June 11, 2025
I was raised in a mainstream Protestant tradition — Methodism, to be specific. So I grew up around ritual, but in a way that was more gentle than grand. There were familiar patterns: opening hymns, responsive readings, shared prayers, and sermons that echoed certain seasonal themes year after year. Communion happened once a month, not every Sunday, and while it was treated with respect, it wasn’t wrapped in mystery or deep metaphysical claims. There was no talk of transubstantiation or divine transformation. The bread stayed bread, the cup stayed juice — but the moment still carried meaning.
That kind of upbringing gave me a certain perspective. I could feel the emotional and communal power of ritual without feeling pressured to believe in any magic behind it. (Magic’s probably not the right word, but you know what I mean.) It helped me see that ritual exists on a spectrum — and that only a portion of its power depends on religion. Much of what makes ritual matter is how it connects us: to one another, to memory, to identity, to shared purpose.
Ritual Beyond Religion
As I got older, I started noticing rituals everywhere. Not just in church — but in all kinds of secular spaces. The Pledge of Allegiance. Traditional wedding vows. The oath of office. Singing "Happy Birthday." Holding hands for “Auld Lang Syne” even though I barely remember the lyrics. These moments may not feel religious, but as rituals often do — they carry weight. They connect us to something: to memory, to meaning, to each other.
I still remember being a nervous little Cub Scout, maybe eight or nine years old, trying to memorize the Scout Oath. I was so anxious about getting it right at the next pack meeting that I practiced it over and over — hand raised, heart pounding, trying not to mix up the words. My nervous tic back then was keeping my other (non oath-swearing) hand in my pocket, instinctively shielding my, well... let’s just say, my “vulnerable bits". My parents noticed and they had this running joke: anytime I scratched myself or made an "adjustment" through my pocket, they’d say, “Looks like you’re practicing your Cub Scout Oath again.”
It was just gentle teasing, and I took it in stride — mostly. Mild embarrassment, nothing scarring. Though I guess the fact that I remember it (the joking, not the scout oath) some 50-plus years later probably says something to the contrary. That moment, silly as it was, sticks with me. Because even at that young age, I was already learning that ritual isn’t just words. It’s posture. Nerves. Repetition. Embarrassment. Intention. The body remembers, even when the brain fumbles.
What Ritual Really Does
Rituals, at their best, help us mark transitions and anchor meaning. They turn fleeting moments into something that feels held — something you can come back to. Whether it's a wedding or a funeral, a team chant or a shared toast, rituals can offer structure for emotion — especially when words alone don’t feel like enough.
And not all rituals need to be ancient. Or sacred. Or handed down from a religious authority. Some of the most meaningful ones are shaped organically, over time, within families or communities or even solo. A daily walk at dusk. A goofy tradition with Christmas tree tinsel. A phrase you whisper before a big presentation. The way you light a candle on someone’s birthday, even if they’re no longer around to see it.
Ritual in the Contours of Tomorrow
One of the things I find myself returning to in Contours of Tomorrow is this idea that we don’t need to abandon ritual just because we’re rethinking the frameworks we inherited. Ritual doesn’t have to be about the supernatural to be powerful. It can be about memory. About presence. About the feeling of continuity — like you’re part of a thread that stretches backward and forward through time.
Some of the ritual ideas we’re exploring in CoT are intentionally open-ended. They’re not prescriptive. They’re meant to invite reflection or connection — sometimes to honor someone’s life, or to recommit to a shared value, or simply to remind ourselves of what we’re trying to build together. The form might echo familiar things — a reading, a shared phrase, a pause — but the purpose is grounded in co-creation, not commandment.
Ritual can be holy, yes, but it can also just be human — a pattern we step into that helps us feel less alone.
A Gentle Return
I’m coming to see ritual not as a relic of my past, but as a kind of tool I can still use — differently now, but maybe even more intentionally. I’m not trying to recreate the rituals of my childhood, exactly. But I do find myself drawn to their echoes. To the comfort of repetition. To the way a few well-worn words can open a door to memory, to meaning, to connection.
And if I occasionally find myself adjusting something in my pocket mid-thought, well… maybe I’m just practicing the next version of my Scout Oath.