On grace, sacraments and rituals
Grace is usually thought of in a religious context where God fortifies the faithful and strengthens resolve against natural failings. God’s grace is typically given in sacraments administered via solemn, prescribed rituals.
Holy Communion and baptism are Christian sacraments. Despite pastors’ sincere attempts at reverence and solemnity, the communions I’ve seen resembled business productions. On their way to the altar communicants straighten their clothes, stay in line and are careful to not stumble. I don’t see an obvious connection between swallowing symbols of Christ’s dead body and blood and a renewed dedication to His message of Christian Love.
During baptism, parents and ministers look awkward, as if afraid of dropping the precious cargo and hoping the infant doesn’t cry. The congregation’s focus moves back and forth from ogling the baby and anxiously watching the tense dance between the parties at the altar.
To further contaminate the spiritual picture, there’s a full line of merchandise available at the on-line Sacramental Blessings Store. Among the hundreds of items available to enhance grace is a Lourdes Water card, including prayer in English for $5; Spikenard Magdalene Anointing Oil, 20ml for $10 and 10ml for $5.50; Jerusalem Anointing Oil – Frankincense, was $10, now only $8; and Baptismal infant gowns for $70 and up.
I’m not denying that God’s grace can be found in religious rituals. But finding it in public ceremonies requires concentration, metaphysical gymnastics, and a leap of faith. I’ve had profoundly renewing experiences alone and in the company of others in secular situations.
My friend, Paul, created his own sacramental ceremony to put closure to his failed marriage. He went to the backyard with a candle, softly sang Daes Irae, burned his ex-wife’s wallet-size picture, then scooped up and buried the ashes.
One of my sacred places is the Iowa farm where the mother of our children was born and raised, where we went for over a decade for vacations, where I restored my spiritual and humane vigor. The dirt is pitch black; the terrain flat. At night you could watch a four-car train slowly move two miles across the way and, from an upstairs window, see lights on towers in Ft. Dodge twenty miles distant.
I’d sit in a chair under the apple tree reading books on mythology, composers of music and the evolution of life from fish to philosopher described via kidney development. Occasionally I’d get up and throw an apple into the pig pen. I’d talk to the hens while picking their eggs and dodging beaks. The kids and I regularly went to the community pool in Stratford, with its dirt streets having Shakespearian names.
Ricky, the gentle Siberian Husky, tolerated the kids sitting on him and pulling his tail and ears. He got his due by taking ice cream cones and cookies out of their hands when they weren’t looking. The thirteen hour overnight drive there was wonderfully exhausting and forgotten after the second clear, deep breath on stepping out of the car. Vern’s filling the gas tank with tractor gas for our return to Michigan was like frosting.
Vern and Amanda are gone. I’m no longer married to their daughter. The hot, stuffy 19th Century house has been torn down and replaced by a ranch-style home. But I regularly return to those excellent times and honor their memories when I want to do a personal soft reset. I don’t know whether I want to return to that patch of black dirt again or not.
A blessing I regularly give myself today is sitting in the easy chair looking into the mature forest behind my condo. I go there when I get tangled up in myself to restart my thinking. I retreat to gaze, close my eyes, daydream or take a short nap. Sometimes I stay only a few minutes. Sometimes hours. I remember how my father spent his last years sitting in his chair nightly, with legs up, lights off, listening to low volume classical music.
Opportunities for spiritual nurture and renewal abound in everyday life. Searching for them only in religious situations is too limiting.
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