Sustained by Rituals and Traditions

Joe Malia has been going to the Indianapolis 500 car race for the last forty years. And that streak found itself in jeopardy this past summer with all the limitations on gathering associated with Covid-19 and professional sports. Since restrictions did not allow people to be at the speedway, his ritual of being at the race every year seemed like a lost cause.

Think for a moment about rituals that are a part of your life - a holiday barbecue, building the perfect peanut butter and jelly distance learning sandwich, your team always playing the same song before a league game, putting on your seat belt before driving. Each of these has either a function or a sentimental reason behind it. And each in their own way makes sense within the context of our own life even when it is not always meaningful to others. We find meaning in our activities, religious and otherwise. And as humans, we don’t let go of traditions easily.

So what has been really hard about the last six months? What is the loss or losses you have felt most? Perhaps an annual family gathering or vacation, going on a date, predictable time with friends, a sense of routine, or even personal safety. Right now, there is both loss and uncertainty related to the pandemic and racial reckoning in our country. Include changes in weather patterns and natural disasters like the recent hurricanes and wildfires and an increasingly volatile political climate, and there is a lot to shake us from a sure foundation. 

Rituals are certainly needed when it comes to religion because they help draw us closer to the mystery of God. But rituals also shape us as members of the human family, and they are often powerful at sustaining a community. Think about Beef Club cheers or daily lunch in the refectory. These are ways that we create meaning - meaning that we come to see as sacred. The Christian writer Frederick Beauchner suggests that rituals may well be the starting point to understanding anything about our lives. 

Each summer, when I return home to visit my family, my brother and I use the first night to go to the local ice cream store – where we purchase the family sundae – Oreo Ice cream with hot fudge and Reese’s peanut butter cups. There is nothing religious about this ritual and yet it is an event that I look forward to annually. It is a predictable touchpoint that re-establishes a connection with my brother. In some bizarre way, it is an ice cream sundae that helps me know we still love each other. 

After a school shooting several years ago, instead of showing up at school as usual, students met in the center of their small town and walked together to school as a way to claim their school and lift up their community. A spontaneous ritual created to help a community take the first steps towards transforming their lives on the other side of tragedy. After the violence struck their school, the governor said this. ”It’s all about love.  It’s about reaching out to people who you never thought about reaching out to before.” Sometimes rituals help us take the first step. 

All rituals share an element of trying to capture something beyond the here and now. ” It seeks to secure the belief that it has meaning. It seeks to make something ordinary,  extra-ordinary. 

Gathering for chapel each time aspires to do a similar thing. To stand apart from what is ordinary. We dedicate time as a community to practice being with each other and God. It tries to recenter us before going back into the world, it aims to renew us when we are tired, and it promises us that we are all precious and special in the eyes of God.

Rituals like this at St. Albans offer a way to build each other up so that when something challenges the fabric of our community or—more importantly—the whole world, we can seek help from one another. We can be partners in both small and big ways. 

So back to Joe’s story. 

Joe was not ready to give up on the Indy 500. While watching the qualifying round on television, he noticed that an onboard camera in one of the cars kept revealing a tree in the distance as the car went around the track. So Joe left his Chicago home and drove to Indianapolis the day after the qualifiers. There he then took a bus tour of the area near the racetrack so he could find this tree - this mysterious and sacred tree!

In an interview, Joe said, “I figured since I could see the tree from the track, then I certainly could see the track from the tree.” After the bus tour, he used Google Maps to locate the neighborhood and the tree. He proceeded to knock on the house’s front door and ask the owner, Mr. Robles if he could get up in his tree to watch the race. 

At first, Mr. Robles was not sure what to do with this stranger’s request to build a platform overlooking the racetrack to watch the race. But he finally agreed to the idea in principle—in part because Mr. Robles wanted to see the cars himself. 

That was enough for Joe. He gave Mr. Robles money for building supplies and asked him to try building the platform and if it didn’t work, he should just keep the money. It turns out Mr. Robles single handedly succeeded in erecting a platform forty feet up in the tree. 

The following week, Joe returned to Indianapolis and watched the race live from this now sacred tree with his three sons, a boy he coaches in baseball and Mr. Robles, who had memories of watching the race from the backstretch with his father years before.

Joe’s experience around the Indy 500 looks different this year. But it was still meaningful - maybe even more so in its new expression because it required goodwill on the part of both Mr. Robles and Joe. It also demanded flexibility and an acceptance of the unknown. That search for meaning may also be what we are craving as students and teachers as this school year begins in much the same way last year ended. This news story invites us to acknowledge the sentiment and power of traditions. And perhaps there is wisdom here in how to approach the start of school, which almost three weeks in - can’t help but feel different. 

I wonder if this story might also help us feel buoyed by the creativity of the human spirit. While the reality is that our days right now are painted with highs and lows that come with loss, we should also look for streaks of light coming through cracks of our Pandemic experience. 

This morning’s image on the opening chapel slide was a painting created by artist Kadir Nelson back in April. The art titled “After the Storm” speaks to the current moment in history. In the artist’s words, his painting acknowledges a loss of human touch and proximity due to the pandemic. 

As you look at the painting, you can see people holding hands with one another as different generations of the human family. In their unity, a collective gaze is directed towards the light. Are they perhaps looking towards God, towards a common vision of hope or justice? Kadir describes it as them looking at what comes next. While not diminishing what right now feels like for any individual, for him, the painting looks hopefully towards a moment still to come. 

His message to others who view the piece of art - try to fill your day with creating something (not necessarily art - it could be connection, service, passion, or a new ritual) that helps you step towards the next moment, the next hour, the next day fueled by human hope. For me, as a person of faith, Kadir’s art depicts a moment that points to humanity’s partnership with a loving God who is always there when we arrive.

In the words of scripture that we hear today, God creates and invites us to be partners in a life that is always unfolding. The religious word we associate with this life experience might be transformation, but at its foundation, it is about the promise that new experiences and new wisdoms are being revealed to accompany us alongside God in creating community. At the same time, we must be allowed to acknowledge that the losses we have felt since last spring are not easy.  

The hardest thing to do is live one day at a time. And the last six months have made that more apparent than ever. Most days, when I feel overwhelmed, it is because I am tired, not knowing what comes next. But I have to remember that it’s also natural. After all, we are human. And yet, we are also part of that partnership with God that Isaiah speaks about in the Bible. 

The loss and uncertainty present in the world right now is a reminder that I need God and people in this community to help me in low moments. Similarly, Joe and Kadir’s creativity encourages me to gaze with hope towards moments to come and trust that its light is from God. 

And we have a way to start focusing our gaze. This school offers a sure foundation—and not the buildings, but friends who know you, teachers who care about you, students who serve all of us, and above all else, a community that is sustained by rituals and traditions and gatherings and forums. So we can offer our highs and lows to one another with the intent of growing and learning. While things that fill our common life may take a different shape at points this year, I also believe that God’s light will be there in every moment to sustain us. May it be so one day at a time. Amen.