Mundane Liturgies

How See's Candies and a couple good books about Winter changed my perspective on intentional paraliturgy in the home.

Oremus Redemptorem mundi Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum , cum omni supplicatione rogemus; ut nos gratia adventus sui propitius justificare dignetur.

Let us pray to our Lord Jesus Christ redeemer of the world, let us beg with all supplication, that he, being gracious, deign to vindicate us by the favor of his coming. 

Excerpt from the Mozarabic Office, First Sunday of Advent.

The first Sunday of Advent is considered the start of the Church year for Roman Catholics, Anglicans, and other denominations who follow the liturgical calendar. For weeks now, my inbox and social media feeds have been bombarded with Advent product placement from religious and secular companies alike. I feel particularly vulnerable to these advertisers because the liturgical season of Advent in the western calendar happens to nicely line up with the traditional secular 24-day advent calendar; it feels like the world of banal consumerism is finally aligned with our needs (should anyone need a Lindt Chocolate or a Bluey-themed advent calendar, anyway). Perhaps I would be less vulnerable if I followed my own advice and started celebrating Advent on Martinmas like the Visigoths did. If so, we’d be approaching the second Sunday of Advent already and I’d have already eaten all the chocolates in the calendar.

This year, living in a new-to-us home enshrouded with a lovely cushion of russet-colored oak leaves, I find myself clinging to autumn as long as possible and bracing myself for the impact of liturgical new year. I have not submitted to the lure of a shiny new devotional; we are traveling for several days beyond thanksgiving so I have postponed decking the halls; my son is too young to appreciate any craft that cannot be immediately torn apart so I have not stocked up on any special Adventide activities. I plan to maintain as unhurried an attitude as possible until Gaudete Sunday adds renewed urgency to the process of acquiring a Christmas Tree before the farm store down the road runs out.

A little over two years ago, invigorated by third trimester restlessness, I wrote a piece on the concept of “paraliturgy” as an alternative to the frenzy of liturgical living projects that zealous mommy bloggers shove down the throats of impress upon eager acolytes from the ranks of devout Catholic mothers. This old paraliturgy piece got renewed attention when I reposted it to Substack recently, and several readers shared really helpful thoughts on how desperately burdensome a lot of these liturgical living exhortations feel. I so, so appreciate that feedback and welcome more of it, as it led to many of the insights I am sharing today.

Since moving into our new home late in the summer, I’ve been thinking a lot about how building a culture of paraliturgy in the home transcends tacking on extra onerous religious-adjacent activities. Paraliturgy does not start with religion, it ends there. Simple daily rhythms and intentional practice of the Faith provide the foundation for a paraliturgical lifestyle that flows out into our families and communities. Some personal experiences and books pertaining to seasonality and liturgy have aided my discernment process in this area, and perhaps they can help you too. 

One of my all time favorite Advent/winter book recommendations is Katherine May’s Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times. One of the most compelling and memorable images from the book is May’s description of her grandmother’s daily ritual of peeling and eating an orange. (The author has expressed in interviews that this is one of the most important parts of the book.) “It was the nearest I ever saw her get to prayer,” she writes. “Sometimes I push my thumb into an orange just for the scent of it, and it takes me there: the peace, the spaciousness of an unhurried afternoon, the quality of attention to small things.” May’s grandmother, without realizing it, was establishing something akin to a liturgical ritual.

I’m no psychologist, but I know from experience that sensory moments like this, observed over time, lodge themselves somewhere deep in a child’s consciousness and re-emerge, years later, to be pondered and practiced anew. Growing up, my dad’s morning pour-over coffee– the staccato clamor of the coffee grinder was a de facto alarm clock for the rest of the house–functioned as one such ritual. It was not sacred in the sense of relating to God’s commanded worship, but it was sacred in the sense of being “set apart,” a moment that had its own particular virtue and rubric. Even for those of us who also pray, who attend liturgies, and who weave religious rituals into our daily, weekly, or yearly lives, these little “secular” rituals around the home have a powerful significance. 

Like St. Isidore of Seville, the wise bishop around whose legacy my academic pursuits revolved, I think we can learn a lot from a word’s etymology. Unlike St. Isidore, I have access to the internet and therefore don’t have to make up etymological roots that don’t exist. Before it gained its Christian context by the late middle ages, “liturgy” meant “public duty, ministration, ministry” (source). The small acts of service and love we do in the home and in our communities as witness to what we hold important and what we orient our lives around–these are liturgies, in a sense. Whether it’s making coffee, peeling an orange, or undertaking a morning walk even on the chilliest of mornings; these rhythms set the tone for our home and our families.

The aforequoted book Wintering explores how seasons of life are reflected in the natural world and vice versa. As part of her research, Katherine May attended Christian and non-Christian religious rituals that take place during winter, such as a Swedish Lutheran St. Lucy’s Day service. She marvels at how these events function as a light in the darkness of a dreary and dark period. The quieting and solitude that we witness during gloomy months encourages us to reanalyze what parts of our interior life desperately need the light let in. Humans have acknowledged this and incorporated it into liturgical traditions for centuries.

This fall, my dear internet friend

Kristin Haakenson

led a marvelous book club on Dr. Eleanor Parker’s book Winters in the World: A Journey Through the Anglo-Saxon Year (read a Catholic review here). This academically riveting book, refreshingly jargon-free and accessible to a popular audience, examines the Anglo-Saxon liturgical year and how observing the Church’s calendar blended with daily life of early medieval agrarian society. Parker offers a perspective that is readable, scholarly, and firmly upholds Christian tradition. She covers all the seasons, but especially emphasizes winter, which held a special significance in Anglo-Saxon poetry.

Something I learned from Winters in the World is that to the Anglo-Saxon Christians, “Midwinter” and “Christmas” meant the same thing. December 25th (or thereabouts) was both the season and the feast, not one imposed on the other, nor just one coinciding with the other, but one and the same. Christ’s nativity was celebrated during the darkest time of the year, and the darkest time of the year was special, exciting, and even joyful because Christ’s nativity was celebrated at that time. There’s also some super cool liturgical math (computus) involved about the dates of Christ’s and John the Baptist’s births and conceptions aligning with the equinoxes and solstices that goes a bit over my head, so read the book if you want to learn more about that.

Beyond some really cool insights into the medieval mindset toward the intermingling of the liturgical and seasonal cycles as one and the same thing, Parker’s explanation of Christmas and Midwinter gave me a bit of an “aha” moment as to why high-effort liturgical living activities can feel so contrived. Our paraliturgical rituals, feasts, and celebrations don’t need “this is about Jesus” bumper stickers plastered all over them. Rather, intentionality and Faith together beget paraliturgy.

I don’t want to unduly roast the Catholic all Year initiative because it includes some truly wonderful activities for those of us (not me) who enjoy doing crafty things and Saint-themed meal planning. However, every time I visit the website or in-person CAY market I find a new liturgical living ~product~ that just seems to add extra steps to authentic, organic paraliturgy. Observe, for example, this “liturgical year charcuterie board” (a circular platter with sections of food in the colors of the vestments worn throughout the liturgical year) for “Catholic New Year’s eve;” (I assume this means the vigil of the first Sunday of Advent, so calling it something else is the first extra step.) I suspect the “product” is just the instructions for the charcuterie board, but it’s paywalled for members only so perhaps we’ll never know.

You don’t need my permission, but here it is. Take it from someone who spent a year immersed in centuries-old liturgical texts: you are allowed to make any kind of charcuterie board you want for any feast on the liturgical calendar. It’s still liturgical living (or as I prefer to call it, paraliturgy). Even if it isn’t white, red, purple, and green. Getting pizza and ice cream to celebrate a feast day? Also paraliturgy because you are intentionally pointing those actions toward the liturgical cycle.

The medieval Christians associated holy days with seasonally appropriate things they would do anyway–like harvesting particular crops or decorating with particular boughs–because the liturgical and natural year were one and the same. When an especially dark time like Midwinter coincided with an especially luminous feast like Christmas, a party was obviously in order (12-40 days of partying, in fact). Even though we live in a postindustrial hellscape (or paradise if you focus on things like central air and imported avocados) we can think about the liturgical year that way too. When someone asks “what’s the occasion?” And you say “it’s Michaelmas!” Or “It’s Sunday!” Or “we made it through Mass without a tantrum!” That’s paraliturgy.

I’m not a pro at this. I still struggle to make it to Sunday Mass on time, especially with a toddler in tow. But I try to be intentional about paraliturgy when I can. Last month, my husband and I opened a bottle of Austrian wine to celebrate the feast of Blessed Karl of Austria. (I have a particular devotion to Bl. Karl as we spent our babymoon on Madeira, where he is buried. My husband is protestant, but has a particular devotion to good wine interesting historical figures.) Did we already have the wine on hand? Yes, in fact I had multiple bottles of Austrian wine on hand because I like Austrian wine. But we don’t drink it every night and intentionally clinking our glasses in honor of a great man and great saint is a simple way to direct a mundane ritual – having wine with dinner – toward the paraliturgical.

Seasonally aware lifestyles and the associated custom of “slow living” are gaining popularity these days. My amateur theory is that as millennials become parents and find themselves at the mercy of not just the vicissitudes of life but also the demands of little people, we realize that a fast-paced urban schedule is bad for familial and personal health. As families are uprooted from family dinners and daily rituals by the demands of extracurriculars, long school commutes, or parental work schedules, rootedness of the home in turn diminishes. (This book is a good read on how modern culture is anti-family if you’re into in that sort of thing.) It’s easy to get overwhelmed if you want to integrate the rich heritage of the Christian liturgy into your life, but the liturgical calendar is just another to-do list. How do you even start? 

Start by taking a moment of silence over the coffee pot, peeling an orange, or drinking tea with your children every day. Establishing little liturgies, these mundane rituals of daily life, will lay the foundation that points beyond the present moment to a familiar cycle of intentionally living out the Christian life. Infusing these rituals with meaning that points back to the Church is the work of a lifetime, not a year. 

As we approach Advent and the beginning of another liturgical year, I invite my fellow liturgy nerds to take a deep breath. When it comes to Christmas traditions, the pressure to perform can feel especially suffocating. Parents, rest in the knowledge that your children will not remember every Jesus-y liturgical living craft that punctuated the year so much as they will remember the mundane liturgies like making coffee or peeling an orange. (Non-parents, consider celebrating Christmas with fun activities that parents can’t do, like sleeping past 7 AM.)

One of my favorite childhood Christmas memories is my Grandma’s gift to every family: a box of See’s Candies. My Grandma is a deeply religious woman and was a daily communicant as long as her health allowed her to drive to Mass. She knew, without thinking hard about it, that a box of candy could go a long way toward solemnifying the occasion of Christ’s birth.

I can’t look at the See’s kiosk at the airport without thinking of Christmas at my Grandma’s, the giant plaster nativity set, Midnight Mass, her love for the Faith and our family. And that is the fruit of intentional paraliturgy.