Like so many others, I have found myself grasping in the dark for consolation amidst the terrifying fallout of this Presidential administration’s actions and decisions. The sweeping changes and ominous threats to vulnerable populations have left me wondering what is next, how we will survive it, and how we will care for and protect all who are affected.
The most comforting place I have found to take refuge is within the embrace of one of humanity’s oldest ways of approaching what lies beyond our control: ritual. The word comes to us from the Latin word rite, referring to a religious observance, and indeed, these are perhaps the first rituals that many of us experienced as children: the soft hush of ashes across our foreheads on Ash Wednesday, the anticipatory lighting of Advent candles in a church or at home, the weekly singing of the Gloria, the taste of the Eucharist on our tongues. Even just walking into a quiet church can transport us into the contemplative expanse that our liturgies inscribe into our lives.
But as the dignity and humanity of LGBTQ people, migrants, and refugees have been undermined by the administration in the past weeks, I have come to lean on ritual in a different way. Ritual, I have found, teaches us something about what it is to be human, and it links us to generations upon generations of people who have come together to seek meaning in their lives, to create a space where that meaning can be shared. I have needed that space lately more than ever.
Ritual teaches us something about what it is to be human, and it links us to generations upon generations of people who have come together to seek meaning.
African spiritual writer Malidoma Patrice Somé describes ritual as a response to the call of the body and soul; it is an act that creates a community around the acknowledgment of shared longing. “We need ritual,” he explains, “because it is an expression of the fact that we recognize the difficulty of creating a different and special kind of community. A community that doesn’t have a ritual cannot exist.”
In our modern age, ritual and the community it engenders do not have to take place in a physical space; we are connected, both in person and online, through our shared practice of faith, advocacy, and justice work. And although the root of the word ritual refers to religious practice, ritual can also be something that takes place beyond the walls of a church, beyond the borders of religion. What better reminder that all our lives are a meeting place between the human and the holy? What better reminder that, as bearers of the image of God, every aspect of our lives is sacred?
Every Wednesday afternoon, my son and I visit the library and then head to a local bakery for a treat. It’s our private ritual, a handhold to grab onto in the middle of the week, but it’s also an exercise in community. We know our librarians and excitedly show them our haul and thank them for their work. We greet the bakery cashiers with a smile and sit at our favorite table by the window, nodding to the other regulars. The books and the coffee are a real draw, but I think the most important part of our Wednesday outing is the reminder that we are part of a community, that even in these difficult times, we still hold onto an indestructible treasure: our shared humanity.
What better reminder that all our lives are a meeting place between the human and the holy?
With the memory of the Covid-19 pandemic so fresh in our minds, even a simple trip to a café or a dog park can feel like something it always has been, but which in the course of our busy lives it has become harder to see: a miracle. Although a ritual can be solitary, something we do within the confines of our own homes, no person is an island, and there is no ritualistic practice that can’t be traced to another person or community, whether it is the person who made the candle you light or the roaster who ground the coffee you brew. While ritual provides deep comfort on an individual level, it always draws us into community with others, assuring us of our place among our fellow humans and assuaging our loneliness.
There are probably already many rituals in place in your life, both faith-related and otherwise, from your attendance at Mass or an online group to your fall chili cook-off or summer camping trip. The church calendar and the secular calendar both give us concrete ways to make meaning of passing time, and hopefully also to find points of connection and community with each other along the way. The darker current events look, the more calmed I am by the rhythms of Lent, the celebrations of St. Patrick’s Day, and the promise of Easter; the more I appreciate the traditions that draw us together and give us opportunities to share our lives with each other, whether it’s the annual school play or the first trip to pick apples in the fall.
I know that in participating in the rituals of the church and of the secular world, I am one in a long line of human beings who have sought to reach out to each other, to find meaning in shared longing, in shared experience. I know that in ritual we mark time in ways that remind us that all of time is in God’s hands. And I know that in ritual, we find a profound connection to those who have gone before us, those who are enduring uncertainty alongside us, and to the God who holds us all together.
