MARCH 2001

I can still remember, with great clarity, the mesmerizing, comforting atmosphere of a midnight Christmas Eve candlelight service. Once I was old enough to attend them, I never missed one. The church service would begin as all Lutheran church services began—an opening hymn, liturgy and so on. The only difference was that as we all entered the church we had been given a candle with a protective, circular cardboard base. Then, after the sermon, as the service was winding down, the magic happened.

All the lights were dimmed. The organist, (my father), would be playing some quiet, lilting music. Two ushers walked down the center aisle with their much larger candles, and lit the candles of the people sitting on the aisle. They in turn lit the candles of the people next to them, and so on, until everyone had a lighted candle. Once that was done, the lights were turned off completely, so the church was illuminated only by the scores of flickering candles. Then Dad played a soft introduction to Silent Night. Soon we all began singing, holding our candles shoulder-high.

It was utterly beautiful. All our voices blended radiantly, many of us (including me) singing harmony. The candles twinkled, their wax dripping harmlessly onto the round bases, and the sweet carol brought tears to a few eyes. Even if there was no moonlight the streetlights back-lit the stain glass windows so that all those brilliant colors were exquisitely beautiful. We sang every single verse, no one wanting the enchantment to end. When we were at last finished, Dad ended ("set down") the piece hauntingly and ever so softly, there was a moment of absolute silence. Not a sound could be heard. That moment could have been three seconds or four years. Time had disappeared.

Finally, the lights came up slowly and we all began our departure, slowly walking down the center aisle, awed and joyous at the same time. Smiles, some of them teary, were everywhere. I can still get goosebumps thinking about it.

As I think about it today, I realize that such a spellbinding encounter was not the totally religious event that it seems. That is, if we had been singing the same charming melody but with nonsensical syllables instead of English lyrics, I think the special moment would still have occurred. What made it so wonderful was the intense interconnectedness we all felt. I wrote about this special sense of belonging earlier (See: "A Sense of Belonging" in previous columns) but I have given it much more thought since then. I haven't changed my mind about any of it; I've just expanded my thoughts on the topic. Here are the results:

Humans need socializing, bonding, a sense of community. We all know that. And churches provide that. The scene I described above provided more than just those things, though. We were sharing that sense of awe and wonderment about something beyond our puny selves. In this case it was God and Jesus, but in other buildings and settings, all over the world, people congregate to experience that very same glowing contentment. The gods are all different; the words are all different; the beliefs are all different; and the music is all different. Yet the human emotions are identical. How can this be?

Many people over the ages have recognized that rituals can be comforting; but I think very few of us have appreciated just how comforting they are. I did a thought experiment (feel free to join in) and tried to imagine a candlelight service at an observatory. I know such a thing is (at least today) out of the question. But I stretched my imagination and placed a pipe organ and stain glass windows and so on in some lovely room in the observatory. Part of the "service" would include a spectacular viewing of some of the gorgeous galaxies and/or planets and/or stars. Everything would be just like the Church Candlelight Service except that the singing would be in Latin, and would be about celestial bodies, not gods. You could burn incense. Someone would deliver a "sermon" about the immensity and beauty of the universe. Well, you know what I'm driving at.

Now. As alien as it sounds at first blush, move on to the second blush. Or the third. Whatever it takes. I just chose an observatory because I happen to be enchanted with the nighttime skies and what they hold. The first time I ever looked through a telescope and focused on a galaxy I got goosebumps—the same goosebumps I had felt singing Silent Night. Perhaps even more profound. But the setting could be anywhere humans could create that special atmosphere—perhaps at a beach, or in a forest clearing. There are so many possibilities. And of course history records just such human gatherings, but usually disparagingly, and in terms of Satan worship or witchcraft. However, such critics do so at their own peril.

Consider this: for how many centuries did people attend church and sing/chant in Latin (and how many people still do today), not knowing what the heck the words meant? Some knew of course; but most hadn't a clue. How then is that so different from my thought experiment? You don't know what the words mean that you are singing; you are in awe of something above and beyond our normal understandings; you are experiencing this with like-minded humans; and everything sounds and even smells wonderful! I don't see a whole lot of difference.

If you say that there is a huge difference in that all or most of the religious services are celebrating the fact that human "life" will go on eternally, in some kind of paradise, I will reiterate a point I made long ago. That is, if these religious people really and truly believed that, there would be only laughter and smiles at all religious funerals and we all know that nothing could be further from the truth.

This all brings us back to the power of reverent rituals. Not just any rituals will do. After all, you could make standing on your head while singing Row, Row, Row Your Boat a ritual, but I doubt it would prompt many goosebumps. Religious leaders are very much aware of this power of the ritual, and use it to great advantage in trying to fill up those collection plates. And this is where, sadly, secular humanism cannot begin to compete. We aren't even in the running. But could we be?

Why is it not in our power to offer secular rituals? Why do we run from the thought like scalded cats? Some small steps have been taken in that some secular groups are offering guidance on how to conduct secular weddings, funerals and so on. It's a start. But when someone suggests adding some of the appealing trappings of religion, like music and candles, we bristle and say no way! We shall not copycat religions! My only question is, why not? It seems to me that anything humans can do to comfort each other should be viewed as wonderful stuff. Are there no secular musicians who could write and perform lovely music? The only secular "music" I've heard thus far is silly, often embarrassingly so, lampooning. Don't get me wrong; I know I do my fair share of lampooning! But I also listen to and enjoy Mozart, not giving a rap that he wrote for the glory of his God.

I may be dreaming, and wild dreams at that. But if we could organize ourselves in such a way that we too could share the good parts of religion, I think our groups would have more appeal. So much of my mail talks about this dearth of fun (let alone warmth and bonding!) in humanist get-togethers. And they are so right. Our human needs are no different from our religious fellows, yet we act as if they were. But the universal appeal of the ritual thing should be a very strong wakeup call for nonbelievers. There is a great need to be met and we are not meeting it. Many Unitarian groups at least make the attempt. But even they have trouble pleasing moderately God-believers and utterly nonbelievers at the same time, which is what most of them try to do. 

Carl Sagan's brilliant series, Cosmos, made use of some exquisite music to underscore the magnificence of the universe. I can't help but wonder what might happen if a humanist conference opened with some awe-inspiring music! And what's wrong with the sweet smell of incense, and the beauty of candlelight? Why does that have to have anything to do with gods? Better question, why have we cut ourselves off from some charming things, just because they smack of religion? Seems to me that while the bath water had to go, we should have kept the baby.

© 2001 Judith Hayes

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