Exploring Devotion

Recently, I have been reading Nora Chadwick’s The Celts. It is a rather engaging book, if at times a little underdeveloped. Last night, as I lay on my bed reading away, the following passage caught my attention:

Most peoples create their gods according to their own mortal needs, ideals and aspirations, and in the Tuatha may be glimpsed something of the manner in which La Tène Celts in Ireland may have pictured the ideal life. Celtic society and particularly its social obligations, such as delight in hospitality, are here transferred to the idealized world of the supernatural. The superior powers of the Tuatha were perhaps thought to have been available to their devotees.[1]

In particular, it was the last sentence that really struck me. I would endeavor to guess that most Pagans have a certain deity, or perhaps even a couple of deities, with whom they intimately associate. Many people, in turn, don the role as a devotee or a priest/ess of those gods with whom they have been able to establish a personal relationship. While this is all well and good, the above passage got me thinking: What does it really mean to be a devotee of a deity?

When I think of devotion, my mind automatically flutters back to my Roman Catholic upbringing. I envision stooped old men and aged Polish women reverently making their ways into a silent church on a weekday morning. I picture Catholic saints, like Saint Francis of Assisi, giving up everything in honor of their god. I recall the nuns who lived in the convent across from my high school, who, despite being battered by time, gave up their final energies so as to express their love of Christ. In short, when I think of devotion, I think of sacrifice.

Now, I do believe that sacrifice plays a large role in the act of devotion. To insinuate a devotional act with a deity, there must be some form of sacrifice, some sort of offering. I hardly believe that the gods just sit around all day, eagerly waiting for someone to call on them. I mean, they are not Batman, ready to come as soon as you flash a signal of distress. Rather, the gods have their own agendas; they have their own plans and their own work to get done. To begin an act of devotion to a god, then, is to ask that deity to take time from his/her schedule in order to listen to you. Thus it makes sense that some form of sacrifice should be made. After all, you would not expect a repairman to waltz into your home every time something went awry, fix the problem, and then trod along his merry little way without some form of compensation. It is the same with the gods. Sacrifice can be thought of as a form of ‘currency’; it is the means by which requests and their level of fulfillment are negotiated. And, beyond this, sacrifices are a good display of hospitality. They humbly invite the gods and spirits, whereas to simply expect them to show up at your call is quite arrogant. Of course, being a Gaelic Recon, I am quite adamant of this point: One should always show good hospitality to the gods and spirits, for if hospitality is shown one way, it is often reciprocated.

So, yes, I do think that sacrifice is a large part of devotion to deities. However, Chadwick’s passage made me wonder: How much sacrifice is too much? To be a devotee of a god is to establish a personal relationship with the deity. A healthy relationship works in two directions, wherein each partner is responsible to contribute to the wellbeing of the relationship. I don’t know about you, but in practice I have found this idea a bit hard to digest. My acts of devotion often include little more than sacrifice. I give daily offerings to my gods, offerings of food, flowers, poetry, and praise. However, I very seldom ask for anything in return, at least not wholeheartedly. I suppose that part of this is because of my Roman Catholic background: even if I did ask Yahweh/Jesus for something, I never truly thought that my petition would have much effect, as Roman Catholicism propagated the belief in an ultimate divine plan. So even if I prayed for something, what good would it have done if there was a plan already set in motion? Inundated with this notion, I spent my Christian life never truly believing that my requests could make a difference. However, in my journey through Paganism, I have come to believe that my gods, while they certainly have plans and ambitions, do not necessarily have a strict, all-encompassing agenda. (I think that the big difference in theological thought here is that, unlike monotheists, I, as a polytheist, do not believe that my gods are omnipotent.) Therefore, I have little reason to suppose that my requests will not at least be considered. Still, I have been bred into my old trappings, and they are hard to weasel out of.

You are probably thinking, “What is so wrong about flooding the gods with praise and honors without asking for anything in return? I mean, it kind of sounds like paradise, right: being constantly told that you are wonderful and awesome and amazing and, on top of that, you are offered amazing food?” Well, yes, it does all sound great on paper, but think about the reality of it. These beings have things to get done, and while I am sure that they may enjoy the occasional flattery, to be constantly haggled with compliments would not only get tiresome, it would also get in the way. It would be kind of like this:



As you can see, after awhile all of the incessant attention without constructive reason for it would get very frustrating.

This is really what I found at the heart of Chadwick’s assertion, “The superior powers of the Tuatha were perhaps thought to have been available to their devotees”: The gods not only want things from us, like offerings and hospitality, they also want to give us things. As with any relationship, the gods get tired of one-sidedness. (Just think of what it would be like to be in a relationship with a partner who insists on doing everything and will not even let you get off the couch so that you can placate your ever-present boredom. It would be awful.) Like I keep saying, the gods have agendas. To become a devotee, or even just to show occasional devotion, to the deity, then, is to become part of this agenda, if only a marginal part. In this understanding, the sacrifices of the devotee and the reciprocated gifts from the god are not the whole of the relationship. Rather, they are but the avenues of communication: The offerings to the deity demonstrate the devotee’s hospitality and pride; likewise, the gifts given to the devotee by the god equip the devotee so as to assure him/her a proper place in the god’s plan. Both of these, the offerings and the gifts, affirm the relationship. The basis of this relationship, then, is the mutual contract between the god and the devotee; it is the agreement made between the two parties.

To view devotion in terms of the underlying contract rather than in terms of sacrifice brings a whole new depth to the experience. The contract made between the devotee and the deity ultimately entails both parties sharing parts of their separate agendas. Thus, both parties are, at least for a time, working together so as to produce a common goal. Written like this, it all sounds kind of colorless, but in reality, this type of contractual relationship underlies all of the meaningful relationships in our lives, not least of which is marriage. In marriage, a couple creates a contract, the goal of which is the creation and the maintenance of a family unit, which may or may not include more people than the married couple. In seeking to fulfill this contract, the couple spend their lives working together, coming to intimately know and love each other. So, while a ‘contractual agreement’ may sound cold on the surface, it really can be a warm and beautiful thing.

I am very grateful for Chadwick’s use of language. I feel that I have spent far too much time looking at the material manifestations of my devotion and not enough time exploring the contract which may underlie it. Who knew so much insight could be wrapped up into one small passage? Just another reason why I love studying the Celts.

Beannachtaí ortsa agus ar do chuidse
Bryce
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[1] Chadwick, Nora. The Celts. London: Pelican, 1977. Page 180.

Debunking Karma

Western metaphysical authors and teachers, as well as average, ‘mundane’ people, define karma as ‘the law that if you do good, good things will happen to you, and if you do bad, bad things will happen to you.’ In doing this, they identify karma in terms of reciprocity—i.e. you reap what you sew. Now, while this definition certainly gives a quick and dirty explanation of what karma does, it fails to describe what karma is. For this reason, I find this definition to be particularly useless and misleading.

I have two outstanding problems with this Western conceptualization of karma: (1) It qualifies karma, often as a negative and disciplinary force and (2) it makes karma objective rather than subjective. Both of these points skew the perception of what karma actually is, and thus this definition of karma undermines the very thing that it is attempting to define.

Whether you ardently adhere to a belief in the power of karma or not, chances are that you are familiar with the idea of karma as a disciplinary force. There is a tendency, both within metaphysical communities and with-out, to blame negative occurrences as well as one’s shortcomings and failures on karma. Often times, this sort of blame is meant as a joke. If you are running with a friend and you trip, falling on your stomach, you may get up and laugh off the embarrassment by suggesting to your friend that you tripped because of your ‘bad karma.’ While this action does not necessarily mean that you accept the concept of karma, it certainly does shape both your friend’s and your perception of what karma is. It sets karma up as a disciplinary agent, one that is out to smite you if ever you should mess up. In a sense, this is true: Karma can bring about unfavorable results if we pursue unwholesome actions. Yet, this is a dangerous mindset to get into. To understand this, let’s think about a different situation. Say you get a promotion. Are you likely to attribute this advancement to good karma? Probably not. You will most likely say that you either earned the promotion or that you were awarded it by luck. So, while we are apt to blame karma, we very rarely—if ever!—glorify karma as the source of pleasantries. Although the poplar Western definition of karma does suggest that karma allows for both good and bad outcomes, the malleability of the definition permits it to be skewed to the point that karma becomes an entirely negative process.

In modern Hindu culture, the notion of karma is just as present as it was thousands of years ago. (For those who do not know, the idea of karma began with the Vedic [proto-Hindu] population of India.) Yet in its more original Hindu context, the function of karma appears very different from the one conceptualized in the West. In popular Hindu thought, karma is not a disciplinary agent. Rather, it is a means to avoid and to alter unfavorable circumstances. For example, if a Hindu man is plagued by crop failure, he may say that, yes, bad karma has a part in this crop failure. However, rather than dwelling on the effects of his bad karma, he will seek to produce good karma in hopes of counteracting these undesirable conditions. He will use karma as an escape route. Whereas a Westerner may understand karma to be the princess’s fairytale tower, the Hindu is more apt to see karma as the knight in shining armor, come to whisk the princess away from misery.

I believe that the Hindu idea of karma is more accurate. Karma is not about retrograding: It is not about accepting or ‘feeling the burn’ of what you have done. It is about becoming, about utilizing life’s moments so as to create things in a better and more pleasing fashion. The Western concept of karma often does not allow for the latter. The Western definition becomes too skewed, too one-sided for this.

Now, I say that I believe the Hindu idea of karma is more accurate than the Western idea of karma because the Hindu conceptualization focuses on the positive, redeeming aspects of karma rather than the negative and troubling aspects. Yet, truth be told, both are just different extremes on the same spectrum; both are more-or-less one-sided understandings of karma. The underlying problem with both of these, then, is that they attempt to qualify karma; they try to force human norms upon it, titling it ‘good’ or ‘bad’ karma. However this is futile. Karma is not a part of our human society; it is different. Therefore we cannot simply subject it to our human estimations of what ‘should’ be. To qualify karma, then, is simply absurd—no matter if you are qualifying it as good or as bad. When we qualify karma, we are setting up two new ideas: ‘bad’ karma and ‘good’ karma. Instead of defining ‘karma,’ then, we end up giving definitions to these subcategories, and when we do not understand the nature of the underlying principle, we simply cannot give a proper description of its function, no matter in what form it appears.

So what is the actual nature of karma? Good question. There is no one-size-fits-all understanding of karma. As is typical with such elusive matters, there are many different schools and opinions out there. I prefer to think that karma cannot be caught up in a stagnant definition, that it is something that goes beyond the duality of language. However, if I had to choose, I would go with a Buddhist explanation: Karma is becoming. And this moves me on to my second complaint.

The second major thing that irritates me about the Western understanding of karma is that it constructs karma as a cosmic law. It is outside of us, a force like gravity which acts upon us; we are at its mercy. This is evinced by how we speak about karma: Karma brings us bad things; karma causes things to happen. In speaking about karma in this manner, we disassociate ourselves from it. To an extent, this train of thought appears in popular Hinduism, too. However, I would argue—and am arguing—that this is a fundamentally erroneous way to understand karma. I would agree with the Buddha on this one: Karma is not what has become us; it is what we have become.

In its original form, the word karma was the Sanskrit word for action. More specifically, it referred to the ritualized action of Vedic sacrifice. To perform a sacrifice to the gods, then, was karma. It was our buddha, Gautama Buddha, who changed this. In his teachings on the dharma, the Buddha reshaped the idea of karma. You could say that he effectively ethicized it. In doing so, Buddha transformed karma from an objective into a subjective experience. His notion of karma could be summed up simply—‘simply’ meaning a simple version—as: ‘The doer becomes the deed.’ In the Buddha’s schema, then, karma was the process of becoming. You were what you did.

The notion of ‘the doer becomes the deed’ may seem foreign to many of us, but I assure you that it is more ubiquitous and, indeed, more scientific than you may realize. Think about the old saying, ‘You are what you eat.’ Really think about it. It is true, isn’t it? At least, that is what modern science tells us. Yes, our bodies, their energies, and all of their processes come from what we eat. Food gives us the nutrients needed to build our bones and organs; its digestion provides us with the energy of life; and this energy, in turn, feeds our physical processes. We really are what we eat, then, aren’t we? The Buddha’s concept of karma works the same way as this food analogy—in fact, it could even be argued that the food analogy is an example of the karmic process.

To say that karma is the process of becoming really is not that foreign to us. Again, modern science demonstrates this in the field of psychology. Any psychologist can tell you that we are products of our environments—that our environments and our behaviors within these environments continually create and recreate who we are. In a sense, this is what the Buddha was saying: We are the results of our actions, and karma is the process by which we go from action to result.

One word that keeps coming up again and again in this discussion is ‘process,’ and I think that it is important to pause for a moment so that we can tease out this idea a little bit better. In common Western understanding, karma is a law. It is a hard fact of nature, something that is separate and outside of ourselves. To say that karma is a law is to say that it is stagnant, and since it is stagnant, we should be able to touch it, to explore it, and to quantify it. It is to say that we can measure things by it, that we can declare things good, bad, better, or worse by holding them up to the ‘karmic ruler.’ However, the very nature of karma dictates that this cannot be true: karma cannot be a stagnant force. The concept of karma states that it is fundamentally mutable, able to adapt to the individual’s experience and circumstance. If karma were a law, it would have to be non-discriminatory, affecting everything in the same manner: The consequences of one person’s action would have to directly correlate to the consequences of anyone else who performed that same action. Yet, karma does not function in this manner. It is far more relative, affecting each person according to his or her own norms. Thus karma, failing to be truly objective, cannot be a law.

To say karma is a process, then, is to acknowledge its fundamentally dynamic and subjective nature. It also disassociates karma from its physical consequences. All too often, the Western mind likes to define karma in terms of its fruition; it sees karma as an end rather than as the means to that end. However, in the Buddhist view, karma is not considered one-and-the-same with its effects. Rather, karma is the progression by which a cause leads to an effect. It is the process by which something becomes something else. Karma is not a destination but the journey which takes one to that destination. It is experiential, not containable nor truly describable, the very path of evolution, of becoming, of actualizing, of real-izing. Karma is not a law of the universe but a cosmic structuring—the way in which life passes, not simply the regulations by which it passes. In this light, the Western understanding of karma once again falls short.

A final trap into which Western karmic thought often stumbles is the application of the concept of karma to every experience—after all, in the Western schema, karma is a law, and it therefore must hold constant sway. Thus we begin to say that everything is the product of karma; yet, this is absurd. If I were to die, would that be because of my karma? No, certainly not. Perhaps the circumstances of my death were influenced by my karma, but the death itself is natural. It is no more a product of karma than the need to drink or to breathe is. Yet again, this trend demonstrates that, unbeknownst to the Western frame of mind, karma cannot be an objective law, as it does not blindly permeate all experiences of life.

The concept of karma has become a very important cornerstone in a great deal of Pagan traditions. However, these traditions often employ a Westernized understanding of karma, one that qualifies and objectifies karma, turning it into a nuanced and universal law. However, this certainly cannot be true. Karma, by its very implications, must be dynamic and based on a certain amount of personal relativity. Thus it cannot be a stagnant law, which would have to utilize a strict sense of ubiquity and equality. For that reason, it seems better to rationalize karma in a more Buddhist schema: understanding karma to be a morally neutral and subjective process, a process by which the instigator becomes one with his or her actions. In this understanding, karma is the means by which efforts come to fruition, and in being thus defined, this definition of karma avoids many of the pitfalls of its Westernized counterpart. While some may not agree with this spinning of karmic nature, I nevertheless hope that the proceeding arguments cause one to think and to question his or her own beliefs so that, no matter what direction they may ultimately take, these beliefs may be fortified, having been steeped in the waters of contemplation.


Beannachtaí ortsa agus ar do chuidse,

Blessings on you and yours,

Bryce

Happy Coming Out Day!

For those of you who have not heard, today is the International Pagan Coming Out Day! In lieu of today's festiveness, I have spent some time over the past couple of weeks contemplating what my life would be like without my Pagan path. Suffice it to say that my life would be very bleak indeed. Paganism is a central part of my identity; it is a cornerstone in the foundation of who I am and what I do and stand for. To me, Paganism is just another expression of my life.

I first came out as a Pagan when I was thirteen years old. My parents were the first people I told. Initially, they argued that I was too young to make such a grand decision. Nevertheless, I had been studying various Pagan paths since I was ten, and this apparently provided me with enough knowledge to convince my parents that my choice was not just a part of a phase--of course, my stubborn will may have helped my cause, as well. After coming out to my parents, I decided to be completely open about my religion with anyone and everyone. In a single, explosive, overnight move, I vowed in all situations to be myself--Pagan identity included.

This was a very bold move on my part, and I would not readily suggest it to others. Yes, it was great to be open about my identity, but it was not easy, and I did not always express my identity in the best way. I chose to be open about my Pagan path while I was attending a Roman Catholic school system, freely answering other students' questions. I was not just proud about my newly found identity, I was also loud--too loud. My over-zealousness got me into a fair amount of turmoil: My parents sought help from their priest; my fellow students made rash judgments about my character; and several teachers adamantly pitted themselves against me. It was not an easy period in my life: I was in-your-face, and I paid for it.

Looking back, I can see the problems with how I first came out. Yet, I am glad that I had these experiences. They helped me to construct smarter and safer ways to come out about my Pagan identity. They also helped to harden me a bit: I am not afraid of what others may say or do to me because I am Pagan. I have seen the negative backlashes, I have heard the back-stabbing comments, and I have known the pain of being left behind because of my Pagan path. But, thanks to my first round of coming out, I also know that life goes on. Things are only as bad as we make them. If we can learn from our undesirable experiences, they can become the tools by which we build a better present.

It has now been seven years since I first came out as a Pagan to my family and friends. During this time I have grown immensely in my religious and spiritual paths. I have had both wonderful and horrifying experiences, but each one has been a chance for growth. I have lost friends and gained new ones. I have learned to live and to let myself life. I have found a beacon from which to view the layout of the world. And I have realized that, although I first came out seven years ago, I am still coming out as a Pagan everyday, every hour, and in every moment of my life. Each move I make is an act of coming out--an act of stepping into and reaffirming my Pagan identity.

In summation, a poem:

Coming Out

Each day, I come out as a Pagan

In the morning, when the sun peaks above the horizon, I stand before my altar in meditation—
I come out again to my gods, my ancestors, my tribe, myself, to all that I hold sacred,
As I proclaim my dedication and pledge my loyalty to my path.
I am Pagan.

In the afternoon, when the busyness of the day ensues, I go to class, to work, to lunch with friends—
I come out again to all who take notice of me,
As my actions, words, and deeds are riddled with my values and virtues—Pagan values and virtues.
I am Pagan.

In the evening, as the sunlight fades, I sit down to sup—
I come out again to all gathered at my table,
As, taking the first moments of the meal, I reflect on the blessings bestowed.
I am Pagan.

In the nighttime, preparing to crawl into bed, I stand before my altar, ending the day where I began it—
I come out again to all the day has presented me with,
As I pray for the things I need guidance on and I give gratitude to those forces and beings who guide.
I am Pagan.

In each moment I am prompted to grow in my path.
In each moment I am renewed religiously and spiritually.
In each moment I come out:
To the sacred,
To the world,
To myself.
In each moment I smile and proclaim:
I am Pagan.
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For more information on International Pagan Coming Out Day, visit pagancomingoutday.com

I'm Not Sorry My Bird Died

A few weeks ago, my father called me. He told me that my pet bird, Jack, a deep-green and bubbly parakeet, had passed away. Dad told me that he had found Jack’s body on the bottom of the cage that morning as he had been feeding the small aviary that is my room. The news was a bit disheartening but not all that surprising. Jack was the first bird that I had ever gotten. He was over ten years old, had been through multiple wives and children, and had recovered from a compound fracture all of his own accord. The fact that he survived as long as he did was a miracle in itself. Still, I knew that I was going to miss the jolly little guy.

“I’m sorry,” my dad finished, and with these two words, something inside of me snapped. Sorry? What was he sorry for? I didn’t get it. Jack had led a long and very fulfilling life: He had loved and been loved; he had been spunky right up until the end; and he had propagated enough baby budgies to create a small, bird-brained army. It all seemed like a pretty great story to me. So what on earth was my dad sorry for? I did not understand it, and to be honest, I still don’t.

I have heard it said that we cry at funerals because we are selfish. While I do not fully endorse this statement, I do think that there is a certain bit of truth in it. When we mourn a death, we are often upset because we have ‘lost’ a person in our lives. Instead of focusing on the deceased, we focus on ourselves, wallowing in our own self-misery. Likewise, when we speak to the deceased’s relatives and friends, we often say that we are ‘sorry for their loss.’ Yet, is this really appropriate? Is this ‘I’m sorry’ attitude really beneficial? I personally do not think so.

We say that ‘we’re sorry.’ Okay. But what are we really sorry for? Are we sorry for the person’s life: sorry for all of the great things that he had done; sorry for all of the lessons that she had learned; sorry for all the trials and tribulations that made him a stronger and better person? No, we are not sorry for these things. That would be absurd.

Are we sorry, then, for the person’s death? Some may say that this is the case, but that also seems absurd. Death is a natural part of life. It is the only thing that is absolutely sure in life: You will die. It is a necessary experience: You need to die. If we truly care about someone, why would we ever try to take away what that person needs? Thus if the person needs to die, but we are sorry about his death, can we really say that we care about the person? No. Death is natural, necessary, and even wonderful. Without death, there could be no life—all life feeds on death. They are truly inseparable! To be sorry about someone’s death, then, is to be sorry about someone’s life. Surely, this is not what we mean when we say ‘we’re sorry.’

Perhaps we are not sorry for the deceased but are sorry instead for the living. Perhaps we are sorry that they have to experience such a profound sense of loss. Indeed, this is what many people would say that they are truly sorry for. Yet this, too, seems absurd if we really think about it. Yes, experiencing loss is disheartening, but why does that make it alright for us to be sorry about it? Loss has the potential to make people stronger. It can be the fuel we need to better ourselves. When we can accept loss and move beyond it, we can begin creating new meanings in our lives. If someone we love dies, our loss helps to teach us about the true meaning of love; it helps open us up to new possibilities to love and to be loved. In short, it teaches us how to love in a deeper and more meaningful way. Why should we be sorry for this? If we are sorry for this, are we not just causing the loss to fester, thus preventing ourselves and others from moving beyond this loss, from growing from it? It is like scratching a wound—if we never leave it alone, we can never expect it to heal.

My grandfather died a little less than a year ago. I miss him dearly, but I would never say that I am sorry that he is gone. To say this would mean that I want him back, that I want him to be alive again. But I don’t. My grandfather died due to complications of Parkinson’s. For the last few weeks of his life, he was in extreme pain, so extreme that he had to be continually medicated. In turn, the medication made him unresponsive. He spent the final days before his death lying in bed, phasing in and out of semi-consciousness. Yes, I miss my grandfather, but I would never want him to be back in this situation. I would never want him to suffer solely for my comfort of having him physically present again.

I suppose that I could say that I am sorry for the manner in which he died, that I am sorry he had to suffer. Yet, life is an intersectionality—an arena wherein many identities come together. Suffering was a part of my grandfather’s life; it was a part of him. To be sorry for his suffering, then, is to be sorry that a piece of him existed. I cannot do this. I loved my grandfather for the whole person that he was, even if it included suffering. His suffering gave us the relationship that we had, and I loved and continue to love that relationship. His suffering also taught me how to be strong, and I do not, could not regret that.

Apart from learning how to be strong, during his life, my grandfather taught me a lot of things. He taught me the importance of family, the meaning of hard work, and the need for compassion. I cherish these lessons, and even past his death, his example continues to inspire me. No, I am not sorry for what my grandfather’s life taught me.

My grandfather’s death taught me equally as much as his life. Seeing my family take care of his funeral arrangements reinforced what my grandfather’s life had taught me about familial solidarity: Family takes care of itself. Seeing so many wonderful people at his funeral taught me that it is possible to create lifelong friendships. And seeing my grandfather in his casket made me re-believe in the indefinable nature of the soul. No, I am not sorry for what grandfather’s death and all that it has taught me.

Now, a year later, I look back on my grandfather’s demise, on the night that my mother had called me to tell me of his passing, and I can still feel and remember the deep sense of loss that I experienced. But, I am not sorry for this. The sense of loss I experienced only served to reinforce the lessons that I had learned from my grandfather’s example. When I feel the loss, I am reminded to be the best person that I can; I am reminded to live as honorably as my grandfather did. No, I am not sorry for my loss; I am proud of it.

Life, death, loss, and mourning all go hand-in-hand. They are all natural parts of existence, all needed. To regret one of these, to be ‘sorry’ about one of these, is to degrade them all. When we adopt the attitude of ‘I’m sorry,’ we refuse to let ourselves—and to let others—move beyond the sense of loss; we refuse to grow. We become selfishly attached to our wallows. It is only when we let go of our ‘I’m sorry’ attitude that we can begin to heal, to learn, and indeed, to live.

Death is a part of life and all life can be beautiful if we create it to be so, and I am not sorry for this beauty.

Teasing Out Festivals

I posted the following on my Facebook account a few weeks ago, hoping to incite some discussion. Unfortunately, that has not happened. So, I have decided to press my luck in a new direction and post this conversation here on the blog. If nothing else, it can at least be archived for later.

A few weeks ago on Witches’ Voice, there was an article discussing a Kemetic (Egyptian) presentation of the Wheel of the Year. In her essay, the author argued that, while the majority of the festivals in the Wheel are of European origin, their themes are common to Egyptian mythology and thus the festivals can be celebrated within an Egyptian context.

For those who wish to read the article, it can be found here: http://www.witchvox.com/va/dt_va.html?a=ukgb2&c=holidays&id=14499

This article leaves a question in my mind, and I am wondering what you all think of this situation: Is the author of this article really celebrating the festivals in the Wheel of the Year?

For example, let’s take a look at Samhain: Is the author really celebrating Samhain?

In her Kemetic construction of the Wheel, the author terms Samhain as ‘the festival of the dead,’ and she places her emphasis on the myth of Osiris’ mummification. Certainly these are common themes within the festival of Samhain, but does that make the author’s celebration Samhain out-right?

Taking a look at the history of Samhain, we find that it is a Gaelic agricultural festival used to mark the last harvest, the end of summer, the beginning of winter, and to commemorate the dead. Even modern Pagan 101 books often define Samhain as a Celtic fire festival of the last harvest and of the dead. But what happens when we take out the ‘Gaelic/Celtic’ and ‘fire festival’ parts from the definition—as the author of the article has done. Is it still fair to term the celebration as Samhain? Or has it become something else?

Without the designation of ‘Gaelic/Celtic’ and ‘fire festival,’ our definition of Samhain is left as ‘a festival of the last harvest and of the dead.’ Is this really a fair way to define the culturally-specific and indeed culturally important festival of Samhain? And if this is the definition, was my Thanksgiving last year, in fact, a celebration of Samhain? (After all, Thanksgiving certainly has roots in commemorating the harvest, and my grandfather had just passed away, so the family said some special prayers for him.)

Or, is Samhain—and any festival, for that matter—just a manner of date. If someone celebrates a festival on October 31, is it okay for them to call it a Samhain celebration, whether or not it has anything to do with the historical celebration for which it is named? Yet, if this is the case, those people who celebrate Samhain on the nearest full moon or who are more traditional and actually celebrate the festival on the day of the last local harvest would not be celebrating Samhain. So is this really a fair judgment?

Perhaps, then, Samhain is not about the actual date but more about the time of the year. It does not matter if you celebrate on October 31 but that you celebrate in autumn. But, with this logic, would a complete El Dia de los Muertos celebration be considered a Samhain festival? And would this be fair to either culture? It is akin—in my mind—to saying: “In winter, I decorate my house with evergreen boughs, set up the tree, wait for Santa to arrive, and celebrate the birth of Jesus, our Lord and Savior. BUT, this is Hanukah, NOT Christmas! It has nothing to do with the Jews nor the Maccabean revolt, but my celebration is most certainly Hanukah.”—Can this logic really work?

Or, is the issue of “is this Samhain?” simply an issue of name? Is something Samhain because the individual/group decides to call it as such? If this is the case, it sounds a little absurd to me. Does that mean that I can begin calling the Fourth of July Easter, even though I am celebrating the independence of the United States? Somehow that one just does not work out in my brain.

What I am getting at is this: Can we title a festival using the name of a historical celebration if none of the historically associated elements are present? (This is assuming, of course, that the historical celebration in question is still practiced in some traditional way by its respective indigenous group(s)—which all of the Greater Sabbats of the Wheel certainly are!)

That is the question that I am posing to all of you. I do not think that there is a right or a wrong answer, only opinions, and I am really interested to hear your takes on the issue.

For the record, here is my opinion on all of this:

The author is not celebrating the Greater Sabbats of the Wheel—i.e. Samhain, Imbolg, Bealtaine, and Lughnasadh. All of these festivals are culturally-tied celebrations. In my opinion, when you strip them of their cultural associations, they become something else. It is not enough to just have similar themes if these themes are placed in a dislocated context. After all, Ramadan and Lent—while both involve fasting—are not even close to being the same event.

I think that what may be used to distinguish this tendency of Pagans to label any festival of the dead as Samhain or any celebration of sexuality as Bealtaine is perhaps the development of a new language schema. To do this, there would have to be a distinction between, for example, Samhain (proper noun) and samhain (adjective). Samhain (proper noun) would relate to the historical and culturally-specific festival of the Gaels. On the other hand, samhain (adjective) would relate to items that have similar themes as the Gaelic festival, Samhain. This adjective form would hearken to the etymological meaning of the word “samhain" (meaning “summer’s end”), rather than denoting the cultural festival of Samhain. Thus a samhain celebration would be any celebration which focused on the summer’s end and honoring that transition, whereas the festival of Samhain would focus on honoring the end of summer in a traditionally Gaelic/*Celtic* way.

Now, I am not meaning to promote this dichotomy of terms as a concrete scholarly divide. I do not think that books should be written with this language, nor that we even should use this type of language in our everyday conversations. Rather this goes to suggest that a new way of thinking about the festivals be adopted, one which clearly states that just because two things are similar, it does not mean that they are the same. I would not call an apple a guava just because they are both fruits.

Anywho, those are my thoughts. As I said, I do not think that there can be any right or wrong answer to these questions, just different opinions. I am very interested to know what you guys think, as you are a pretty smart bunch :-)

-Bryce

I May Not Go To Your School But I Have A Lot Of Feelings

Surprise: Updates!

I have decided to rework my blog and my approach to blogging in general. The previous scope of this blog felt far too limiting, and it kept me from posting a number of things. Thus, I have decided to give my blog a face-lift and a new mission. In doing so, I have changed the title (and the url) of the blog: I have christened it "The Radical Pagan." I chose this name for a number of reasons. Firstly, my views are not the average views of the pop-Pagan community, and they are therefore radical. Secondly, as the new tagline evinces, a 'radical' is one who seeks to get to the root, and that is what I am doing: trying to get to the roots of the problems and the Truths of Paganism. Finally, a radical is a free-agent, not bound by the ideologies and categories held by others; a radical thinks for itself. For all of these reasons, I have decided that this blog truly is and needs to be radical.

Along with this renaming, I have also expanded the breadth of topics covered within the blog. Whereas before I focused on Gaelic Polytheism and Witchcraft, I now will use this space to discuss Paganism writ large in both practical and academic ways. Regardless of this change in direction, my mission remains the same: I seek to entice people into thinking for themselves. Yes, I may at times present arguments that are discomforting. Yes, I may be very opinionated on some matters. But, no, you do not have to agree with me, and I never expect you to. My simple hope in all that I write is that it will generate the reader's thought processes. Think whatever you want, but have a reason why you think what you do.

Like the emotional girl on the movie Mean Girls, I may not attend your school (of thought), but I have a lot of feelings. Stick around, and we just may get to share some of these emotions, beliefs, and opinions with each other.

Beannachtaí,
Bryce

Pagan for Life

I recently wrote an article on what it means to me to be a pro-life Pagan. The article appears on the Witches' Voice homepage this week. It can be found here: Pagan for Life: A Personal Testimony.

Regardless of your stance on the issue, I hope that the article nevertheless causes you to think. After all, that is always the most important part of any life activity: ruminating digestion.