Living Ritual

I contend that for a religious ritual to be “alive” is for it to be responsive to spiritual truths as they are played out by or among the people who have gathered even just as spectators rather than participants. In liturgy, the readings and the ritual itself can stimulate a spiritual state of mind (un état de l’esprit—this last word alone signifying the connection), which in turn can even unconsciously prompt conduct that can be observed to be religious (or spiritual) in nature. For a ritual to be alive is for it to incorporate such conduct in order to draw attention to the underlying religious truth manifesting in one or more persons. The antagonist in this drama is the strict literalist who goes inflexibly by the letter of the ritual’s laws rather than the spirit thereof, ignoring that only the spirit rises and thus is capable of lifting humans in general and in a liturgical context in particular.

Immediately after finishing a short essay on Robert DeNero’s Catholic-priest character in the film, True Confessions (1981), I felt an urge to go to an outdoors Easter Vigil at a nearby Episcopal Church. Actually the first half of the lengthy liturgy—that which corresponds to before the resurrection—was outdoors behind the church. Watching the Easter candle being lit, I was surprised—and impressed—that the priest put the top-end of the candle in the fire. That candle was getting a baptism by fire! From that candle, the flame was carried candle by candle until all of our candles were lit. But it was moderately windy—enough that we had to cup a hand or use the thick program booklet to protect the small flames. Even so, they went off, and we came to each other’s aid in the seating area when a candle was snuffed out. After lighting mine thrice, I gave up, and shortly thereafter the four other people in the same row did too. So as the Old Testament readings were read—Genesis, Exodus, Ruth, and Daniel—I noticed that an old woman with the aid of her friend to her right took extraordinary care to keep her tiny flame alive. At first, I thought, why is keeping a small individual candle lit such a big deal? Then the symbolism sunk in: she was nurturing a flickering light in the midst of the darkness (and chillness) of night, like a person might keep an unsteady faith in God from being extinguished from the adversity in a world that can be unduly harsh. A person’s faith depends on the human will, which is subject to instinctual urges and even sheer whim. It dawned on me that the fortitude of the old woman should not be kept under cover, but, rather, should be highlighted to the rest of the congregation and even the clergy.

Light versus darkness is the paradigmatic leitmotif of the Easter Vigil. Theologically, the world is dark until the resurrection of Christ, which can be interpreted figuratively as the vindication of living by the spirit in a material world. In other words, meekness and even (and especially) coming to the aid (and even befriending) detractors (without incurring abuse or giving up on a point) turn out in the end to be a kind of strength that surpasses even moral conduct, including the virtues extolled by Aristotle. It can be distracting to mischaracterize the Gospels as historical accounts, for they were not written as such, and to focus on or even reduce the resurrection as a historical and even a metaphysical event. I submit that the religious domain is unique, or sui generis, even from related domains, such as history, metaphysics, the natural sciences, and even morality. Therefore, I strongly recommend looking for distinctly religious meaning in religious teachings and faith narratives that does not lean on another domain for legitimacy. In short, Jesus’ resurrection may have “really” happened, but we can’t get this historical fact out of a faith narrative. Distinct (and most likely subtle) religious truths, or meaning, apart from questions of history and metaphysics are also “really” of value, and I submit even more so since no exogenous crutches are used for legitimacy; such truths, likely erudite for religious adults rather than children who cling to facts even in religion, are self-validating and thus are of higher value than is religion as history, metaphysics, morality, astronomy, and biology. Self-validating religious meaning is like faith in that neither is subject to gravity.

Therefore, even great yet subtle religious meaning in a story (i.e., a faith narrative) held to be sacred can be eclipsed by category mistakes. As the Mary Magdalene character tells Peter in the film, Mary Magdalene (1918), the Kingdom of God begins with us, transforming our own hearts, in coming to the aid of our enemies rather than waiting for a metaphysical Second Coming to vanquish them. Peter and the rest of the disciples put their faith in the immanent return of Jesus—an immanent eschatology—to take on the horribly oppressive Romans, whereas Mary, who is closest (not romantically) to Jesus claims that he preached that the Kingdom of God begins with transforming one’s own heart. That message is too much for the other disciples, who are offended that oppressed (rather than just the Roman oppressors) need to transform themselves (and as a starting point no less!).

Outside the Episcopal church during the first half of the Easter Vigil liturgy, watching the old woman being so intent on keeping her small flame going, I thought she would have the inner spiritual strength not only to keep her faith alive, but also to use it to transform her heart into doing what is most difficult and inconvenient—even possibly contrary to human nature itself. For such a sordid nature to rise from itself may be the best definition of Christian resurrection that exists. As I was watching her from behind—behind more than merely literally—I noticed that the tall Easter Candle had gone out. Soon the priest had an assistant bring that illustrious symbol to the fire as he stuck his small candle into it, but with no luck. At that point, I felt a sense of inner weakness as I knew that someone should stand up, walk up to the old lady and light his candle from hers and use that light to light the Easter Candle. In the Gospels, it must take a lot of guts for Jesus to volunteer to read from Isaiah in a synagogue, and even more to say, “This scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.” I feared being refused by the priest’s assistant, which would have led me to feel that I would have no emotional choice but to calmly but defiantly walk away.

In terms of the letter of the ritual, the Easter Candle is to be lit from the fire itself, and this ritual was followed initially, so I contend that some discretion for the priest (or others there) would not be out of line. In other words, the priest could have been aware of the old woman, for all of the other candles around her had blown out. Going to her to light his candle, which in turn he would have used to light the Easter candle, would have had much more specifically Christian meaning than lighting his small candle directly from the fire in the pit. In retrospect, that pit seems very close to earth, whereas the old woman’s faith was not on the ground. Whereas the fire in the pit could not rise very much, the woman’s faith could indeed rise, and the priest could have brought the ritual alive by symbolically incorporating her faith as that which fuels the light of the Easter candle.

I was only vaguely aware of what I had been perhaps called to witness and testify to until I was walking back home from the church. While walking around the city block with the religious procession that marked the half-way point in the night’s ritual, I spoke to the old woman. “I noticed that you took incredible effort to keep your candle lit,” I said. “I didn’t think anyone noticed,” she replied. “I did, and I wish others had, including your priest; were he a good one, he would have noticed you too and acted on it by coming to you in relighting the Easter candle,” I said. She admitted that she too had wondered why the priest had not used her candle, as she was sitting in the front row and thus close to that candle and the fire. “He is a good priest,” she naturally said, so I qualified my statement. He would have been a better priest.

How rare, unfortunately, it must be for priests to observe the laity during a ritual, and even rarer to use some discretion to highlight a specifically Christian truth (or value) being manifest by one or more people present. If a ritual is like a wall made of wood, then sealing cracks so the spirit, which is alive, cannot get through is counterproductive, or at least short-sighted. In other words, doing a ritual for the sake of the ritual treats even the humans present as a means rather than as temples capable of nourishing the flickering Holy Spirit. I wish I had said all this to the old woman as we walked in the procession. Instead, I conveyed most of it, and, as the procession turned a corner, I kept walking straight ahead to my apartment. Discerning a fundamental difference between my own understanding of the core of Christianity and that of that congregation, I felt that something would not quite be right were I to go back to take part in the lit portion of the ritual, for in my view it would only be outwardly lit.  

I wish I had said to the old woman just before I left, “I have conveyed to you what you stand for symbolically by being so determined and successful in keeping your candle lit, and how neither your priest nor I had the inner strength to uncover your lantern for all to see. The world easily overlooks your quiet yet observable faith in keeping the Easter flame alive through ritual in your small yet large way, but your priest should have noticed and called attention to your faith symbolically evident. I would even say that this is why we are gathered here tonight. Faith in terms of how Jesus describes it is like a mustard seed, found not in the high and mighty, but in the unflinching fortitude of an old lady outwardly easily relegated as insignificant. All eyes were on your priest, even though he is blind and thus presided over dead ritual rather than living ritual. I take this to be distinctly Christian: God manifests in seemingly small places, or like the breeze that passes by Ezekiel on the mountain, rather than in momentous signs such as a mighty earthquake. Now it is up to you to spread this message to others in your congregation—that your faith has indeed been noticed and how it manifested tonight via symbol and ritual. Perhaps I’m just here support your gut feeling that your priest should have used your flame to light the Easter candle. My job here is done; good night.” Perhaps to be in such a role is why I was prompted in the first place to attend the ritual that night, or at least that I have the propensity to play such a liturgical role (or that of a messenger of an unpopular truth). I did a meager job, though almost as an afterthought I did something that I think in retrospect was of even greater religious value. As we were walking, after I had just told her that I recognized the religious significance of her effort to keep her small flame from the wind, I leaned toward her with my small candle as a request for her to light it, which she did, with a nod. With that, I was satiated and felt no further urge to continue with the procession for the in-church, distinctly Christian half of the liturgy. The old woman’s faith lit me inwardly, so I had no need for the outwardly lit church. Although the liturgy had been in the dark, and I walked home in the dark, to outward appearances not entering into the lit portion of the liturgy inside the church, the woman had lit me within.

Some people might say that God had called me to go to that church to convey a message, but it was all so vague to me and I was not very aware of what I was onto even while I spoke with the woman during the procession. Even though being lit within is arguably more important than delivering a message to a congregation, which may have lost its way, I felt weak because I had not stood up during the outdoor liturgy to light my candle from the woman’s and give my candle to the priest when he was trying to relight the Easter candle from the fire using his own candle, for I was afraid. Perhaps that I was afraid means that my hunch was right that the priest or his assistant would have dismissed my intentionally visible effort. Although I am relatively sure that my religious reading of the old woman’s faith through her symbolic efforts was correct, I cannot say that my urge to intervene in order to make the woman’s faith transparent by my acting ritually and thus symbolically had the legitimacy of being called forth by God, for God could do much better with someone else who is less afraid. In this regard, I can relate to the pope in the film, Habamus Papam (We Have a Pope) (2011). It takes guts to speak truth to power.