LIMINALITY: When the Stage Ends and the Story Isn't Finished

Reflections on grief, transition, and God’s presence in the space between

If you’re new here, welcome.
This post carries the heart of where I’ve been and what I’m learning in the in-between.

On the one-year anniversary of my final time leading worship from a stage I had stood off and on for 15 years, I shared a reflective post about the liminality—that strange, sacred space between what was and what will be.

It’s the word that best describes my life these past few months: suspended, disoriented, undone. But now that I’m emerging from under the sandstorm, I want to offer something—because maybe you’ve felt stuck too. And maybe it’s not failure. Maybe it’s formation.

This post is for the grateful majority—those who wept at the ashes of a house we loved, even as it burned. If that’s you, keep reading.

And just to name it up front: the “stage” hasn’t ended for everyone. Some are still standing in familiar places, doing what they feel they ought to do—and I honor that. But for me, the stage ended. The season shifted. And the disorientation that followed has become something God is using to form me deeply.

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Liminal Space Is Holy Ground

Liminality is what happens when the old world has ended, but the new one hasn’t yet begun. The term comes from the Latin word that means “threshold.” That’s where I’ve lived for the past year.

I didn’t plan for it. I didn’t choose it. But in some mysterious way, it chose me.

Leaving that stage didn’t just mean stepping away from a microphone. It meant stepping into obscurity, ambiguity, and unfamiliar silence. People have tried to explain my departure as “God calling Ruben elsewhere” or some other patronizing phrase. Maybe you’ve experienced this too—when others rewrite your story to preserve a version of stability they can live with. It’s like repainting the walls of a house while it’s still smoldering, or propping up a Mayberry smile over real heartbreak. For some, narrative control is a coping mechanism to keep life moving. But for those of us who were silenced, disregarded, or quietly pushed out, it’s disorienting. We were standing in front of the cameras—still leading, still loyal—yet increasingly voiceless in shaping the future of what we deeply loved. It wasn’t a mutual transition. It was a silent grief: losing the family to keep the lights on.

The rhythms I knew were gone. The relationships shifted. And even though there were no headlines with my name, the ache was headline-sized in my soul.

But here’s what I’ve found: Sometimes God does His deepest work in the thresholds.

In the in-between, we learn to un-grip what we thought we needed. In the waiting, we find the voice we forgot we had. In the space between stories, God writes something new.

And surprisingly, liminality also brought opportunities I never expected:

• I’ve had the time to make progress on my doctorate—something I thought might never happen. I’m actually going to complete it!

• I got to help some of my closest friends build their dream: a state-of-the-art recording studio. (Check out The Haven Studio Instagram page)

Though my heart has always been to empower others to live out their callings, I’ve never had the bandwidth for this level of support—except in liminality. It’s wild how the in-between creates space we didn’t know we needed.

A few days ago, I shared a video where I tried to explain this season. I said, “It’s like a hallway—you’re not where you were, but you’re not quite where you’re going.” It’s a term used in anthropology, psychology, and even architecture to describe transition zones. But for me, it became a therapeutic framework to understand the confusing blend of sameness and change.

You know you’re not who you were—but you’re also not fully where you’re going. And in that space, two forces start to rise: external pressures you can’t control, and internal postures you can.

That’s what I’ve been working on: asking what attitudes are keeping me stuck, and what circumstances are simply out of my hands. I’ve had to choose—am I going to carry anger and bitterness resisting empathy, or can I find a disposition of gratitude and a desire to look my old friends in the eye?

Gratitude doesn’t deny the pain or the harm that was done. It names the good, so I can carry it forward into what’s next.

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Grief Is Not Rebellion

Some people want you to move on quickly—as if sadness is synonymous with offense, or as if grief means you’re now against everything you used to love.

But I’ve learned that grief is not rebellion. It’s the cry of someone who cared.

Yes, I loved what I was part of. And yes, I still believe God moved in powerful ways. But to pretend there was no loss, no confusion, no disillusionment—that would be dishonest. And worse, it would be inhuman.

I believe Jesus was with me then. I believe He’s with me now. And I believe He invites us to mourn the in-between without losing faith.

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What Liminality Reveals

In liminal space, the noise falls away. The crowd is gone. The lights are off. And all that remains is presence—or the terrifying silence that makes you question if presence was ever there.

But slowly, surely, I began to notice what God was forming in the dark:

• I heard my voice apart from the stage.

• I felt a kind of hunger that performance never satisfied.

• I learned that identity not rooted in platform can still flourish—in fact, it’s the only kind that can survive fire.

And even something as small as realizing I was wearing the same hoodie, the same necklace, and the same hat one year later—as if by accident—felt like a subtle nudge from the Lord: This is transformation, not stagnation. You’ve changed, even if the outfit didn’t.

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To Those Still in the In-Between

Maybe you didn’t leave a stage, but you left a season. Maybe it wasn’t really your choice. Maybe it was.

Either way, you’re here. In the hallway. In the wilderness. In the place where the map has faded and your compass feels dull.

I just want to say: You’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re not behind.

You’re in liminality. And liminality, though brutal, is not a curse. It’s holy ground.

If you give God your ache, He won’t always answer it. But He will inhabit it.

And next week, I’ll go deeper into what happens when this sacred in-between collides with personal and communal crisis—the disorientation that comes not just from change, but from contradiction. Where voices rise, defenses activate, and people scatter.

But for now, this is an invitation to be still. To sit in the middle. To know that even the threshold can become a sanctuary.

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One Year Later

I still don’t have a stage. I don’t have a microphone. But I have a table.

And it turns out that the table might be more sacred than the mandate ever was.

So welcome. If you’re in between, come sit with me here. We’ll wait together for the next thing God is forming—not with hype, but with hope.

This is not the end. This is the threshold.

And the One who meets us here? He’s faithful.

Always has been.