The woman who sculpted our temple's goddess was having a few one night with folks from her artist's collective in Boston. They were far enough in their cups to be one-upping each other: the artist's brag.
“I had a one-person show at the X Gallery,” says one.
From the spiritual technology of the ancestors, let us consider the hallows—in Latin, the sacra—those holy objects of presence, in which a god is. If the work of religion is the making-present of the gods, this work the hallows accomplish, for the hallows are points of communication, articulating radical immanence. The genius of the paganisms has always been to understand that we best touch the universal through the specific.
To say “idol” implies a statue, but hallows take many forms.
One thing to remember about hallows is that in them, by them, through them, we look upon a god.
Five in the morning: quiet, dark. We're standing together facing the altar curtains, which are closed. Drums begin to play. Slowly the rhythm builds. Soon we're clapping and swaying. When the energy peaks, conch shells blow; the room echoes with them. We throw ourselves to the floor.
When we stand back up, the altar curtains have opened. The altar itself, three marble steps covered with lights, flowers, and food offerings, is sumptuous and brightly lit. But all our eyes are on the gods.
“’[W]hen a bear has been killed the Ainu sit down and admire it, make their salaams to it, worship it, and offer presents of inao ; when a bear is trapped or wounded by an arrow, the hunters go through an apologetic or propitiatory ceremony.’ The skulls of slain bears receive a place of honour in their huts, or are set up on sacred posts outside the huts, and are treated with much respect: libations of millet beer, and of sake, an intoxicating liquor, are offered to them; and they are addressed as ‘divine preservers’ or ‘precious divinities.’ The skulls of foxes are also fastened to the sacred posts outside the huts; they are regarded as charms against evil spirits, and are consulted as oracles.” (James G. Frazer, The Golden Bough).
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