Whyyyyyyyy????
Why not just get together and hang out and... I don't know. Play party games? Talk? Watch movies? Why a ritual?
Because humans experience an emotion of "sacredness" (in scare quotes because although the feeling is commonly associated with religion, it doesn't need to be), which many people think is fantastic. This blogger puts it pretty well:
Haidt, an atheist Jew, is not suggesting a particular path to that which is Divine. He is certainly not concluding, for instance, that religion is the only path to that which is divine. Rather, he is emphasizing that we all have a sense of what is sacred to us, what is “divine,” and we justify it in various ways. He cites Mircea Eliade’s The Sacred and the Profane, agreeing with Eliade that “sacredness is so irrepressible that it intrudes repeatedly into the modern profane world in the form of “crypto-religious” behavior.” He specifically cites Eliade’s conclusion that even a person who is committed to a “profane existence” has
privileged places, qualitatively different from all others–a man’s birthplace, or the scenes of his first love, or certain places in the first foreign city he visited in his youth. Even for the most frankly nonreligious man, all these places still retain an exceptional, a unique quality; they are the “holy places” of his private universe, as if it were in such spots that he had received the revelation of a reality other than that in which he participates through his ordinary daily life.
(Page 193). For Haidt, this passage perfectly characterized his own sense of “feeble spirituality,” one which was limited to “places, books, people and events that have given me moments of uplift and enlightenment. Even atheists have intimations of sacredness, particularly when in love or in nature. We just don’t infer that God caused those feelings.”
Haidt’s writing caused me to consciously realize that I too hold various things to be sacred, even though I hadn’t before consciously labeled them with the word “sacred.” Here are some of the things I would put in this category:
- Holding the hand of either of my daughters while we walk.
- Having an honest and intense conversation in a quiet place.
- Being alone in a quiet and beautiful place, including places of natural beauty. Consider further that even atheists can enjoy churches.
- Beating back the temptation of the confirmation bias through self-critical thinking, thus recognizing that one was previously wrong about something important.
- Being part of a sustained group endeavor to lessen real world human suffering.
- Being in the presence of another person who is cheerfully working hard for the benefit of others.
- Viewing certain photographs representing transitions in my life.
- Reveling in the Milky Way stretching all the way across the sky.
- Catching up with a good friend after many years apart.
- Noticing the kind eyes of a good friend while we visit.
- Rediscovering the intense beauty of something I had been taking for granted.
- Creating high-quality art or music, or enjoying high-quality art created by others.
- Resisting the temptation to edify one’s self above others.
- Being consciously aware of places that were important to me, such as the house where grew up, or the location of my high school (even though it is now a shopping center).
- Experiencing the natural healing powers of one’s own body after an illness or injury.
- Holding my wife at the end of a day or the beginning of a new day.
I agree with Haidt that these sorts of experiences have a certain character to them that seems to “transcend” ordinary daily activities. It seems equally true that damaging any of these things, ridiculing them or preventing them would trigger a deep mourning, and even a sense of disgust, and that this emotion would go well beyond any sense of pragmatic loss.
Perhaps, then, the existence of the sense of the Sacred is something on which believers and nonbelievers can agree. Really, we should add experience of the sacred to that long list of things that believers and non-believers have in common. Perhaps we can learn to humbly allow each other to celebrate these moments in his or her own way. If only we could allow each other the freedom to experience such things without casting arrogant judgment, without acting like know-it-all experts of the ineffable. Without succumbing to the temptation to use others’ experiences of such elevated emotional experiences as the springboard to start arguments.
Your reaction seems to be "this ritual stuff smacks of religion, and I don't want to get involved with any of that!". My response would be, roughly, "Humans have this awesome in-built feeling that makes things feel beautiful and great and fantastic and helps us give moments of respite in the middle of all or other worries, and religion has made this land-grab and laid unfair claim on the whole experience. Well, why the hell should we put up with that? Why should the whole thing be labelled 'religious', when it's a basic emotion of human beings that doesn't require being religious in the first place? Religion has done a lot of harm already, and if we begin cutting off valuable and important parts of ourselves simply because we feel those parts are associated with an enemy tribe, we're voluntarily letting religion do more damage. I say we stop that shit right here."
Your reaction seems to be "this ritual stuff smacks of religion, and I don't want to get involved with any of that!".
That's not my response at all. I'm afraid you seem to be reading things into my response that are simply not there. There seems to be some sort of misunderstanding here that's causing you to set up (what is from my perspective) a straw man about objections to religion and then extensively knocking it down with arguments that have little bearing on what I've said.
I don't know why that is; perhaps I've been unclear; perhaps you a...
One winter ago, twenty aspiring rationalists gathered in a room, ate some food, sang some songs, and lit some candles. We told some stories about why the universe is the way it is, and what kind of people we want to be.
I wrote some things about the experience. But here's a fairly succinct description:
Last year, we had fun. A few people reported being emotionally affected. By and large, though, the dominant conclusion was “This was good first effort, but much, much more is possible.” In truth, I considered it a dress rehearsal, more a proof-of-concept than a finished product. I spent the last year working to do something better, but worried that I wouldn’t be able to. That maybe people don’t create holidays from scratch that actually latch on because it’s just damn hard to do and I wouldn’t be up to it.
And I was worried that either I wouldn’t be able to make the experience as grim and intense as I wanted, or that I’d succeed, but then not be able to lift people back out of it. This was a problem for some people last year, and last year I didn’t push things nearly as dark as I was planning to this time.
I worried that even if I succeeded at creating the experience for other people, I wouldn’t be able to experience it myself. A year ago, I didn’t feel like a participant. I felt like an anthropologist - clinically detached from the bonding ritual I had created.
But six months ago, four friends and I acquired a large, three story house named “Winterfell.” And one week ago, fifty people squeezed into that house to celebrate humanity. The house seems a lot smaller once you crammed fifty people into the living room. But we managed to fit.
And then... I feel a desire to maintain some kind of modesty here, but honestly, I spent a year stressing about this and I think I’m just going to say that it went beautifully.
Not perfectly - nothing is ever perfect, and now more than ever it is clear how much more is possible with this endeavor. Yvain wrote a pretty good review of which parts went well and which parts needed work. But I got emphatic gratitude from people who had been merely lukewarm about it last year.
In the darkest section of the evening, people cried, and held each other, and I was one of them. And I was one of them as we watched time lapse footage of the stars from the international space station, and sang about a tomorrow that could be brighter than today.
This will be the first post of another short mini-sequence (either one or two additional posts elaborating on the design process, what comes next and what I’m concerned about). For now, I'll just note the one biggest flaw with this years was that it was too long. (Last years was too short, and I decided to err on the side of "test a bunch of ideas at once" so that future Solstices could settle into an ideal, traditional state faster).
I would like to note that I want to strongly encourage people who are weirded out by this to speak out (if for no other reason than to be counted as people who are turned off by it). If you have specific negative consequences beyond a vague dislike of the idea, I'd like you to articulate them, after looking through my post from last year - The Value and Danger of Ritual.
Below is a link to the 2012 Ritual Book, and a collection of links to online media for the songs and videos that we listened to and watched during the event, which you can follow along with as you read to get something (vaguely) resembling the actual experience. (Plus side - you’ll get to experience higher quality of music performance. Downside - you miss on the warm experience of singing with a group of people).
I couldn’t find links for all the songs, but there should be enough to give you the idea.