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Hundreds of us, jammed into the hallway outside the hotel ballroom, waiting for the doors to open and the ritual to begin.
The power in the air was palpable.
Like atoms which, when compressed, generate heat, so too with bodies. You could taste the energy mounting, mounting, as more and more people pressed in.
Finally, the double doors swung open. With a cheer, we stampeded into the room.
Then the ritualist killed it.
When enacting ritual in public, it's always best to make the directions part of the ritual itself.
Horns blow.
Procession to altar.
At the altar, officiant raises arms and chants:
Let all cell phones be turned off now: So mote it be.
Let all cell phones be turned off now: So mote it be.
Let all cell phones be turned off now: So mote it be.
(People join in third time.)
It's every ritualist's worst nightmare, and—if you stay in the field long enough—it will happen to you.
Your ritual bombed.
What do you do now, dear?
Well, the worst thing that you can do is to slink away shamefacedly with your tail between your legs.
The reason why this is the worst thing that you can do is that it breaks trust.
No. Instead you need to buck up, gird up your loins, and publicly confess.
“Well, that ritual bombed,” you need to say. “What I want to hear from you is what didn't work, why it didn't work, and how we can do it better next time.”
“I've never been to one of those kinds of rituals before!” the little girl enthused.
What she meant was a ritual with offerings and prayers. Clearly, the experience had come as something of a revelation.
We'd just completed our annual Offering to Minnehaha Falls. The priestess stands at the head of the Falls and makes the traditional threefold offering of water, meal, and flowers, while praying for life, sustenance, and inspiration for the People, for the year to come.
I don't know about where you live, but around here pagan ritual tends to involve casting circles, calling quarters, and raising cones. There's nothing wrong with that, but there's more to pagan ritual than summoning, stirring, and pointing knives at.
A lot more.
I recently facilitated a large, public ritual at a local state park. A lot of friends and old regulars came, and we were lucky to have a few new faces, too. One of our surprise guests was a young mother who we have known for a few years but don’t get to see very often. She comes to events when she can, but I really only end up seeing her once a year or so, at most. Much to my surprise, she brought her kids with her to the ritual. They’re sweet, clever little devils, and they have a history of being somewhat rowdy and in need of a lot of re-direction.
The children came rushing up to the altar as soon as the family arrived at the park. This was one of those moments where Childless Trivia thought in panic “Ooh... right… kids…!” I took time out to speak to them about the altar, making it very clear to them that they could look to their heart’s desire but touching was absolutely forbidden. The children nodded solemnly and then went to go play on some rocks, immediately forgetting about candles, statues, and various other temptations.
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What impacts the amount of energy in a ritual and the type of energy? And what's the difference between the energy in a private ritual and a group ritual? I recently saw a Facebook post about the topic and my response was long enough that it seemed more appropriate as a blog post.
The conversation centered around this quote from the book Dedicant by Thuri Calafia:
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the Harvest Home altar at Mother Grove Goddess Temple's public ritual
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