Written Emma Weber
I had a teammate in high school who wore the same pre-wrap headband for our whole season of soccer as a sort of ritual. My dad still makes me and my older sisters write a note to Santa on Christmas Eve. One of my friends live-tweets her thoughts on every new “Saturday Night Live” episode as it premiers. My roommates Ellie and Grace push their beds together, making a “megabed,” a couple weeks before school ends every semester to signify our departure. For most of my life, I could not understand “why” — I had found traditions monotonous and empty. Over the past couple years, however, I have begun to see the beauty revealed in repetition.
Christmas is probably the biggest contention for my dad and me. In my mind, Christmas traditions are an excuse for us to do everything he wants to do because it is “required.” “You don’t want to go look at lights? Too bad! It’s a tradition, and you have to.” “You don’t want to watch the same claymation movie for the 20th time? Too bad! It’s a tradition. Pop that movie in, even though we all know how it ends.” I feel even more for those in “Turkey Trot” families.
For a while, tradition was the reason I had to do things I didn’t want to. It was a word that said, “I can’t come up with a logical explanation, so I’ll call it tradition,and we will pretend it’s important.” I felt justified in my beliefs with every encounter I had with tradition — tradition told me I could only wear skirts or dresses to Sunday church and skinny jeans were bad. It seemed that all around me, people were dictating what I was allowed to do, say or think. As I got older, I either squeaked by on minimal effort to uphold a facade of compliance or openly rebelled against tyranny. I learned to be suspicious of everything wrapped in the world of expectations because I knew I would never be able to fully complete them.
My friend Malachi took me to a service for Lent freshman year. We sat in a beautiful Catholic church, and when we went through the service, I learned some very deep things about myself. I found myself moved at the unified standing, repetition of words and flow of the service. I received my eucharist and ash on my forehead under a beautiful stained glass window. I participated in the same ceremony that those in 325 C.E. did, and I didn’t spontaneously combust!
Compliance in this centuries-old tradition taught me the meaning of Matthew 5:17- 20, that Jesus did not come to abolish the law but to fulfill it. Tradition for its own sake is Pharisaical; tradition that retains purpose teaches its partakers to reflect on that which is being honored. Only after laws or traditions can be written on our hearts instead of stone tablets can they be fulfilled to their fullest ideal.
Now I have started to see my personal customs all around. I pierced my nose as a tradition for myself — I wanted to symbolize my establishment as an adult by creating an observance to myself and others. My dad and I fight a lot about this, and even my friend Willie likes to respectfully engage in discussion with me. They both want to know, “Why?” The “why” is the life of any tradition. Making something holy because it has simply existed for ages is empty. Knowing “why” gives fulfillment, but knowing “why” doesn’t always mean agreement. I am learning the delicate balance of peace in the contention that Christ seems to point out–– when we focus on the heart it is more difficult to see the results. Whatever other people may think about my traditions, I know the “why” should be something that reminds me of the stained glass window of my life, of the rebellion that is learning to kneel at the foot of the cross.
What I was once angry at has revealed freedom to explore my deep love and dedication to fulfilling the law in my life. I don’t need to run from tradition simply because it is tradition; I also know there is no need to pursue empty actions because they have been done for a long time.
