Lent and Liminality
Each year on the first Sunday of
Lent, we hear the story of Jesus going into the desert for 40 days. The experience of being in the desert is a paradigm
for the season of Lent, for we too are called to a desert-like experience. Being in the desert is hard. It can be lonely, empty, dry, devoid of
structure and certainty. On the other
hand, it can also be filled with newness-new perspectives, new ideas, and new
ways of being.
Anthropologists call these times of withdrawal and waiting liminal experiences. The word Liminal comes from the Latin līmen, meaning a threshold. To be in a liminal space is to withdraw from one stage of life and to wait at the threshold of the next. It is like the adolescent going through puberty, the cancer patient undergoing chemotherapy, the former C.E.O. standing on the unemployment line, the refugee longing for a place to call home, the pilgrim on a journey.
Being in any liminal space is scary. It means leaving behind everything we know to be safe and secure and facing a future that is unknown. It means standing still for a while in the midst of chaos, disarray, and nothingness. It’s no wonder we avoid such experiences. We are, after all, creatures of habit and comfort. We order our daily agendas in ways that protect us from the unknown. We program our GPS in order to avoid the risks of wandering off the beaten path. We surround ourselves with people who make us feel safe. We create for ourselves the illusion of being in control, of ordering our lives to be predictable. But nothing amazing or wonderful generally emerges from business as usual.
Liminality is the place of surprise and encounter, the place of transformation, the place of dying and rising, the place where the caterpillar spins its silk and is transformed into a butterfly. God calls us to such a place this Lent—where predictability makes way for possibility, where safety gives way to risk, where fear resolves to trust.
Jesus invites us to follow him, but he never says exactly where he is going, only to “Come and see.” This is God’s call to us this season, to come to the desert and see where God wants us to go.
Anthropologists call these times of withdrawal and waiting liminal experiences. The word Liminal comes from the Latin līmen, meaning a threshold. To be in a liminal space is to withdraw from one stage of life and to wait at the threshold of the next. It is like the adolescent going through puberty, the cancer patient undergoing chemotherapy, the former C.E.O. standing on the unemployment line, the refugee longing for a place to call home, the pilgrim on a journey.
Being in any liminal space is scary. It means leaving behind everything we know to be safe and secure and facing a future that is unknown. It means standing still for a while in the midst of chaos, disarray, and nothingness. It’s no wonder we avoid such experiences. We are, after all, creatures of habit and comfort. We order our daily agendas in ways that protect us from the unknown. We program our GPS in order to avoid the risks of wandering off the beaten path. We surround ourselves with people who make us feel safe. We create for ourselves the illusion of being in control, of ordering our lives to be predictable. But nothing amazing or wonderful generally emerges from business as usual.
Liminality is the place of surprise and encounter, the place of transformation, the place of dying and rising, the place where the caterpillar spins its silk and is transformed into a butterfly. God calls us to such a place this Lent—where predictability makes way for possibility, where safety gives way to risk, where fear resolves to trust.
Jesus invites us to follow him, but he never says exactly where he is going, only to “Come and see.” This is God’s call to us this season, to come to the desert and see where God wants us to go.
