as all of the bits and pieces intersect, the threshold draws so thin that both people fall through and find themselves on the other side as something totally new. When all of those parts come together: when you have a place that has been set apart, (like a church,) and someone is going through a major transition in life (like getting married) and there are special sights (like a gown) and sounds (like “I now pronounce you…”) and even artifacts (like wedding bands,) the liminality goes into hyperdrive and something totally new happens. When all of those pieces coalesce you move from a transition to an ontological change. Transitions are changes that alter the way we interact with the world (such as moving from childhood to adulthood,) but an Ontological Change alters who we are in an essential or foundational way (such as becoming a spouse or a parent.) Our essence has changed. The old version of ourselves no longer exists and we have become something new.
This new person we’ve become feels different and wonderful and novel and we begin to reevaluate everything about our world. Think about it: if you have changed, then by definition every relationship you had has also changed. You’ve replaced your former self in each connection of your life. For a period of time, the way the new you connects will be new as well. As life resettles, you live in a state of liminality. You are the threshold and your world is moving through you. You exist on both sides, understanding both, belonging to both, but not fully comfortable in either.
As Christians, existing on both sides, but not being fully comfortable in either isn’t so strange. That feeling of the hairs raising on our necks in an old and well-loved church speaks to that dichotomy and to the incredible power that comes from living in the balance of seemingly opposite worlds. What makes those spaces feel so dynamic is that they are comfortable being uncomfortable. They can effortlessly fluctuate between the ordinary conversations in the pews and the extraordinary celebrations of the Sacraments. But in a way, those ordinary conversations become special because of the space. And the extraordinary celebrations start to feel common because of their frequency. This is where our faith lives: in making ordinary things extraordinary and making extraordinary things ordinary, we highlight the potential for liminality in everything.
To put it another way, we make thresholds out of every moment.
This ability to make grand moments simple and common moments monumental is what distinguishes us from the rest of the world. It also uniquely suits us to manage life in a world that has flipped upside down. For many people, it is unnerving to see a paper goods aisle that has been stripped bare because people have feverishly hoarded toilet paper. The ordinary has become extraordinary. But most Christians have experienced a moment of giving a bowl of simple soup to someone hungry, or giving a few dollars to someone in desperate need. For many people, the news of thousands of people dying each day from a virus is becoming mundane. The extraordinary has become ordinary. But most Christians have joined in sadness over the loss of friends, relatives and personal heroes and continue their lives with hopefulness. For us, the extraordinary and the ordinary are interchangeable. They mingle with each other daily.
As Christians, we look for divine signs in the smallest of moments. A single verse from a prayer book or a treasured copy of Scripture might redirect our entire day. But we also interact with the greatest of moments so frequently, that they sometimes seem commonplace. Each Sunday we relive the life and death of our incarnate Christ and even something as monumental as that creates only a translucent wash over the coming days. We are, almost by definition, a liminal people. Our lives straddle between this world and the New Kingdom with such regularity that the ordinary and the extraordinary carry equal weight because we know that these fleeting moments, no matter how great or small, are only as significant as what we choose to do with them next.
And that is why we are so perfectly suited to the world as it is now.
As our neighbors struggle to find a toehold in this new world, they may be drawn to anyone in a position of leadership. Or they may be drawn to anyone who gives them someone to blame. Or they may be drawn to the loudest voice in the room. Or maybe, by the Grace of God, they might be drawn to people for whom this new world isn’t impassable. They might be drawn to people who long ago learned to take the ordinary and the extraordinary in stride. They might be drawn to people for whom thresholds from one world to another are commonplace. They might be drawn to people who are comfortable being uncomfortable. They might be drawn to Christians. They might be drawn to Christ.
