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. 

Yale Divinity School

On February 21-23, 2024, Rowan Williams, a former archbishop of Canterbury, delivered a series of lectures on the topic of solidarity in moral theology. In my own research, I relate that field to ethics and historical economic thought. Williams’ theory of solidarity goes beyond what he calls “the vague feeling of empathy” that is emphasized in the moral writings of David Hume and Adam Smith. Williams has solidarity, unlike mere "fellow-feeling," reach a person’s identity and even one’s soul through a shared experience of existential fragility. Solidary pertains to interpersonal relations and is thus relevant to neighbor-love, which includes being willing to attend to the human needs even of one’s detractors and enemies, as well as just plain rude people. I contend that the upper echelon at Yale Divinity School is at two-degrees of separation from this sort of solidarity, especially as it is wholistic rather than partisan in nature. It is no accident, by the way, that the self-love that characterizes the school's culture has manifested in some courses being almost entirely oriented to advocating very narrow ideological partisan positions, politically, economically, and on social issues at the expense of sheer fairness to students, wholeness, theology, and academic standards. At the time, the school was accepting 50% of studen applicants. I leave these ideological and academic matters to the side here so I can focus on the astonishing distance between the school's dean and the sort of solidarity that he heard of in the lectures and that could lead to Christian leadership for Yale's Christian divinity school, which includes two seminaries. 

Decades after having studied at Yale in its divinity school and Yale College, I returned to do research because I could finally intellectually integrate two very different areas of my formal studies at Yale and elsewhere. I was stunned upon my return to find so much meanness by employees, who insisted that alumni in residence are not “members of the Yale community,” by a security guard who profiled me with intimidation, by faculty who rudely dismissed Yale’s policy that alumni can audit courses, and by faculty administrators whose skill in passive aggression surpasses all understanding. In such an organizational culture, a Christian divinity school may seem like an oxymoron. A Christian school within a university that is known “inside the beltway” for having a nasty organizational culture is likely to display hypocrisy.

Christian hypocrisy (and downright meanness) applies to even the highest level of Yale’s divinity school. For example, I walked up to the former archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, at the reception just after his final lecture at Yale's divinity school. The dean didn't want me talking with him. In fact, the dean had refused to speak to me since I had returned on the preceding Labor Day. I had introduced myself, but he just walked away. At the reception, the dean of a "Christian" divinity school was perpetually stationed near the archbishop, watching him like a hawk. As soon as the dean, Greg Sterling, saw me beginning to talk to Rowan Williams, I knew it was only a matter of time—that I would not be talking long to the archbishop, who, by the way, was very interested in my biological relation to a previous archbishop of Canterbury. Unfortunately, the paranoid, controlling dean who does not tolerate criticism of Yale quickly turned the archbishop around as I was midway through my second sentence in order to prevent me from talking further with the archbishop.  Nice, huh? Very Christian.

Ironically, Williams had just given the last of three lectures on solidarity with one's neighbors. In even deeper irony, the dean had publicly praised the lecture and the topic during the Q&A session, which the dean, rather than the archbishop controlled (although the latter tried twice). Just a FYI to the "Christian" upper echelon at Yale's de facto seminary: Holding a grudge is antipodal to empathy, solidarity, and helping even one's detractors. To be sure, as I had been marginalized at that divinity school even while I was a student (for raising theological questions), and again during the 2023-2024 academic year, when I was back to do research, even by the school’s director of Alumni Engagement, I had written short essays critical of the sheer meanness at Yale (https://lnkd.in/gpRptb6A and https://lnkd.in/enej8PEa). Even so, to intentionally prevent me from talking with another scholar of moral theology and philosophy at a reception really says something about vengeance and abject hypocrisy.

In The Godfather III, a cardinal in the Vatican tells Michael Corleone that even though Christianity had been in Europe for centuries, little of the religion has seeped in. The cardinal takes and cracks open a small rock from a fountain in a beautiful courtyard, and likens the dry inside as akin to Europe immersed in Christianity, yet little has penetrated. Caring for one’s detractors, and even enemies, is not something in the Godfather’s playbook. Neither, I submit, is it in that of Greg Sterling, dean of Yale’s “Christian” divinity school and even a pastor in the United Church of Christ denomination, or sect, of Christianity. Perhaps, as he appeared during my stay to be desiccated inside in spite of the baptismal waters of Christianity, he might benefit from my booklet on Christianized leadership. Although the booklet is geared to business leaders, presumably Christian leadership can also be applied at Yale’s divinity school.

Williams’ three lectures over three evenings were on solidarity, which in turn can lead to communion. Although this includes with the non-human world, the archbishop’s focus was on going beyond a “vague feeling” of empathy to share in one another’s fragile and dependent nature as living creatures. To recognize another person’s dignity and depravity, and thus one’s need to be recognized in discourse and caring is the essence of William’s theory of solidarity. Communion goes on to a greater unity and in explicit relation of all as finite creatures to God. Solidarity takes work; as it extends to a person’s detractors and enemies, that work is not always easy, but it is mandatory. I would add that religious experience, whether in prayer or meditation, or inner, concentrated yearning for communion with that which transcends the limits of human cognition, perception, and emotion (sorry, Augustine), can heighten a person’s sensitivity to other people once one is back in the world. By analogy, it is like walking outside of a theatre during the day after watching a movie for several hours in the dark. Existential sensitivity is on a physiological, emotional, and spiritual level, and is inherently oriented to William’s conception of solidarity. Put another way, regular religious or spiritual experience can heighten a person’s instinctual urge to connect with the dignity and radical dependence of other people as well as oneself. Being more aware of another’s inner pain or existential hardship is another way of putting this. The sharing of this condition, which naturally occasions fear that can be detected outwardly, is the foundation of solidarity, and from this foundation the actual work in caring even for one’s enemies can begin. It is in valuing such work that a person is religious; it transcends creed and even cognition or belief, as if religion were mostly cognitive rather than of the human heart.

It is from that perspective that I want to shed translucent light on the shadows and proffer my advice even to a detractor on Christian leadership, for it is self-less rather than vengeful, caring rather than mean, and thus of a power distinct from that of the world. In talking truth to power in the upper echelons of the Danish Church, Kierkegaard emphasized subjectivity over empty shells in Christianity. Unlike Husserl, Heidegger, and Sartre in the decadent twentieth century, I think it is foolish and unnecessary to base everything on subjectivity. Although Nietzsche’s dictum that God is dead was meant to address a logical contradiction in a conception of the deity by humans, and the philosopher proffered good insight on the will of the priests (and pastors) to power as controlling others, he missed the power that lies in helping even one’s detractors, or at least not acting on a vengeful instinctual urge. Such an urge Nietzsche claims runs wild in the weak, even and especially in a Christian priest (and dean) from whom hypocrisy condenses and drips from a dry core. False humility as a means to invisibly extract vengeance is the hallmark of self-love and is antipodal to neighbor-love seu benevolentia universalis rather than just as amicitia.

Judging from how self-identifying Christians typically treat their respective detractors, and even people who are simply downright rude, I submit that the kingdom of which Jesus speaks in the New Testament is still woefully not of this world even though it could be. All it takes is some hard work in being caring rather than retaliatory where it is least convenient. I know I have work to do, but I’ve also made the difficult choices to help my detractors and the spiritual dynamic between the two people when that takes place can indeed by said to turn the world on its head in a spirit of wonder—even expanding human nature. It is very difficult, but possible, and it has been done.

For example, at the reception for Rowan Williams, I put a retired chaplain of Battel Chapel, which is on Yale’s main campus, in touch with Jerry Street, who had been Yale’s main chaplain and was still working in some capacity at the divinity school at the time of the reception. When I had been a student, I interviewed him for my radio show on WYBC at Yale; he had been furious after the interview, declaring, “I will not be edited!” The station’s chief explained to him that it was dreadfully unfair to demand no editing. In spite of Street’s anger and unfairness to me, I greeted him warmly at the fall convocation in 2023, and I gave him and the retired chaplain of Battel a gift, as she put it later, in reuniting the two of them at the reception. I wish I was not so distracted that I could have felt the joy of giving to a former detractor; I really wanted to speak on research with Williams. Had the dean fallen or dropped something at the reception, I would have helped him up or picked something up for him. It gets easier if you have put in work in establishing a habit even if it falters from time to time when the emotions are too strong. The spiritual dynamic of peace that is felt between former detractors as one helps the other on a human level is that which Jesus describes in the New Testament as the peace in God’s kingdom. Such peace is possible in this world. Maybe the dean will become a Christian leader as a result of reading my booklet.