February 2, 2025 – Fourth Sunday after Epiphany
Psalm 36.5-12
Luke 2.36-40
Liminal Spaces
Fourth Sunday after Epiphany
In the final strophe of T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Hollow Men, which we’ll hear later on this morning, the poet writes, “Between the conception and the creation / Between the emotion and the response Falls the Shadow.” We’re going to be talking about those in-betweens this morning, those thin places, those membranes, or veils, or translucent times and moments when humanity catches a glimpse of the divine.
When I turned my calendar to February 2 this morning, I was greeted by a rash of special occasions, holidays and other celebrations the day represents. Did you know, for example, that today is National Tater Tot Day? The delicacy seems to be making a gourmet comeback: Tater Tot Poutine and Tater Tot Lobster Bake are among the iterations that have found their way to restaurant menus of late. On the other side of the pond, February 2 is also Yorkshire Pudding Day, and I will always carry warm memories of my West Yorkshire-born Grandmother Froggatt making Yorkshire Pudding for Sunday dinner every week after church – I still have the green ceramic bowl she mixed the batter in. On a musical note, today is National Ukelele Day – Diane, I’m sorry I did not send you a card. Of course when we opened our newspapers this morning we were reminded it is Groundhog Day, and if Punxsutawney Phil is correct, we will have six more weeks of winter. And in some churches, particularly the “higher church” traditions such as the Roman Catholic, Eastern Orthodox and Anglican communions, today is Candlemas, which celebrates the presentation of Jesus in the temple that we read about a few weeks ago, a story we completed today when we read about Anna the prophetess.
As different as these latter two holidays might at first appear, for me, Groundhog Day and Candlemas bear several important similarities, beginning with their timing. When the church celebrates Jesus’ presentation in the temple, we usually focus on the song of Simeon, the old man who had waited a lifetime to see the Messiah; his words are familiar: “Lord, let your servant depart in peace, for my eyes have seen your salvation which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples.” But too often, and I am guilty of this as well, we forget or overlook the very tail end of the story, which we heard this morning. Simeon was not the only one to bear witness to the infant Jesus that day. The prophetess Anna, who Luke tells us dwelt in the temple and worshipped with prayer and fasting, also put her imprimatur on the occasion. The moment she came into the presence of the infant, she began to praise God and to speak about him to all who would listen. And, and this is important, Anna’s witness, her prophecy, concludes the Christmas story. It is a kind of hinge moment, as the narrative door closes on Jesus’ birth and opens to his public ministry. Anna the prophetess has the last word. This is what Candlemas celebrates.
Both Candlemas and Groundhog Day represent a similar kind of hinge, of “in-betweeness” that land them on February 2 every year. Candlemas falls between Christmas and Easter, the beginning of the story of Jesus’ mortal existence and its conclusion. It occurs forty days after Christmas, a sacred number in the Bible. The occasion, as its name implies, comes from the practice of lighting candles in honor of Jesus’ dedication. In fact I was at a Conference meeting on Wednesday and during our closing worship we lit candles and read the story of Anna in anticipation of today’s Candlemas. Groundhog Day shares that in-betweenness: February 2 is the midpoint between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox, between the first day of winter and the first day of spring. It is a natural time for a celebration. And you probably won’t be surprised to learn that, like Christmas and Easter, both Candlemas and Groundhog Day share common pre-Christian roots: Imbolc, the ancient pagan Gaelic New Year, is celebrated in-between – there is that idea again – in between the dusk of February 1 and the dawn of February 2.
The two holidays also share the themes of light and darkness. In one, candles are lit as a way of celebrating the increase of light that occurs as winter turns to spring. In the other, spring’s advent is determined by whether or not Phil sees his shadow – and what do you need in order to have a shadow? You need to have light. The sun was shining bright in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania this morning. Cheryl’s reading from the Psalms plays with these images of light and darkness: “How precious is your steadfast love, O God! All people may take refuge in the shadow of your wings. For with you is the fountain of life; in your light we see light.” The psalmist stands in between the shadow and the light. It is a place that indicates the presence and protection of God.
Christian tradition has a name for this in-betweenness that suggests the presence and protection of God: these are called liminal spaces, from the Latin word limen, meaning “threshold.” A liminal space is a transformational space, as it is occupied both by mortals and by the divine spirit of God. It may be that moment that winter turns the corner to spring. It is that thin line that I wrote about Friday between speaking and hearing: you will often hear me pray that God will somehow translate my mortal and earth-bound words into something that becomes spirit-touched by the time it reaches your ears. When we come to the communion table, we acknowledge the simultaneous presence of the mundane and the sublime, that the bread and the juice that until just a few hours ago sat on the shelves at Adams Market are somehow transmuted into the remembrance of Christ, the table a veil through which holiness is glimpsed.
Human experience is a series of liminal moments, and I think every one of them speaks of the holy. The moment between expectancy and birth is a liminal moment, as the blessing of new life is born before us. Likewise the seconds between a loved one’s last breath and the very next moment is liminal, it is powerfully holy, when what was mortal in one moment becomes eternal in the next. The many times I have placed my hand on the conjoined hands of two partners and pronounce them married is liminal, it is transformational, and I pray, if I have done my job right, it is blessed.
I imagine we have experienced moments like this, times where a moment in our every-day lives has whispered to us something of the holy, even, and actually especially, if we are not quite certain what just happened. It is that feeling of awareness that we are balancing between two worlds, two realities. And very often, these are the places where we meet God and where we meet our better selves. In these in-between moments, in these liminal spaces, we recognize that we belong not only to ourselves and to each other, but to a higher presence, to a spiritual reality that transcends the knowable world.
“Between the conception and the creation / Between the emotion and the response Falls the Shadow,” Eliot wrote. It is in these in-between places and moments that we sometimes catch a glimpse of God. In the space between Shadow and Light. Between Birth and Death. Between Winter and Spring. Between Decision and Action. Between Body and Blood. Between Human and Divine. Between Christmas and Easter. Between Simeon and Anna. Between Husband and wife, between Partner and partner. In all the conjunctions between the two, in the liminal, in the thin places, where the veil both conceals and reveals: these places and others like them are where God can be found, and/or, where God can find you and me. It is but a passing and ephemeral moment that paradoxically has the power to transform our hearts and our lives forever.
Happy Groundhog Day. Happy Candlemas. Happy every moment you and I stand in the presence of God.