There is something in the conceit of youthfulness
that resists ceremony. Maybe I am a middle-aged
woman who still dresses up for church, remembers
the Pilgrims on Thanksgiving Day, recites the pledge
of allegiance to my country with joy and pride
and thinks that formal observance transcends post-modern
culture. I am a one who believes that the death of formal
ritual in our culture has led us into narcissism, and I don’t
know the end destination of it.
Its continued adherence won’t save us; it will make us
see that we need saving, that we are limping, that we need
the banks of the river to hold back the flood of chaos.
I do remember a once-glorious angel falling from
heaven when his narcissistic lapse manifested. He said,
I will rise to be like Him. And there was silence in the
angelic ranks of the realms above.
I imagine heaven to be filled with ceremony–all the
pomp and circumstance due a King. And the largest part of
that ritual will be when we cast our crowns before Him,
remembering His blood that soaked the ground for our narcissism.
And we will rehearse the old story, making it new with every
©Bonnie Saul Wilks
May 24, 2014