I think of Holy Week as a practice in attending to the liminal, meaning threshold, a place from which transformation emerges. Father Richard Rohr says that you should “get there often and stay as long as you can by whatever means possible. This is the sacred space where the old world is able to fall apart, and a bigger world is revealed.” As we near the utter emptiness of Good Friday, with the blinding hope of Easter so close, I’m aware that liminal seasons generally last much longer than a Holy week. I can no longer deny the falling apart of an old world coming closer to my privilege and comfort. I don’t see a new world arriving by Sunday.

Maybe resurrection doesn’t happen once and for all but arrives in spits and spurts; maybe thresholds take more than one step to cross. Maybe there are glimpses of Easter long before the sun rises on a new day.