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They have mouths, but cannot speak.
So wrote a dyspeptic 7th century Hebrew poet concerning the so-called “idols” of the pagans.
But of course (as anyone who has ever actually lived with one for very long can tell you), he was wrong.
It's a terrible dilemma.
These holy images body forth Those that we love and honor.
And the Breakers are coming: those who hate and fear the beauty that we love.
So what do you do?
The archaeological record makes it clear. Time and again the old pagans chose to lay their holy images in the womb of all-protecting Earth.
Hoping, perhaps, as they did so that a time might come when the power of the breakers would itself be broken.
Hoping that some day, once again, as of old, the Mother of Gods would bring forth.
The Sif doll seated on the harvested wheat. This is a Lithuanian doll that I bought in an amber shop along with some amber in 1989. Shortly after I dedicated part of my garden to Sif last year, I was walking past the display of folk art in my house where I used to display this doll and it called to me to dedicate it to Sif. So I did a dedication ritual, which I related in my post A Doll for Sif. I moved the doll to my Spiritual Souvenir display, which is kind of a wall altar.
I almost always make, remake, or repurpose things to dedicate rather than buying things new for that purpose. I feel that conserving resources is part of how I live as a heathen.
...
They have mouths, but do not speak; eyes, but do not see.
So wrote an anonymous Hebrew poet, probably in the 7th c. BCE, speaking of what he would have called 'elilim, “idols.”
Of course he misses the point.
As anyone who actually lives with idols (for want of a better word) can tell you, they actually do speak and they do see; their interaction with their—um, worshipers—is subtle but undeniable. But perhaps that's a little too conceptually non-literal for your average dyspeptic 7th century Yahwist.
Likewise beyond his comprehension was the fact that the idol's obvious limitations are precisely part of the shining truth that it embodies.
The woman who sculpted our temple's goddess was having a few one night with folks from her artist's collective in Boston. They were far enough in their cups to be one-upping each other: the artist's brag.
“I had a one-person show at the X Gallery,” says one.
“I have a piece in the Y Museum,” says another.
From the spiritual technology of the ancestors, let us consider the hallows—in Latin, the sacra—those holy objects of presence, in which a god is. If the work of religion is the making-present of the gods, this work the hallows accomplish, for the hallows are points of communication, articulating radical immanence. The genius of the paganisms has always been to understand that we best touch the universal through the specific.
To say “idol” implies a statue, but hallows take many forms.
One thing to remember about hallows is that in them, by them, through them, we look upon a god.
It was my first time in a Hindu temple.
Five in the morning: quiet, dark. We're standing together facing the altar curtains, which are closed. Drums begin to play. Slowly the rhythm builds. Soon we're clapping and swaying. When the energy peaks, conch shells blow; the room echoes with them. We throw ourselves to the floor.
When we stand back up, the altar curtains have opened. The altar itself, three marble steps covered with lights, flowers, and food offerings, is sumptuous and brightly lit. But all our eyes are on the gods.
