We all know those eerie spaces—we’ve walked into an old desolate mall, stood on the top of a mountain, wandered an empty beach in winter. These spaces are known as liminal spaces. They feel thin, as if you’re caught between two worlds. To me, Christmastide feels like a liminal space, a threshold season that stands between the Incarnation we’ve just celebrated and the full revelation of Christ to the nations at Epiphany. We’re caught between the arrival of the Kingdom in the manger and its complete manifestation at Christ’s return.

It makes sense then why the church has designed its calendar with this threshold in mind. Immediately after Christmas we remember the first martyr of the Church, Stephen. Then we remember the mass genocide of little boys at the hand of Herod. And today we remember the martyrdom of Thomas Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury whose life was taken at the request of Henry II. Like all things in this Christian life, we live in the reality of the already and not yet.

In today’s Gospel Reading from the Daily Office (John 2:1-11) we read the famous story of Christ’s first documented miracle, changing water into wine. Here at this joyous occasion of a wedding, Christ provides a service and in doing so blesses the couple and all of those in attendance. This year the most fascinating aspect of this account to me is Jesus’ words to his mother: “My hour has not yet come” (v4). Many have interpreted this as Jesus stating that it is not his time to launch his public ministry, but I think it is something much deeper. Christ knows “his time”—he is keenly aware of when his ministry must start and even end. He is aware of the liminal state that he exists in. Christ’s life on earth is a liminal state, a transition between the old world and the new. The Christmas message is that God stepped into time to mark the beginning of a new kingdom, a kingdom that has come down to earth. Christ’s life is the definitive liminal space.

This understanding of Christ dwelling in the threshold between two ages stayed with me as I took a walk on the beach the other day. Wintertime is a very strange time on the southeastern coast. It’s virtually empty. The water is too cold to swim in and the air is too cool for people to sunbathe. Only the locals and snowbirds enjoy the coast at this time of year. But there is something strangely beautiful and eerie about the coast in the winter. As I walked northward I looked to my left to see condos and rental houses that are completely empty. As I looked to the right I saw a still sea with no one in it. Standing on the shore I am caught between two worlds, both empty, both waiting for what is to come. The sea longs for the vibrancy and life of children splashing against its waves. The coast longs for the warmth of the summer rays. Standing between two empty worlds, both waiting with expectation, I feel Christmastide. Christ’s hour has come, and yet it is coming.

We wait somewhere between the world of man and the shore of heaven. Our aim is to live in this liminal space, reminding all who draw near that the hour has come and is coming still. As Julian of Norwich heard in her visions, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well”—not because suffering is absent in this threshold time, but because Christ has entered into it with us, transforming our waiting into hopeful expectation of the full revelation of his Kingdom.

A Prayer attributed to Julian of Norwich

In you, Father all-mighty, we have our preservation and our bliss.
In you, Christ, we have our restoring and our saving.
You are our mother, brother, and Savior.
In you, our Lord the Holy Spirit, is marvelous and plenteous grace.
You are our clothing; for love you wrap us and embrace us.
You are our maker, our lover, our keeper.
Teach us to believe that by your grace all shall be well, and all shall be well,
and all manner of things shall be well. Amen.