The Middle Space
Living Between What Is and What Will Be
Zechariah entered the temple, his shoulders weighted down by the moment. He had faithfully served the Lord as a priest for many years, but this was the first and possibly the only time his lot would be chosen to burn incense on the altar. The air was thick with holiness. The sweet, earthy aroma of incense mingled with the lingering stench of the morning’s sacrifice.
Outside the temple, the people of Israel awaited in hushed silence as Zechariah offered prayers to the Lord on their behalf. So much history lay behind them—their collective stories marked by generations of hardship, rebellion, oppression, sin, and suffering.
Long ago, the Lord chose Israel as his beloved. He pursued her with unfailing love, protecting and providing for her through the miraculous and the mundane. But he had been silent for nearly 400 years. No more prophets carried his message of faithful love and called the people to return to him. No more declarations of rescue and restoration rang out. No more promises to prosper them. There was only a deafening silence.
God had promised their forefather Abraham that he would make his descendants as numerous as the stars in the heavens. He had promised David that he would provide a homeland for his people and that David’s kingdom would continue forever (2 Samuel 8-16). But now Israel was a shadow of her former glory. She was no longer a flourishing tree under which many could find shade. Only a stump, a remnant, remained.
Throughout these challenges, God had been faithful to them.
As Zechariah thought about this, his mind drifted to his own story. He and his wife Elizabeth had lived a long, faithful life. They had much to be grateful for. Yet, their road was paved with the grief of unfulfilled longing. Their quiet, orderly home was an often painful reminder of a barren womb. Through the years, their hopes for children dwindled with each passing day. Now, well beyond child-bearing years, their hopes lay buried deep in the ground. Their lineage seemed destined to end with their final breath.
Even in this profound disappointment, God had been faithful to them.
Zechariah’s heart and mind were full as he carried both gratitude and groaning to the Lord in prayer. As he turned back to the altar of incense to resume his duties, Zechariah saw an angel of the Lord standing to the right of the altar. Overcome with fear, his knees buckled beneath him. His mouth gaped, barely drawing a breath. Time came to a screeching halt, and Zechariah lost all sense of himself.
And then the angel spoke, “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard, and your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you shall call his name John. And you will have joy and gladness, and many will rejoice at his birth, for he will be great before the Lord. And he must not drink wine or strong drink, and he will be filled with the Holy Spirit, even from his mother's womb. And he will turn many of the children of Israel to the Lord their God, and he will go before him in the spirit and power of Elijah, to turn the hearts of the fathers to the children, and the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, to make ready for the Lord a people prepared” (Luke 1:13-17, ESV).
Zechariah couldn’t believe his ears. Could this really be true? Is it possible that God would bring life out of barrenness? Could it be that what appeared to be cut off could spring forth new life? “How shall I know this? For I am an old man, and my wife is advanced in years,” Zechariah said to the angel.
And the angel answered him, “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I was sent to speak to you and to bring you this good news. And behold, you will be silent and unable to speak until the day that these things take place, because you did not believe my words, which will be fulfilled in their time” (Luke 1:19-20).
Outside, the people continued to wait and wonder. Why had Zechariah not yet come out of the temple? What was taking him so long? Little did they know that their prolonged waiting marked the turning of the tide of history. Heaven had just invaded Earth, and the pronouncement of divine interruption had begun. Everything was about to change. —My narrative retelling based on the story of Zechariah in Luke 1:5-25
It is difficult to capture the profound depth of meaning in this passage from Luke 1. Where words fail, art steps in to bridge the gap. While reading Bette Dickinson's Advent devotional, Making Room for Advent, I discovered her painting based on Zechariah’s story. Each day, the reading pairs different sections of Luke 1 with thoughtful visual interpretation, inviting readers to pause and reflect.
Her painting is multilayered and nuanced. She not only captures the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth and ancient Israel but also memorializes a pivotal moment in history when God set his plan of redemption in motion. However, Dickinson does more than illustrate Zechariah’s story—she creates space for us to inhabit it and experience it through our senses.
As I reflected on her painting, the three main elements drew me more deeply into the narrative and my own personal story.
Zechariah
Zechariah was old and weathered, both by years and by unanswered prayer. He was a priest, and his wife Elizabeth was from the priestly line of Aaron. Their lives had been rooted in and built on years of faithful service to the Lord. They were both righteous in God’s sight, and they were careful to obey all of the Lord’s commandments and regulations (vs. 6). Yet their prayers for a child were met by God’s silence.
Despite their unanswered prayers, God had been faithful to them.
And so Zechariah stands in the temple performing his priestly duties, the incense he holds rising upward, carrying not only the prayers of the people but likely the prayers of his own heart as well.
His featureless face and slightly opened mouth allow us to imagine what it must feel like to be in the angel’s presence, hearing his words and encountering his power. As I gaze at the interaction, I sense fear, awe, and perhaps an audacious twinge of hope.
The Stump
Behind Zechariah is a stump depicting Ancient Israel’s complex history. They were God's chosen people, set apart with divine affection through promises made to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—promises to multiply and prosper them. Yet the road to their promised abundance led first through years of brutal slavery in Egypt.
But the Lord had not forgotten his promise to them. When the time was right, he sent his servant Moses to rescue them from bondage and lead them into a land flowing with milk and honey, where he would be their God, and they would be his people.
Despite this profound promise, Israel repeatedly rejected the Lord. They chased after foreign gods, doubted God’s faithfulness, and pandered themselves to foreign nations. Repeatedly, God called out to his beloved Israel, imploring her to return to him. But they would not listen, even when God warned that their rebellious path would lead to their destruction.
Israel’s persistent defiance ultimately resulted in devastating consequences—death, destruction, and exile. The once great Israel was reduced to a mere stump, with only a remnant remaining.
The stump’s roots stretch far and wide, but the tree itself has been cut off. No branches reach toward the sun or spread out to provide shelter. It no longer bears fruit. It stands there, lifeless, symbolic of God’s people—cut off, suffering, steeped in sin, and devoid of flourishing. Within the trunk is an empty hole, an empty womb devoid of seed—a jarring reminder of Israel’s barrenness.
Yet, even in this seemingly hopeless state, God was faithful.
Through the prophet Isaiah, he had promised that one day Israel’s stump would become a holy seed (Isaiah 6:13b) and that out of this stump of King David’s lineage, a new branch bearing fruit from the old root would spring forth—a Servant King would be born, and he would usher in an eternal Kingdom.
This new shoot would rule with a Spirit of wisdom and understanding, counsel and might, knowledge and fear of the Lord. He would not judge by what he sees or hears but with righteousness, justice, and faithfulness for the poor and meek. And through his reign, he would bring salvation to all (Isaiah 11).
The Angel
In front of Zechariah stands the angel Gabriel. His nondescript presence contrasts with that of Zechariah, capturing his otherworldliness. He looms large above Zechariah, majestic and formidable. Through the angel’s presence, the boundary lines between heaven and earth are blurred, where the supernatural descends into the natural, and the pure interacts with the profane. A heavenly messenger has come, carrying not only a promise of new life for Zechariah and Elizabeth but also a message of new life for a suffering and sin-ravaged people.
Each element, on its own, is loaded with meaning and significance. However, Zechariah’s position within the painting is most compelling to me. Zechariah stands in the middle. Behind him lies the stump, illustrative not only of Israel’s past but also its status in Zechariah’s day—under Roman occupation and rule. In front of Zechariah is the angel Gabriel, illustrative of God’s powerful promise of a future hope. Literally and metaphorically, Zechariah stands between the threshold of what is and what is to come.
People more intelligent than me call this liminal space—a time when things aren’t fully what they were and are not yet what they will be. To be in liminal space is to be between two realities.
Like Zechariah, we, too, find ourselves in the middle. We live between promises, one that led to salvation in Christ’s first coming and one that will lead to our restoration in Christ’s second coming. We are caught between what ought to have been, what is, and what is to come—between Eden and the new Heavens and Earth, between the promise and the fulfillment. We feel the weight of sin and suffering and the pull of a future hope.
This tension is not a weakness but an invitation. An invitation to trust, to hope, and to believe that our current circumstances do not define our ultimate narrative. Just as Zechariah's story transformed from apparent emptiness to unexpected miraculous promise, our own stories are not limited by what we can see or understand at the moment.
Here, in this place, the past and present realities of our lives collide with our spiritual reality. Scripture tells us that, through Christ, sin and death have been defeated. Yet, they remain a very present reality. We still sin against others—even people we love—and they still sin against us. We and the people we love still die. Our world is still plagued by brokenness, suffering, and evil.
Our days are occupied with what is, spent in the cosmic in-between. We are holy, and we are not yet holy. We are pure and blameless, and yet we are not. We are more than conquerors, yet we are still subject to this world. We are not what we were, but are not yet what we will be. The gravity of this sin-saturated world pulls us down, but our future is caught up in heaven with Christ, with the Spirit of Christ pulling us evermore into him.
Living in liminal space—what theologians call the now and the not yet—is full of uncertainty and can be very disorienting. It requires us to believe, by faith, that what lies behind us does not define us. Not even our present realities define our futures. Our entire lives are determined by the grand narrative of heaven consistently and persistently breaking through into our earthly realities.
And that future hope grants us grace to faithfully endure the cosmic in-between.
Love you guys,
CC
Engage, Explore, Encounter
In what areas of your life do you currently feel caught in a "liminal space"—between what was and what will be?
Zechariah's story demonstrates God’s faithfulness during prolonged silence. Where in your journey have you experienced God's faithfulness during periods of apparent stillness or unanswered prayer?
The article discusses being "holy, and not yet holy." Reflect on a recent moment when you experienced tension between your spiritual reality and human weakness.
How does the image of Israel as a seemingly dead stump resonate with your own experiences of hope emerging from what appeared to be a hopeless situation?
In what ways can you actively embrace the "cosmic in-between," viewing your current challenges as part of a larger, more hopeful narrative rather than as final definitions of your life?
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