Rituals (LynnK)

Tradtitions. Rituals. Old as humankind.

(Image by Stephanie Sanchez)

Most of what we know about our distant ancestors has been learned from the relics of ancient ceremonies. Births. Weddings. Rites of Passage. Burials. Sacrifices. Monuments to deities and monarchs and conquests. Totems. Tributes to the plants and animals who share the planet with us.

Anyone who grows up (as I did) in the embrace of organized religion has an experience of this. And frankly, at least in my mind, some of the rituals are just plain silly.

My junior year in a Catholic women’s college (the first two years I was in a convent, meaning I was pious and all that), I found myself part of a MayDay procession that ended in the chapel with pairs of processing young women, each with a gladiola in hand, pausing before an altar to place said gladiolas in a vase. Two tall vases flanked a statue of the BVM (Blessed Virgin Mary).

I’d been participating in MayDay processions since the second grade. They were harmless, lovely, and a chance to get out of the classroom. But something about this college-level ceremony raised my hackles.

As each pair of students deposited their gladiolas, they dutifully recited these words: “Oh, Mary, I pledge thee the lily of my heart.” There were more words that I can’t remember. Just let it be said that the promise was one of virginity until marriage.

I’ve no problem with that as an ideal. At the time, I was pure as the driven snow (no action to be had in a convent!). But quite a number of my classmates had already drifted, as well I knew. In some cases, it was difficult not to chortle when they deposited their lilies. . . er, gladiolas. . .and took an oath they’d long since disavowed.

My senior year, I took action. Never let it be said I didn’t get riled up about a stupid cause. When I was done, the pledge of virginity became a vague prayer about good intentions and general benevolence to all people. Contrarily, I remained a virgin for several more years and can’t say I’m always benevolent to all people.

Sometimes we engage in rituals with wholehearted commitment, sometimes to go along with the crowd, and sometimes because we long for the values those rituals celebrate. All those purposes are valid, I suspect.

I’m writing this after returning from a Holy Thursday ritual, the first I’ve attended in more years I’m willing to admit. And fact is, I was only there because I’ve joined the parish choir, and I did that because I love to sing. No claims of virtue here.

But during the long ceremony, I saw true piety and commitment and love weave in a dance of music and prayer and bonding. The same takes place, I am sure, among people of all faiths around the world. Even the rejection of religious faith draws people together, many of them models of dedication to moral principles.

Tonight I was singing unfamiliar music. New to the choir, I had my eyes mostly pinned on the score.
During the ceremony, the priest washed the feet of twelve parishioners, but I missed all that. When we were walking outside, I needed my small flashlight to follow the
notes. Most of the time, I was scrambling to keep up and avoid screwing up.

But when I got home and settled, cat in lap and a glass of wine in hand, I was glad I had been a part of that ritual.

For once, the Loft Choir was stationed up front in the sanctuary, right near the pews reserved for the disabled. The beauty and hope and acceptance in their faces brought tears to my eyes. I kept ducking down behind the piano to wipe them away.

Tomorrow afternoon I’ll be back at the church for Good Friday rituals. Saturday evening, the lonnnnng Easter Vigil service will include, I am told, thirteen baptisms. Thirteen little babies and proud parents and stalwart godparents. I can hardly wait. And on Sunday, Easter Mass with us singing lots of Mozart and other wonderful music.

I think of myself as a fairly rational, unsentimental and occasionally cynical critter. But turns out I need only join the gazillions of humans who’ve taken part in rituals to feel the same emotions and commitments they have felt.

On the other hand—to be perfectly honest—I can get all sappy watching a Hallmark Cards commercial. Go figure. And come Easter morning, I’ll wax sentimental about bunny rabbits and Easter baskets.

But only until I get my hands on a Cadbury Egg and a box of See’s chocolates. Where rituals are concerned, I can be pathetically shallow.