Thinking in a Liminal Space

I remember when I first heard the words liminal space. The first thing I had to do was to look up what that actually meant. Here is the Merriam webster’s definition.

occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

“I was in the liminal space between past and present”

relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.

“that liminal period when a child is old enough to begin following basic rules but is still too young to do so consistently”

In the theological and spiritual world we often describe the liminal space as this place of uncertainty, place which might be holding place, a place of transition, decision point, and frequently a place of concern and worry.

Somewhere where we’re not sure what should happen next. Not often when we don’t have any control or don’t appear to have any control of next steps and direction.

Holy Saturday can be considered one of the most profound liminal spaces in our Christian tradition. If we place ourselves in the moment of holy Saturday, at the time of the passion of Jesus Christ, we don’t know what’s going to happen next. Was he a prophet with authority? Was he the Messiah? Is it all over now? What comes next? He was persecuted and I was a follower, am I next on the persecution list? These might be some of the thoughts going through the minds of Christ’s followers in the space just after his crucifixion.

Because we know the outcome it might be difficult for us to consider this liminal space for those that were around at the time. They were suspended between death and resurrection, between despair and hope, the old way and what was to come.

While holy Saturday is a good reference point for us to illustrate a liminal space in the Christian tradition. We have all probably entered liminal moments in our lives, the circumstances being different to Holy Saturday but the feelings and the effect being similar, or at least something we can relate.

In this threshold space, thoughts become fragmented and uncertain. The mind struggles to make meaning when the narrative has been violently interrupted. Consider how the disciples might have experienced this day:

The weight of absence: “He left us.” After following Jesus for years, building their identity around his presence, his absence creates a void that can’t be filled. The teacher, friend, and leader is gone, leaving only questions.

Faith under pressure: “Was He the messiah or just another prophet?” Everything they believed is now tested. Without the resurrection to validate their faith, doubt seeps into every memory and teaching.

Fear becoming tangible: “He was crucified. Will I be?” The threat of sharing Jesus’ fate would have been real. His followers might wonder if they too would be branded as “blasphemers” facing “retribution.”

Cognitive dissonance: “What should I think? What should I believe?” The mind struggles to reconcile what was promised with the reality of the cross. The frameworks for understanding have collapsed.

This liminal space forces a confrontation with our deepest attachments and beliefs. All the disciples and followers have only “word of mouth news reports” – rumors, confusion, contradicting accounts. Without certainty, without “videos” or proof, one is left with the raw experience of loss.

Yet something remains in this emptiness: “Creation, love, care, witness.” The world continues to exist. Relationships endure. The capacity to care remains when all else seems lost. This liminal space invites us to “reflect, discern, renew, trust, believe” – not because certainty has returned, but because waiting in uncertainty is a spiritual practice.

Holy Saturday teaches us that liminal spaces, while disorienting, can be fertile ground. When we step “into the unknown” without guarantees, we discover what remains when certainty is stripped away. This is where fertile ground awaits us: if we dare enter this territory.

Copyright Image and Reflection Michael J. Cunningham 2025

Harmony: An instrument of Change

In the gentle whispers of dawn, when the world seems most at peace, we often find ourselves searching for that elusive sense of harmony that seems to be just beyond our grasp. The dolphins, magnificent creatures of God’s creation, show us daily what it means to live in perfect accord with their environment and each other. They seem to emulate grace in their movement and behavior towards each other. A grace that speaks to us of a more profound truth. Once that, mystics have sought to capture in words and prayer throughout the ages.

St. Francis of Assisi, in his Canticle of the Sun, spoke of harmony with all creation – Brother Sun, Sister Moon, and even Sister Death. He understood that harmony wasn’t just about peaceful coexistence but also recognizing the divine thread connecting all living things. This Franciscan vision of universal kinship calls us to see harmony not as an end goal but as a way of being in the world.

Consider Molly, sitting at her kitchen table early one morning, tears falling silently onto a recently placed plate. The weight of yesterday’s harsh words with her daughter feels like a stone in her heart. If she was present, the mystic Julian of Norwich might tell her, “All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” But how does Sarah find her way to that place of harmony?

Perhaps the answer lies in how dolphins move through the water – not fighting the current, but finding their path within it. The 13th-century Angela of Foligno would understand Sarah’s pain. She spoke of finding God not despite our suffering but through it. The harmony we seek isn’t about erasing our feelings but about weaving them into a bigger tapestry. The tapestry of our lives.

In the Christian contemplative tradition, harmony often emerges in the space between our breaths, in the pause between our thoughts. The Desert Fathers and Mothers knew this well. They sought not to escape the world’s discord, but to find the underlying harmony beneath it all. Meister Eckhart preached that this harmony already exists within us – we need only to clear away what is blocking us from experiencing it.

For Molly, harmony might begin with acknowledging the love which is the underbelly, that underlying her pain. The very depth of her hurt speaks to the intensity of her connection with her daughter. Like the dolphins who never truly sleep but rest one hemisphere of their brain at a time, she can hold both her sadness and her hope in a delicate balance.

St. Clare of Assisi, who understood the power of contemplative harmony, might guide Sarah to her mirror – not the physical one on her wall, but the mirror of Christ’s love in her heart. There, she might see that harmony doesn’t require perfect conditions. It requires only our willingness to remain open to grace, even in our brokenness; particularly when we feel broken.

As the morning light grows stronger, Molly finds that harmony isn’t about returning to yesterday’s peace. It’s about finding today’s rhythm, even if it comes with tears. The dolphins know this – each day brings its own song, its own dance, its own way of moving through the waters.

Molly’s Dawn

The morning coffee grows cold

And memories of yesterday’s storm

Ripple across the surface of the lake which is her mind.

She watches sparrows outside the window,

Their morning dance is a reminder

That harmony doesn’t require perfection.

As they stumble around looking for seeds of nourishment.

Meanwhile, Molly looks inside for

movement.

breath.

Just the courage to begin again.

Her tears now mixed with a purpose,

As rain joining the sea,

Finding its way home to something larger,

An ocean of love.

This is how we learn to swim

In deeper waters,

Where harmony isn’t just a word

But a way of being.

Molly rises,

Picking up her phone,

Typing: “I love you, even when we disagree.”

And waits.

The dolphins would understand –

How the pod moves as one

Through both calm seas and storms,

Never losing their song.