The Transformative Power of Liminal Space in Spiritual Direction
What makes Spiritual Direction really “work’? Is it the openness and spiritual readiness of the Directee? The skill and knowledge of the Spiritual Director? Being in an established community of spiritual seekers and teachers? Yes, yes, and yes – but there is also another profound phenomenon that occurs - something wordless, precious, unpredictable, and deeply transformative. It is something we’ve all experienced to one degree or another. It is known as liminality.
Wikepedia defines liminality (from the latin word limen which means threshold) as a psychological, neurological, or metaphysical subjective conscious state of being on the “threshold” of or between two different existential planes. It is characterized by ambiguity, openness, and indeterminacy. One’s sense of identity dissolves to some extent bringing about disorientation. At the same time there is often a profound change in perspective leading to change in behavior and perceptions; a relaxing of previously held beliefs and feelings which opens the door to transformation.
Imagine for a moment sitting with one’s Spiritual Director, or for that matter alone, and simply listening for that “still small voice”. You know it is not your imagination answering. Why? Because when it happens, it is so unfamiliar and new that it can raise the hairs on the back of your neck or send goose bumps up and down your arms! You have entered that liminal space. Imagine being with your classmates in Tacheria and sharing in a comfortable contemplative silence following a teaching moment. Something shifts inside you and you don’t want to forget it.
Victor Turner, a well know cultural anthropologist studied how people give meaning to their reality through symbols, rituals, and rites of passage. He describes liminality as that space of transition that occurs particularly through rites of passage. More recently, William Bridges, in his book Transitions,describes the neutral zone, which is the state of being at a threshold, wherein what once was, is over; and what is to be, has not yet occurred. It produces anxiety because the old coping structures, beliefs, values no longer seem to work; and yet there is a kind of psychological/emotional abyss immediately ahead. One hopes that on the other side of that abyss there are new structures to grab onto to regain one’s connection with life, meaning, and to feel secure again. Nowhere is this more apparent then in untoward crises like the sudden death of a loved one, or the destruction of one’s home. It can happen when you are fired from a job, or given a medical diagnosis. You are in that in-between place. It can also happen when one falls in love, leaves home for the first time, discovers something magnificent in nature, gives birth, etc. Doubt, excitement, loss, confusion, fear, joy are all attendant feelings. And one knows that nothing will ever be quite the same.
Now I would like to tell you a story. I’ve had many rites of passage and so have you just by the shear act of living; but through most I can now say I was probably semi conscious in appreciating the actual power and process of personal transition.
During my second year in Tacheria I was asked to conduct a Jewish Friday night Sabbath service for our retreat. I felt very unsure of myself despite having grown up in a home in which Sabbaths were regularly observed including the opening rituals of greeting it with prayers each Friday night. It was always my father, standing with the Kiddush cup of wine reciting the prayers after my mother had lit the candles. My father sprinkling the salt over the piece of Challah bread to be broken into smaller pieces for each of us to bless and eat. I was an obedient bystander, singing the prayers but –truthfully – never feeling moved or spiritually inspired. I felt like a religious robot throughout my childhood which included Jewish Day School, Hebrew School three times a week, Jewish Camps, and lots and lots of ritual and observance at home. I was good at it but again, no spiritual connection. I believed in God, but it was the God with the white beard up in heaven who was keeping a close judgmental eye on my actions.
So imagine the lack of confidence, and even intimidation, I felt being asked to do what my father had always done for me and the rest of our family. He was our spiritual leader. Furthermore, my period of estrangement from Judaism after leaving home ,had sent me in the direction of new forms of spirituality that resonated with me but would not have been considered the least bit “kosher” by my father: Buddhism, Yoga, Reiki, Chakra Balancing, and Shamanism. I couldn’t find a synagogue that I wanted to affiliate with and I finally gave up. All in all, my father would have said: “Shame, shame on you!”
Please forgive the digression. My classmates were seated in a circle and I was at its center standing over a table with a glass of wine, little paper cups, my father’s prayer book, two white candles set in brass candle sticks, and a Challah bread. Jeanette Renouf, one of the founders of Tacheria had helped me gather all these items together. As I looked around at their faces, I thought about what my father would say: “What…you were the only Jew in the room lighting Sabbath candles for Christians?” (I wasthe only Jew in that Tacheria class). He never would have been able to understand that within this accepting and liminal space of shared interfaith experience, I might be able for the first time to feel safe and free to feel out my Jewish identity in a new way. I explained the symbolism of each item to my classmates, having done some “research” beforehand. Then I lit the candles placing my hands over my eyes as I had seen my mother do countless times and began chanting the prayer. I felt my voice grow stronger and more sure of itself. The prayers and the process of leading this Jewish Sabbath became more visceral and emotional for me. When I had completed all the prayers, distributed the little cups of wine, and with Jeanette’s help, the pieces of Challah bread, there was a natural silence, I felt as if the experience had been completed and sealed into my heart. I wanted to celebrate! I began singing and clapping to the celebratory song Shabat Shalom (translation: Have a Peaceful Sabbath) and moved around the circle seeing my classmates smiling and mouthing the Hebrew words, catching on to the melody until we were all singing it. Later upon reflection, I referred to this as a rites of passage back to Judaism with my classmates as my spiritual “midwives”. Then I shared a story with the group written by my cousin, Amy Lederman, about the brass Sabbath candle sticks, which had been hidden in the lining of our grandmother’s coat when she traveled from Russia to Ellis Island as a young girl. An hour later there wasn’t a dry eye in the house as we all shared stories of our grandparents and their precious legacies to us. Someone came up to me later that evening with tears in her eyes. She said:” Nan, you glowed and emanated a kind of light as you sang those prayers.” I don’t doubt that,, but I certainly wasn’t aware of it! Liminal space lacks self consciousness or ego – the soul or spiritual side of us takes over. What I was and continue to feel is the deepest gratitude for the liminal space Tacheria had created for me to reconnect to Judaism.
The Jewish Sabbath, and in particular, Friday night has become a meaningful time in my week’s end and whether I am with my husband or he is traveling and I am alone, I light the candles and sing the Sabbath and feel it seep into my being. I do not rigidly follow tradition as I did when I was younger which meant going to synagogue with my father. Rather, I have created a Sabbath that extends through Saturday in which I meditate and reflect on texts from the week’s portion of the Torah, searching for relevancy and meaning. I don’t do the usual errands and shopping routines. It is my personal Sabbath, a day I set aside to rest, be in nature, and contemplate my relationship with God, which is still in transition; but my confusion and doubts feel far more authentic and pregnant with possibility!
Written by Nan Rubin,
2009
Wikepedia defines liminality (from the latin word limen which means threshold) as a psychological, neurological, or metaphysical subjective conscious state of being on the “threshold” of or between two different existential planes. It is characterized by ambiguity, openness, and indeterminacy. One’s sense of identity dissolves to some extent bringing about disorientation. At the same time there is often a profound change in perspective leading to change in behavior and perceptions; a relaxing of previously held beliefs and feelings which opens the door to transformation.
Imagine for a moment sitting with one’s Spiritual Director, or for that matter alone, and simply listening for that “still small voice”. You know it is not your imagination answering. Why? Because when it happens, it is so unfamiliar and new that it can raise the hairs on the back of your neck or send goose bumps up and down your arms! You have entered that liminal space. Imagine being with your classmates in Tacheria and sharing in a comfortable contemplative silence following a teaching moment. Something shifts inside you and you don’t want to forget it.
Victor Turner, a well know cultural anthropologist studied how people give meaning to their reality through symbols, rituals, and rites of passage. He describes liminality as that space of transition that occurs particularly through rites of passage. More recently, William Bridges, in his book Transitions,describes the neutral zone, which is the state of being at a threshold, wherein what once was, is over; and what is to be, has not yet occurred. It produces anxiety because the old coping structures, beliefs, values no longer seem to work; and yet there is a kind of psychological/emotional abyss immediately ahead. One hopes that on the other side of that abyss there are new structures to grab onto to regain one’s connection with life, meaning, and to feel secure again. Nowhere is this more apparent then in untoward crises like the sudden death of a loved one, or the destruction of one’s home. It can happen when you are fired from a job, or given a medical diagnosis. You are in that in-between place. It can also happen when one falls in love, leaves home for the first time, discovers something magnificent in nature, gives birth, etc. Doubt, excitement, loss, confusion, fear, joy are all attendant feelings. And one knows that nothing will ever be quite the same.
Now I would like to tell you a story. I’ve had many rites of passage and so have you just by the shear act of living; but through most I can now say I was probably semi conscious in appreciating the actual power and process of personal transition.
During my second year in Tacheria I was asked to conduct a Jewish Friday night Sabbath service for our retreat. I felt very unsure of myself despite having grown up in a home in which Sabbaths were regularly observed including the opening rituals of greeting it with prayers each Friday night. It was always my father, standing with the Kiddush cup of wine reciting the prayers after my mother had lit the candles. My father sprinkling the salt over the piece of Challah bread to be broken into smaller pieces for each of us to bless and eat. I was an obedient bystander, singing the prayers but –truthfully – never feeling moved or spiritually inspired. I felt like a religious robot throughout my childhood which included Jewish Day School, Hebrew School three times a week, Jewish Camps, and lots and lots of ritual and observance at home. I was good at it but again, no spiritual connection. I believed in God, but it was the God with the white beard up in heaven who was keeping a close judgmental eye on my actions.
So imagine the lack of confidence, and even intimidation, I felt being asked to do what my father had always done for me and the rest of our family. He was our spiritual leader. Furthermore, my period of estrangement from Judaism after leaving home ,had sent me in the direction of new forms of spirituality that resonated with me but would not have been considered the least bit “kosher” by my father: Buddhism, Yoga, Reiki, Chakra Balancing, and Shamanism. I couldn’t find a synagogue that I wanted to affiliate with and I finally gave up. All in all, my father would have said: “Shame, shame on you!”
Please forgive the digression. My classmates were seated in a circle and I was at its center standing over a table with a glass of wine, little paper cups, my father’s prayer book, two white candles set in brass candle sticks, and a Challah bread. Jeanette Renouf, one of the founders of Tacheria had helped me gather all these items together. As I looked around at their faces, I thought about what my father would say: “What…you were the only Jew in the room lighting Sabbath candles for Christians?” (I wasthe only Jew in that Tacheria class). He never would have been able to understand that within this accepting and liminal space of shared interfaith experience, I might be able for the first time to feel safe and free to feel out my Jewish identity in a new way. I explained the symbolism of each item to my classmates, having done some “research” beforehand. Then I lit the candles placing my hands over my eyes as I had seen my mother do countless times and began chanting the prayer. I felt my voice grow stronger and more sure of itself. The prayers and the process of leading this Jewish Sabbath became more visceral and emotional for me. When I had completed all the prayers, distributed the little cups of wine, and with Jeanette’s help, the pieces of Challah bread, there was a natural silence, I felt as if the experience had been completed and sealed into my heart. I wanted to celebrate! I began singing and clapping to the celebratory song Shabat Shalom (translation: Have a Peaceful Sabbath) and moved around the circle seeing my classmates smiling and mouthing the Hebrew words, catching on to the melody until we were all singing it. Later upon reflection, I referred to this as a rites of passage back to Judaism with my classmates as my spiritual “midwives”. Then I shared a story with the group written by my cousin, Amy Lederman, about the brass Sabbath candle sticks, which had been hidden in the lining of our grandmother’s coat when she traveled from Russia to Ellis Island as a young girl. An hour later there wasn’t a dry eye in the house as we all shared stories of our grandparents and their precious legacies to us. Someone came up to me later that evening with tears in her eyes. She said:” Nan, you glowed and emanated a kind of light as you sang those prayers.” I don’t doubt that,, but I certainly wasn’t aware of it! Liminal space lacks self consciousness or ego – the soul or spiritual side of us takes over. What I was and continue to feel is the deepest gratitude for the liminal space Tacheria had created for me to reconnect to Judaism.
The Jewish Sabbath, and in particular, Friday night has become a meaningful time in my week’s end and whether I am with my husband or he is traveling and I am alone, I light the candles and sing the Sabbath and feel it seep into my being. I do not rigidly follow tradition as I did when I was younger which meant going to synagogue with my father. Rather, I have created a Sabbath that extends through Saturday in which I meditate and reflect on texts from the week’s portion of the Torah, searching for relevancy and meaning. I don’t do the usual errands and shopping routines. It is my personal Sabbath, a day I set aside to rest, be in nature, and contemplate my relationship with God, which is still in transition; but my confusion and doubts feel far more authentic and pregnant with possibility!
Written by Nan Rubin,
2009
