Rituals Without Superhumans

Ceremonies are generally led by a priest, teacher, minister, rabbi, guru, or shaman. The officiant’s power is often said to be derived from a vertical relationship. For example, Wikipedia defines ordination as “the process by which individuals are consecrated, that is, set apart and elevated from the laity class to the clergy.”  Some people are understood to have permanently risen to a tier nearer to the divine. The rest of us presumably remain at a lower level.

In Zen as it has developed in the West, the idea of an elevated spiritual authority is mostly tied to receiving teaching transmission rather than to receiving ordination. In the transmission ceremony, one is said to become the next in a lineage of powerful beings going all the way back to Shakyamuni Buddha.

The idea that some people have a sort of superhuman spiritual authority, of course, has not gone without criticism. During the Protestant Reformation many Christians rejected the idea that people could only connect with God through a priestly intermediary. Instead, they adopted a belief in the “priesthood of all believers.” The early Quakers (or Religious Society of Friends) took this non-hierarchical view to its extreme.  As a history of this group describes, “Quaker worship began without pastors or clergy leading. It was a simple gathering, where Friends would seek to hear what the Spirit of the Living God had to say in their midst. Out of the silence, a Friend would speak when they felt led by the Spirit to share what they heard in their hearts.”

Yet our options are not limited to either a strictly vertical understanding or a radically horizontal and leader-less approach. I believe that Zen principles, if correctly understood, veer much more towards a “priesthood of all believers” than in the direction of requiring an intermediary. We say that we all are Buddha nature. Shakyamuni himself said that we shouldn’t take anything he said simply on trust but instead try it out for ourselves. And I believe that we also need rituals and ceremonies in which some take on leadership roles—with certain cautions.

Rituals are important! Ceremonies are used to mark important life transitions in ways many find validating or comforting. They are also help groups cohere. The feeling of specialness and blessing may be heightened by a leader dressing in distinctive clothing, using ritual objects, and performing esoteric mudras or incantations. Skillfully-led rituals can speak to us in a way that ordinary interactions do not, and often quite powerfully. They can create an environment in which participants experience something bigger than themselves.

I have experienced the power of ritual myself. Once, years before I took up Zen, I participated in a breathwork workshop led by a powerful spiritual leader. She used chanting, drumming, and postures to help us open up parts of ourselves, to ourselves, that we had been repressing. It was a life-changing experience yet demanded nothing in terms of belief or loyalty. All that was needed was a temporary willingness to follow the leader’s guidance. Since then I have participated in several ceremonies of receiving the Zen precepts (jukai) and I’ve found them meaningful and moving. In a Zen context, ceremonies may help us realize the emptiness of the self. They may create bonds of mutuality in the service of “freeing all beings.” They may stir us and inspire us to continue on the path.

And an effective ritual performance usually requires a leader or leaders. There is a reason that most Protestant denominations have retained the practice of having ministers and holding ceremonies. Even in nature-based religions that teach that spirit is in everything, both animate and inanimate, priests or shamans generally lead the ceremonies. Some Quaker groups now take a programmed approach in which members take on leadership roles. Special talents or experience—as well as careful planning!—are  generally required.

But rituals and ceremonies may, alternatively, put us in bondage to superstition. Some are designed to intensify a fear of demons or hell. Rituals have been used to pump up and unify a group for such harmful purposes as forcibly converting others, rioting, exaggerating aggressiveness in war, or committing group suicide. Historically, some have required self-flagellation or the sacrifice of humans or animals. A powerful ceremony may overcome our rational minds, causing people to adopt bizarre beliefs or behaviors. Charismatic leaders may, just by the power of their personality, be especially able to arouse euphoria or inspire conversion to a new way of life—perhaps one involving hatred and division or cultishness and outsized monetary donations. It seems to me that the more confident we are that the leader of the ritual is a superhuman with a special hotline to the divine, the more vulnerable we are to being harmed and doing harm.

I would like to see us take a middle way in Zen. With the knowledge that we are all Buddha nature as well as fallible humans firmly in mind, we can imagine rituals without superhumans. How about we think of both participants and officiants at ceremonies as mutually creating a meaningful act of theater. Religious rituals, historians say, were actually the inspiration for the development of dramatic arts. If you’ve ever attended a well-done, stirring dramatic performance, you know how deeply it can penetrate. We don’t say that ceremonies are “performed” for nothing!

In Zen, we believe that the universe is alive, brimming over at every moment in total interbeing. So how about we think about the power of ritual, not as coming down to us via a superhuman link to the divine, but as being gathered from the energy of those present? Aided by traditional recitations and chants (i.e., scripts and musical numbers!), we may experience a connection to those who have gone before. If one or a few people head things up, it is only to focus and intensify the experience. Their lead dramatic role is likely marked by special costumes, props, lines, and staging.  While the role of officiant probably requires some specialized knowledge and training, their (temporary) power comes from the willingness of the sangha to follow along. The performance is solely for the sangha’s benefit.

We are all Buddha nature. But sometimes we need to put on a play in order to realize this more fully.

During the ceremony, we may enter into the mythos that the robes, objects, and the person using them represent something more, spiritually, than meets the eye. That’s fine: The same thing happens when we find ourselves emotionally affected by a character in a play even though the actor “underneath” may be dull as dishwater. After the performance, the Zen robes go back in the closet, the bells and incense holders are returned to the shelves…and all of us are both Buddha and human beings.

If there is, as the Buddha taught, no abiding self, then there are also no abiding superhumans.

Related posts: Ancestry Without Lineage, Teaching Without Teishos