Tradition is Fire

Gustav Mahler proclaims “tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire.” Tradition is the living fire by which we warm our weary bodies and enlighten our tired minds. It is both the well from which we spring, and the sea that our rivers, clear or muddied, empty into and are purified. That is to say it is the origin and end of our culture, the birth and death of human society, the point at which all enters and exits. Not only is it the door by which we pass to and from, but it is the very room we make our home in. Tradition is the memory of man, the wisdom of woman, the hum of the human heart. It not only passively preserves, but encourages active creation. Tradition allows man to not only survive, but thrive. It is what brings the atomized individual into a communion of ancestors, who know the recipe by which to cultivate the unborn generation. Tradition therefore is the nexus point of a person’s practical endeavors and spiritual expression.

Why then is tradition often rejected as ancient superstition? A way of being we have evolved past, a relic of a bygone era. A thing to be thrown out in the name of progress. Perhaps our ancestors' wisdom could only get us so far, and the revelation of science and enlightened morality have allowed us to “grow-up” and cast off the training-wheels of infantile humanity. In this light, the past is at best a cautionary tale from which to dissect our origins, and at worst a proof of the wiseman’s insidious greed, concocting fairy-tales by which to control the behavior of the ignorant masses.

Or perhaps we prefer tradition as that which is set firmly in stone, a thing to be conserved. Tradition is to be kept like an artwork in the museum: under the perfect climatic circumstances, in an unchanging state. Any crack or mildew is to be fixed or wiped away, preserving it in a static mummified position, to be an unquestionable fount of truth, interpreted in a strict and singular manner. If understood in this way, tradition is at best the unchanging bedrock of our community, and at worst a voluntary tyranny we impose on ourselves for the “greater good”.

Both of these conceptions are extremes found in the fringes of political and religious thought. They present tradition as dead. Either it is no longer useful, in fact a dangerous complex of illusory ideas; or it has no dynamic life, what has been said has been said. As in all binaries there are seeds of truth in its poles. These seeds of truth are realized most fully by an integrated middle. Married to the black or white, these stances are blind to a synthesis of opposites that reveal a world of color. It is this colorful vision of tradition I am here to celebrate, all the while finding the proper contexts in which these more extreme stances can find their place and purpose. This will be illustrated by the use of symbology, the coalescence of images. Let us explore tradition as fire.

Imagine tradition as a communal fire with a single origin, yet two forms which require one another. The first form is the interior fire, or the hearth, and the second is the exterior fire, or the bonfire. This dual nature (which is all the while united) is reflected in ancient temple worship and structure, which includes an exterior altar for public sacrifice and an interior altar, where the eternal flame is kept and maintained by priests.

The interior fire, the hearth, is fire with a feminine face. It is private, warms the home in which it is veiled, and is maintained around the clock. If it were to go out without a single remaining ember, this would spell starvation and freezing to all who depend on it.

The hearth is the center of life, cooking food and warming bodies. It is the source of energy we need to accomplish every task. From here the candles are lit when prayer or illumination is needed, around here we gather to learn the art of kitchenry and storytelling. It is the focal point of wisdom in the home, for it is the focal point of domestic action and rest. In Eastern Europe, the hearth is large enough to have a shelf for sleeping, reserved for the elderly and the young, those who need its warmth most. It is our cradle, from where fire can be carried from and spread to every corner that needs it. Yet to be fed by kindle it needs an external source.

The masculine fire is sent out and is the bonfire. This is the fire of pastoralists and adventurists, whose embers are carried in wool to create a new or temporary center. Around this fire we sing, and cook, and protect ourselves from the darkness that lingers around us. It is both guarded and our guard, our current home and reminder of the home we left. It is also the public fire, the fire of ritual and social gathering. Here the community intersects and brings a spark home with them. The fires are places of action and rest. The hearth and bonfire form a crossroad of interdependence, of public and private, sharing in embers and kindle, revealing a deep web of relationships. The dual faced flame reveals itself to be a single fire, in that it shares in

a common goal, the good of the community. Perhaps more aptly put, it has two hands which serve a single heart.

He who brings back wood for the fire does not return with damp logs, but choice kindle. For the quality that is given is received back in congruent (at times greater) illumination and warmth. Yet the fire does have a purifying effect that harmonizes discordant elements. A damp log is transformed in the flame, releasing the vapors, until it can best participate in the fire. The stronger the fire, the more able it is to bring discongruent elements to a united purpose.

So it is with tradition. Tradition serves us as we service it. It was not made by us, yet is maintained by us. It requires constant vigilance, an active participation, so that we might rest and dance in its light and warmth. We can be fed from it, for it was given to us for that very purpose, and in turn we preserve, maintain, and pass along.

Tradition gives us illumination, that is meaning, in all spheres and situations of life, be it at home in a familiar context, or in a foreign land where things can be dangerous. Therefore wherever I might find myself, I can find my bearing, though it may look a bit different. The paradox of the communal fire, which reveals its mystery, is that it must be both preserved as it is, but fed new elements and therefore adapt, as does the shape and height of any fire. For the feast of the Transfiguration in Ukraine, baskets of fruits and vegetables are blessed in church. As the country has different regional climates, the harvest blessed in church varies in accordance with what is ripe at the time. Regardless of the basket’s content, the act of thanksgiving for the light which illuminates our spirits and bodies, producing psychic and vegetal fruits, is celebrated. For it is not the specific fruits which are most important, but that the best is brought to God. Differences are united to a common cause. A situation may be contextual, but its essence remains. Fire in the hearth and fire in the field are both still fire, abiding to the same rules, although the particularity of a situation may change how we go about keeping it going.

Our bonfire guards us from a world of darkness and chaos, just as tradition gives us the strength and knowledge to traverse a complicated world and diverse array of situations. This metric demonstrates the health of our tradition. Does it warm us? Does it illumine? Have we let it be snuffed out? Does our tradition help us understand the world around us? And if not, let us be careful with rejecting it. For often we have not done our part in learning how to carry it on and how to partake in it. Perhaps the flame is low because we have not added to it. Perhaps the flame is low because we did not listen and engage when we should have. If a flame has had a long life, let us not be quick to dismiss it lest we dismiss the building blocks of our meaning and survival. And let us not forget, the fire is beautiful, most fully when cared for.

The spirit of revolution, the rejection of the old for an abstract ideal of progress can be understood as a wildfire. It is the fire that has eaten too much, it was fed without being able to process what it had. Or sometimes it is the fire that has come from an uncultured source, be it a lightning strike or a separate bonfire kindled in naivete. This fire consumes, destroys and synthesizes all to ash, without discernment. It wants to ignite everything, and ask questions later. To throw out tradition, the way we have done, releases a potential that is uncurbed and does not know its limits, for it is not tried and tested. Will it provide us with a warm environment in which we can thrive? Or have we illuminated every corner only to be blinded by it? Progress can only happen if there is something to build from, a flower does not bloom without roots.

Yet to burn away the old is not always a bad intuition. Amongst various Slavic peoples, winter is burned away in the form of a straw doll. Remnants which are superfluous and no longer serving the greater good can and should be burned. Yet it is thrown into the bonfire to be fed, into the tradition where it can find its proper place, and is not an indiscriminate destruction. Even the forest fires created by various people groups around the world in order to maintain the health of a forest are controlled, and not wild. At times old structures need to be pulled down, the old way must be reconsidered, but wary be the hand which brings flame to it. Will this give us life or bring about our death?

The fear of fire, and its potential to get out of hand, incites in us a timid guarding of the flame. We worry that it will go out, that the light by which we see will leave us in confusing darkness. We fear we will die, and so we preserve the flame at all cost. This we can understand as the conservative impulse to stop the shifting of tides, symbolized in the oil lamp. The oil lamp is kept out of harm's way, often in a sanctuary of some kind, fed meticulously and guarded jealousy. This is not the lamp from which other sources are kindled, but the flame kept behind the lock and key. Its perpetuation is held in a few hands, its secrecy and exclusivity a token of pride. It is the occult fire. This fire produces minimal light, minimal warmth, and only requires a strong gust to snuff out.

If tradition is not dynamic (able to engage with new elements) and lifegiving (not sharing in its warmth and light with community, having no signs of goodness outside the select few) it is as dead and destructive as a wildfire. It brings all into darkness, removing the potential to understand and be fed, leaving it only in the hands of the few. This is not a dismissal of proper hierarchy, but of tyrannical hierarchy which does not serve its least members. This is also not a dismissal of knowledge gained and maintained by specialised individuals, but of a tradition whose fruits are not tasted by those who are required for its perpetuation. The balance between responsibly guarding a powerful potentiality and allowing all to participate and benefit from it in the way most appropriate is extremely tedious and difficult. It is here that tradition, through its established yet dynamic conventions, has the most to say, being crafted with endless experience and unconditional love.

My parents grew up in Western Ukraine, in Galicia, under Soviet Rule. Their Eastern Catholic faith was persecuted and illegal. They were baptised in homes, and celebrated Christmas in villages far enough away from the police’s eyes. Priests did not reveal their identity and were secretly taught. Those who bore witness of their faith publicly became martyrs. Those who stayed quiet kept the religious rites alive. Both sacrifices fed the faith in providing an example and means of excellence and vigilance. The fruits of these sacrifices are obvious. To this day Galicia remains the most religiously practicing region of Ukraine, with an unbroken tradition of Christian worship. When the weather does not allow for a bonfire, an oil lamp is necessary. But if it remains under the table and not put on the windowsill, then it is an act of evil. Tradition is common for all, and particular for each, caring for the community and its individual members.

The bonfire has the potential to die or get out of hand, but is cared for in a way to prevent this, knowing the death that follows drastic change or the inability to adapt to it. Tradition is living, maintaining the spirit through changing matter, with a deep reverence to those who passed on the flame, and to whom it will pass to. Tradition is fire because it has the potential to transform us, sustain us, illumines us, orient us, bring us through hardships, and enjoy good times. Tradition is the celebration of that which has brought us here, and that which will bring us ever further. It is the respect of ashes, preservation of embers, creation of fire, and the worship of that which allows it all.