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Opinion Ritual is about mystery, honoring needs
By JEANNETTE BATZ
I left the witch's ordination feeling cranky -- drawn toward the
earth and flame of the pagan ritual, put off by a sense of solemnly playful
make-believe. All these women were unquestionably sincere; a few had studied
Wiccan craft for years, anchoring their lives in the spiritual aspects of
nature and weaving other traditions into its warp. Yet for me, an onlooker
ignorant of the tradition's subtleties, all their hugging and urging, shushed
silences and magical incantations conjured nothing more transcendent than the
slumber parties of my girlhood.
We used to stir fudge, whisper crushes and new desires, then goad
each other to play "Truth or Dare," a game of passage in which we either
confessed our darkest secrets or braved our deepest fears. In this group of
women -- rebels and seekers smashing the limits of patriarchy -- I recognized
the same giddy freedom, the same trick of entering the unknown hand in hand,
playing elaborately at the edge of fire.
Maybe -- joyous heresy -- our slumber parties were rituals, too?
Twelve-year-old girls honoring needs and impulses with customs
borrowed from older sisters, Patty Duke reruns and hearsay. Middle-aged women
honoring the sacred while rebelling against mainstream religion with practices
combed from ancient texts and New Age manuals. How far does either group fall
from a Christian community on Sunday morning?
After she studied ritual here and in Africa for three decades,
Jungian analyst Edith Sullwold believes its basic forms come from understanding
deep within us. Add the concept of God's grace, and we could say the same about
faith. So if people think its organized traditional forms have become hollow,
merely ritualistic, can't they simply gather together, two or more, and create
them anew?
Driving home, I reconsidered those slumber parties. There was,
indeed, a symbolic dimension to the music and foods we chose (leftover meat
loaf simply would not do), and our acts were displayed in public, as
performances to be witnessed. (What fun is it to freeze your best friend's
training bra if nobody notices?) There was ceremony in the cutting of the fudge
and the laying out of sleeping bags. There was a prescribed order to the
proceedings -- secrets never came first. But above all, there was freedom, a
fresh independence from the authorities that breathed down our scrubbed,
white-buttoned necks every day.
Watching the Wiccans solemnly arrange their sacred objects -- a
bowl, candles, water, sticks of wood, all surprisingly parallel to the sacred
objects of Christian liturgy -- I'd wondered how much of that feminine energy
came from a similar feeling of freedom. There was an ancient, seemingly
universal pattern -- intonations, music, candle-lighting, sharing, invocation
-- but it was loosely structured, with each woman making her own changes,
incorporating her private rituals into the communal one, calling into being her
personal wishes.
Private rituals -- can they exist? Personal wishes -- should they
matter? In traditional worship we offer petitionary prayer, of course, and it's
always a bit more fervent when a spouse is waiting for a biopsy report than
when the Hutu and Tutsi are fighting again. But the "ultimate concern," to
borrow Paul Tillich's phrase, is not our own lives. It's not even our own
souls.
A coven is indeed a community, one that's knit far tighter than
most parishes. But the coven's ritual, at least at the ceremony I attended,
leaped from the vaguest of universal principles (peace, love) and natural
elements (fire, water) to the concrete terms of separate lives. Maybe I just
missed Jesus -- with no clear way to bridge the human and the divine, I felt
like we were all just shutting our eyes and blowing out our own birthday
candles.
The question I was narrowing down to was a delicate one: What
transforms ritualistic acts into religious ritual? What chalks the line between
superstition and faith? I have friends whose lives are a happy muddle of New
Age borrowings. They "smudge" a new house in the Hopi manner, to cleanse evil
spirits; read medieval English tarot cards for insight; manage stress by
bestowing their cares upon tiny Guatemalan worry people; visit a chiropractor
skilled in Eastern herbal medicine; hang African tribal masks on fresh drywall.
I've always been jealous of this rich, random eclecticism,
especially on days when I, too, am discouraged with the established forms. But
every time I slip on somebody else's silk sari or Celtic cross, I feel like a
phony.
Later that week, wanting more insight, I visited Fr. Jim
Telthorst, an old friend who teaches Catholic seminarians about ritual, symbol
and liturgy. "Can we create our own rituals?" I asked abruptly. "It's very
difficult," he said. "An advertising company can create a new sign, but a
ritual symbol has to grow out of the nature of things. And it must be
understood within the experience so you don't have to explain it." I understood
the need to understand, but there my brain ground to a halt. When does
something grow out of the nature of things? Do you just sit around your chalice
or caldron, waiting for that to happen?
Clearly, Telthorst meant something a little more probative. He
went on to say that most blessings of the church -- prebaptism blessings for a
new baby, blessings for an engaged couple, a new house, a person going into
surgery, animals and even farm implements, to name a few -- are beginning to
take on ritual elements.
Efforts to actively involve all participants have replaced the
practice of a priest sprinkling holy water and reading some prayers. "We're
trying to avoid the notion that prayers and blessings happen automatically,
that they're something a priest 'says over' someone," he said. "We're trying to
wean ourselves away from the magical into the ritual."
The word magical sounded like a clue, and I leaned forward. "We
often pray as though we are making God do something," Telthorst continued.
"That would be 'magical.' But for me, prayer uncovers or discloses what is
already present in such a way that it has an effect on us." In other words: God
is forever loving. A religious ritual doesn't make God act lovingly toward us,
it just represents that love in visible, tangible form, so our tiny minds can
grasp it.
Magical and New Age practices, by contrast, often try to
manipulate God (or a multiplicity of gods and spirits and earthbound forms)
into a desired result. "It's a grasping for ritual," Telthorst said. "But real
ritual is always connected to a myth, a story about ultimate reality. An
archetypal symbol -- something of the earth, water, fire, food, air -- is
connected to a myth that explains who and how the people are."
Connect the symbol of bread to the story of Exodus and you get
Passover. Connect it to the story of Christ's death and resurrection and you
get Eucharist. Both religious rituals use universal, archetypal symbols to tell
their own coherent story.
But what if we don't like that story? Then we borrow elements from
each tradition and weave them into our own celebration. We can do whatever we
like. But as we spread out, you risk losing depth. "The problem with New Age,"
Telthorst says, "is that it's often not connected to any single story except
that of the individual."
In times of transition -- whether adolescence or midlife, morning
rush hour or the turn of the millennium -- our own stories can seem like more
than enough. We celebrate them, struggle with them, invoke any power that might
listen. What we're forgetting is that faith is about something far bigger than
we are. A religious ritual ends in mystery, not magic.
Jeannette Batz is a senior editor at The Riverfront
Times, an alternative newspaper in St. Louis.
National Catholic Reporter, August 23,
1996
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