On the Romance of Ritual

Rituals are a forgotten art—we have forgotten the art of practicing them, while at the same time losing sight of the fact that we practice them.

About once a week, I join other members of the university’s faculty for lunch in our faculty dining hall. Our lunchtime conversations often turn towards the relatively mundane business of everyday life—how to get more student participation, what to do about academic advising, how to balance between teaching and research and service requirements, and so on. On occasion, the conversation turns to current events, and so a few weeks ago we were discussing the Indiana RFRA law. This quite naturally also lead into discussions of religion and morality in general, and the tension between “private morality” or the rights of conscience and needs of moral virtues on the one hand, and the needs and desires for “tolerance,” “equality,” and other civic duties or civic virtues on the other. Since our lunch group is rather eclectic, part of the conversation turned to questions of what this or that particular religion teaches as a moral issue (such conversations tend towards breadth rather than depth).

One member of our group gave his explanation of the Jewish position concerning homosexuality: or rather, I should say positions, since there is more than one strain of Judaism these days. He explained that he belongs to the relatively “liberal” strain, saying something to the effect that his local synagogue has a rabbi who is a lesbian in a committed relationship with another woman; but that the more “conservative” position—Orthodox Judaism—holds that homosexuality is an abomination. And with a smile and a laugh, he explained that this means they hold it to be an evil which is about on the same level as failing to keep the Sabbath.

The comment was largely meant to disarm the seriousness of whether or not homosexual acts are considered to be a really grave evil or not; much in the same way as others attempt to nullify Leviticus or Deuteronomy by making remarks about the importance of not using two types of thread in a single garment or not planting two types of crops in the same field, both of which are practices common enough to be an afterthought, at least among those who do not attempt to keep Kosher laws.

I think that we have lost something as concerns the purpose and the joy of rituals. I don’t mean here that we should start attempting to live according the the Jewish Kosher laws. Our Lord in the Gospels, and His apostle Paul in his epistles have explained rather unambiguously that while we are bound by much of the same morality, we are not bound by the same rituals as were the Jewish people [1]. Rather, I mean that we as a society have lost sight of the meaning of rituals—what they might symbolize, and what they might demand of us, and what they might offer us in return—and also of the fact that we, too, are a ritualistic people, albeit less consciously so.

Why would it be abominable, for example, for a good practitioner of Judaism to fail to keep the Sabbath? Well, because this is a day that the Lord has said ought to be set aside for rest (and worship). It may have some practical purpose—rest and recuperation from our labors can help us to return to them refreshed, after all—but its less practical purpose is the greater one: it is an act of obedience, and (when rightly understood) of love to offer this one day of the week back to God.

And there is where we might find the most frequent (and most frequently missed) rituals: between lovers, or close friends, or families. If we have a few mundane routines—getting ready for work, or going about our daily work and daily lives—we also have a few rituals which, while habitual, also take us out of these routines. My routine requires that I give my little daughter a bath after dinner; our ritual allows that it may be a bubble bath, or that we play a game (really, the same game) in getting her out of the bath and into her pajamas.

The alliteration of ritual and routine may make us forget that the two things are in fact very different. A routine may become dull and drab the first time we try it, and almost certainly by the tenth. A ritual may have a sense of renewal even on the thousandth time. A routine may bore because it is easy, or chafe because it is difficult; a ritual becomes a respite or a challenge to conquer. If I kiss my wife goodnight before we both fall asleep each night, it gives no less comfort and does not diminish my ability to cherish her with this small act simply because we still do this after years of marriage.

And If I should fail to do this some night, how might that grieve her? And what do I lose in withholding love’s gentle kiss?

All of which brings me back to my colleague’s comment to the effect that breaking with routine might be an abomination in the (orthodox) Jewish religion. By failing to keep the Sabbath, an otherwise observant Jew is withholding his participation in the ritual established in the relationship with God. He is withdrawing from the ritual established by his covenant with God, a covenant which should have as its basis the love of God for man and the love of man for God. He is saying that this thing which he might have done, and which he normally has done, and which God desires that He do—indeed, that God has revealed that He desires—that this he will withhold. He is withdrawing himself from this ritual, and is symbolically is withdrawing himself from God’s love, if only (he may tell himself) temporarily.

If the ritual that he is breaking is a simple one which is easy to keep, then he is in effect saying that he willingly places a limit on his participation in God’s interactions with him. To deliberately withdraw from such a ritual might, in effect, be the action of petty spite. If the ritual is a more difficult one, harder to keep and accomplish, he might symbolically say that God is not worth the effort, that he is willing to love God to a point, or (worse still!) is only allowing God to love him to a point. Small surprise that such a thing might be seen as an abomination.

And what of our own rituals? We have a few, such as the “Sunday obligation” or the “Friday fast.” What are we saying to God by our observation—or non-observation—of these? God of course knows our hearts, and knows what we mean to say. On the other hand, we also know that God has given the rituals to us for a purpose, and that these can draw us closer to Him. Do we allow them to? There is a certain romance to ritualism, one which we ought not ignore, least of all when God is part of the ritual.

—Footnotes—
[1] We do, however, have a separate set of rituals, some of which we have been explicitly told to do: “Do this in memory of me.”

Nicene Guy

Nicene Guy

JC is a cradle Catholic, and somewhat of a traditionalist conservative. He earned his Ph.D. in physics from the University of Texas at Austin in the summer of 2014. He is currently a tenure-track assistant professor of physics at a university in the deep south. He is a lay member of the Order of Preachers. JC has been happily married since June of 2010. He and his lovely wife have had two children born into their family, one daughter and one son; they hope to have a few more. He has at times questioned – and more often still been questioned about – his Faith, but he has never wandered far from the Church, nor from our Lord. “To whom else would I go?”

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2 thoughts on “On the Romance of Ritual”

  1. Of course, with all the rituals in the world, it’s easy to start something meaningful
    of your own and the love shown to ie: God by substitution is no less genuine if it is performed by the higher mind and self.

  2. Pingback: WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON EDITION - Big Pulpit

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