Silent
Silent provides the tools for seekers to recognize their path and enables self-reliance for spiritual and magickal growth.
Seekers gain insight from his work and find their inner calm from his ability to listen and help others reflect.
The Heresy of Titles.
Silent • September 4, 2023
Why I Avoid Abrahamic Religious Titles.
The tl;dr video is at the bottom of the post :)
As a Pagan and eclectic Wiccan, I avoid the titles and trappings of Christian, Jewish, or Islamic clergy members. Accepting such titles denies religious identity and cultural norming for Pagans. While some of my colleagues wear Roman collars in green or other colors, I avoid them for the same reason. Some consider it a form of syncretism, but I feel it’s a form of assimilation.
Clergy Garb
In the Roman Catholic Church, wearing a Roman collar by priests is a traditional symbol of their ordination and commitment to their priestly duties. The color of the collar, usually black or white, does not hold any particular significance beyond being a uniform signifier of their role as a priest.
In other Christian denominations, such as Anglican and Lutheran, wearing a clerical collar is also familiar, but the color may vary from denomination to sect.
In other religions, such as Judaism and Islam, clerical garb may be less standardized and vary according to the specific tradition. The overall aim of these religious garbs is to create an outward symbol that reflects the religious duties and responsibilities of the wearer.
Ultimately, using clerical garb is a way for religious leaders to represent their pastoral role and commitment to their community visually. Pagans wear a range of dress. In Wiccan traditions, the most common signifier is a cord or cingulum. The number and colors of the cord represent degrees of initiation and specific meaning to a tradition. In Heketean traditions, three cords may represent a third degree with
- White as the stars (Above)
- Red as blood (the world we live in)
- Black as chthonic (the underworld)
We are not even scratching the surface of the discussion of clerical garb, but that’s not the intent.
Titles
Members of the clergy in various religions are often referred to by different titles depending on their role, tradition, or hierarchical position. While some religions have unique names for certain situations, others share titles. This is not uncommon since many religious traditions have historically influenced each other through intercultural exchange and adaptation. Reverend is the most common title accepted in the US and other Western countries. Reverend is an Episcopal title/designation as part of the church hierarchy.
In the United States, which has been deeply influenced by European culture and Christianity, the usage of Episcopal titles (Bishop, Reverend, Pastor, etc.) is widespread. Episcopal traditions emphasize clerical hierarchy and the various responsibilities of each clerical level.
The reason why Episcopal religious titles are sometimes used for non-Episcopal religious leaders is due to a few factors:
1. Cultural Linguistic Influence: The United States, as a predominantly Christian nation, has based most of its religious terminology on Christian traditions, making Christian terms universally understood to some extent. Episcopal titles may have become somewhat generic with time, being understood to indicate a role rather than strictly a position within the Episcopalian tradition.
2. Interfaith Dialogue: In interfaith dialogues or multireligious environments like the United States, it is considered normative to use religious titles that are universally understood. While the specific meanings of these titles differ across traditions, it makes the dialogue-less contentious and less likely to offend the dominant culture, in this case, Christianity.
3. Erasing Identity: Adopting titles and language to facilitate mutual understanding and communication is deeply troubling. It is a road fraught with the perils of erasing religious and cultural identity.
Nevertheless, it's important to note that respecting each religion's unique naming for their representatives is part of honoring and acknowledging the diverse and rich world in which we live. As Pagans, should we not offer ourselves the same accommodation?
So, what do you call yourself?
Without speaking for other traditions and Pagan practices, I will broadly say that we decide and put forward for ourselves. The demand and our acceptance of a need for commonality is the worst form of privilege. I wrote about some of my experiences in “Your Attempt to Syncretize Me.”
As a priest of Eris, She gives no titles, and we assume none. To Eris, we are simply Her priests. I use my birth (Lawrence) or craft (Silent) name in a faith-oriented situation.
If I adopt the traditions of my Sumerian religious practices, I would be Silent-en. It means Silent, who is a priest. Sumerian cuneiform is an agglutinative language like Finnish, Korean, or Turkish.
The Finnish word for house is “talo.”
| Word | Translation |
|---|---|
| Talo | House |
| Taloni | My house |
| Talossa | In the house |
| Talossani | In my house |
| Taloja | Houses |
| Taloissa | In the houses |
Agglutinative languages add suffixes to root words. It is possible to create thousands of permutations. Developing our titles allows us to develop our religious identity. Identity must be unique for us to continue developing. I believe it also aids in interfaith dialogue. Understanding and acknowledging unique religious titles in faith when engaging in interfaith dialogue helps ensure that dialogue is respectful, influential, and genuinely representative of the beliefs and traditions of each faith. Here are three reasons why this can be beneficial:
- Respect and Acknowledgement: Every faith has its unique vocabulary that underscores its nuances and beliefs. When these terms are used correctly by people outside the faith, it demonstrates a level of respect and acknowledgment towards the unique tenets of that faith. It helps build trust and establish a connection, often the first step towards fruitful dialogue and mutual understanding.
- Specificity and Clarity: Unique religious titles often designate specific roles, ranks, responsibilities, or theological positions within a faith. Using these titles, you can communicate more effectively and clearly when discussing these specific roles or beliefs. This can help prevent misunderstandings and promote more meaningful and precise conversations.
- Acknowledging Diversity: Different faiths may have similar roles but use different titles or have similar titles that signify different roles. Recognizing and using these unique titles emphasizes the diversity and complexity of different religious traditions. This enhances the ability to appreciate the richness of each faith, promoting tolerance and fostering deeper understanding in the interfaith dialogue.
Understanding and using the unique titles within various faiths can be an integral tool for promoting respect, enhancing clarity, and acknowledging the rich diversity of religious traditions in interfaith dialogue.
What do you think? Is this an unnecessary can [read: diet] of worms or an affirmation of cultural norming and religious identity?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Walk into any forest in the Cascades and you are standing on the dead. The fir that fell forty years ago is now the nurse log feeding a row of saplings. The salmon carried uphill by an eagle became the nitrogen in the cedar's needles. Nothing in that forest is wasted, and nothing in it is afraid. We have built an entire industry on pretending we are exempt from this. We drain the body of its blood, fill it with preservatives, seal it in lacquered hardwood, and lower it into a concrete vault—as if the earth were a contamination to be defended against rather than the place we came from. Cremation, for all its simplicity, burns fossil fuel and sends the body skyward as carbon. There is another way, and it began here in Washington. Human composting—the law calls it natural organic reduction—was legalized in this state in 2019, the first in the nation. The process is unhurried and honest. The body, unembalmed, is laid into a steel vessel and surrounded by wood chips, alfalfa, and straw. No chemicals are added. The microbes that already live on the plant material, and on us, do the work they have always done. Over eight to twelve weeks, the body becomes soil—about a cubic yard of it, dark and alive. Families may take some home for a garden or a tree, or donate it to forest conservation land. What was a person becomes, quite literally, ground for new growth. I have sat with the dying, and I can tell you that the question underneath most deathbed fear is not what happens to me? It is did I matter, and will anything of me remain? The Hávamál answers plainly: cattle die, kin die, the self dies too—but what one leaves behind endures. We usually read that as reputation. I have come to read it more literally. A body that becomes soil leaves something behind that you can hold in your hands. Something that feeds. For those of us who keep the old ways, this is not innovation. It is restoration. Our ancestors were returned to barrows and bogs and burial mounds, given back to the land that fed them. The vessel and the alfalfa are new; the covenant is ancient. The earth gives, and the earth receives. Every harvest festival we keep is built on that exchange. It would be strange to honor the cycle all our lives and then opt out of it at the end. This choice is now legal in a dozen states and counting. If it speaks to you, say so—out loud, in writing, to the people who will one day carry out your wishes. Death plans left unspoken become burdens; death plans spoken become gifts. A leaf falls. A seed sprouts. The tree does not grieve the leaf, and the soil does not refuse the seed. When my own time comes, I intend to be useful one last time. That, too, is a kind of prayer. —Silent
For the Pagan and Contemplative Community
There is a grief that arrives before the death. It does not announce itself. It does not have a name that anyone uses at the dinner table, or in the waiting room, or in the parking lot of the care facility where you sit in your car for a few minutes before going in, gathering yourself. It lives in small moments. The first time they didn't recognize you. The day you realized you were making decisions for them that they would have hated. The night you caught yourself hoping — just for a second, just once — that it would be over soon, and then spent the next three days punishing yourself for the thought. This is called anticipatory grief. And it is real, and it is heavy, and almost no one will name it for you while you are living inside it, because you are the strong one, and the person you are losing is still here, and grief, we have been told, comes after. It doesn't always come after. Sometimes it comes alongside. Caregiving is one of the most demanding things a human being can do. It asks you to be present to someone else's diminishment, day after day, while managing your own fear and your own exhaustion and your own sadness — and while the world around you continues as though nothing unusual is happening. You go to the grocery store. You answer emails. You show up. You are praised for your strength, which is a kindness people offer because they don't know what else to give you. What you actually need is someone who will let you put the strength down for an hour. Not fix you. Not give you a plan. Not tell you that you're doing a great job, or that they couldn't do what you're doing, or that everything happens for a reason. Just someone who will sit with you in the weight of it. Who will not be frightened by what you are carrying. Who will let you say the unsayable things — the anger, the ambivalence, the love that is so tangled up with loss that you can no longer tell them apart. That is what I offer. I am a death doula and spiritual director. I work with caregivers who are in the middle of it — not at the end, not after, but now, in the long middle stretch where the grief has no official start date and the world has not yet given you permission to feel it. We meet, usually by video, for an hour at a time. I listen in a particular way — not for problems to solve, but for what is actually present beneath the exhaustion and the competence and the careful management of everyone else's emotions. You do not have to have it together when you come into this space. That is the point of it. A few things I will not do: I will not tell you how to grieve correctly. There is no correctly. I will not rush you toward acceptance or silver linings. Some things do not have silver linings, and pretending otherwise is a small violence. I will not give you more to manage. You are already managing too much. What I will do is be present — fully, unhurriedly, without an agenda — for whatever you bring into the room. If you are a caregiver and you are reading this and something in you recognized itself in these words, that recognition is an invitation. I have a small number of spaces available for caregivers who are navigating the approach of death alongside someone they love. The intake questions at tokeepsilent.me are where we begin. Or you can reach me directly. There is no script for this conversation. We simply start. — Silent