"It's really important to look at the moon. When you look at the moon, you think 'I'm really small. What are my problems?' It set things into perspective. We should all look at the moon a bit more often, but we don't. Why don't we? There's nothing to tell us 'Look at the moon.' But if you're a Zen Buddhist in the middle of September, you will be ordered out of your home, made to stand on a canonical platform, and made to celebrate the Festival of Tsukimi, where you will be given poems to read in honor of the moon and the passage of time, and the frailty of life that it reminds us of."
There's a lot that doesn't come naturally to a lot of us that's worth being reminded of time to time: that we depend on others, that our community needs us just as we need it, that we should be thankful for what we have, that we should work hard and do our duty to others. It's so easy to lose sight of this, to get wrapped up in our own day to day needs. I found Saturday's Seder to be a nice reminder not only of how lucky I am to have have the options that I do, but that those reminders are important.
It got me thinking about the rituals and the law. It's a massive topic. For a long time, the law was essentially a series of rituals.
(The picture is of trial by ordeal, fyi).
To limit the discussion, I just want to make two points. First, ritual and tradition structure our ideas of what's "normal," and therefore of what courses of conduct are acceptable independent of what the law dictates. Second - and more in line with today's focus - I want to think about rituals that mark the legal process and what they tell us about it.
Quickly though, I'll just give two examples of how a ritual or tradition runs up against formal law. They're admittedly obvious and well-trodden, but here goes. First, let's talk about drinking. Sure, it's most often considered a fun, recreational activity that one occasionally regrets the following day. But mull over how often ritual is involved with drinking: raising a glass, drinking to someone's success, pouring one out. I mean, the Eucharist, for goodness' sake. Even the simple act of going for a drink has become a ritual in both our platonic and dating lives. "I haven't seen you in forever! Let's get a drink soon!" "Listen, I know we only just met, but you seem really cool and I've laughed a lot during this chat. Let me buy a drink this week."
Ever do a shot all by yourself? Hopefully not often. It's something you do with others; its a social ritual. And it turns out that when something like that is woven that deeply into our social fabric, it's really hard to unweave. So banning drinking entirely
doesn't work that well, not simply because we like to drink, but because drinking together is a ritual and tradition deeply embedded in our culture. Oh, and by the way, it banning it leads to this:
Examples like this abound in case law. Native American use of peyote doesn't have the cultural momentum in this country that drinking does, so when the court decided in the 90s that the law needn't make an exception for religious use of peyote, there wasn't the same outlandish backlash as there was after the 18th Amendment. That said, I'll make two bets with you: the first is that those who observe the religious use of peyote wouldn't consider it "wrong" to break the laws to follow ritualistic teachings. Second, I'll bet you no small number of observers still use it.
Incidentally, the peyote ritual is intended to allow the participant to forget him or herself and bond with a higher being. So it serves much the same purpose as a Seder, or the Festival of Tsukimi. You remind yourself of the world beyond yourself.
We have a great many rituals in law. Judicial robes, for instance; what is their ritualistic purpose? By donning uniforms, we have a visual reminder of what our role is, of what function we are supposed to be performing. The number of chevrons on our shoulders reminds others of what respect they are supposed to show us
but it also reminds us of what our duties towards others are supposed to be. Putting on regalia or ceremonial dress reminds us of what function we are supposed to be performing. So when a judge puts on his or her robes, it serves as a reminder that they sit in judgment not as an individual, not as themselves, but as a particular embodiment of the law.
Given that perception, or that ritualized reality, the command "all rise" takes on a special meaning. We aren't rising to respect the entrance of an individual, no matter how accomplished. We rise to witness and respect the entrance of the law, of the embodiment of impartial justice.
Other rituals abound. The reading of one's Miranda rights serves an instrumental (and legally required...) purpose, but it certainly fits the bill of a ritual more generally. It's a commanded act that reminds both the speaker and the listener of certain important realities. Just as the festival of Tsukimi reminds all participants of their places in the universe, Miranda rights remind everyone involved of their places in the legal system.
I'll wrap up with this. No one's perfect. No one can carry with them all the purposes of their obligations. No one can think of others all the time, no one can remember to put others before them every time it's required. These flaws, these imperfections, are not indicia of failure. Rather, they are the very reasons that we need ritual, that we need systematized reminders of what's important, of what we are supposed to do. In law, we see labels applied a lot: victim, perp, prosecutor, judge, accused, defendant, plaintiff, judge, juror. Each of these has a special set of entitlements and duties that come with it. It's okay if we need reminders for life's stranger, more confusing, more complex, more unusual roles.
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