A Pagan Ritual Prayer Book (26 page)
Read A Pagan Ritual Prayer Book Online
Authors: Ceisiwr Serith
Sun:
Stand still just a moment in the sky, Sun.
Tarry just a moment in the heavens, King.
Wait just a while on the horizon, Lord.
Stay awhile in balance with dark before the tide turns toward it,
and receive my offering.
Know this:
A lord without a throne is still a lord.
A king without a crown is yet a king.
And a sun, even in the time of the year when He is absent from the sky more than He is in it, is ever a Sun,
and deserves my honor.
Welcome and dear Sun, Lord and King, know this:
through the dark half of the year you will never want for worship.
I shall give you deserved gifts.
I shall praise your magnificence.
And I shall pour out heart, words, and deeds in continuing worship.
Stop for a moment, Sun, your burning and turning wheel's rolling.
Stop to smile down with love and approval on the Earth spread broad beneath you.
Smile as you have done since Her birth, billions of years ago, when She formed from the random tumbling rocks, floating in your gravitational field;
floating, disorganized, until they joined together through their
own
gravitational field,until they formed Her, on whom we stand today, looking up at you smiling in the sky.
When She was formed, burning and turning wheel, your loving gaze on Her brought forth life from the dead rock and barren dust,
life that changed, that evolved into the vast numbers of living things spread out across Her,
all tracing their lives back to that one common Ancestor whose birth you conceived with your rays.
And one of those species is our own, this member of which stands here today, looking up at you, smiling down on us, we standing here on this longest day.
Stop for a moment, your wheel that burns, that turns; stop your rolling,
and stand with us, smiling down on those who smile up at you.
The God:
The sun in the sky on this too-hot day pours down its constant message of your power, Lord.
The cooling comfort of the water I sink myself in equally proclaims the power of your Lady.
If I seek Her, please don't see it as disrespect for you, but as love of Her.
I will long for you on another day,
and turn to you for the comfort I seek from Her today.
Lady of the watery womb, I ask you to welcome me.
Grass:
I trim you as a stylist trims hair,
grass of my lawn,
to bring beauty, not damage.
Lleu Llaw Gyffes:
Bright One with the Steady Hand,
who threw so straight, hard, accurately,
hitting the target assigned:
guide my arm today;
give me swift and sure motion
to bring the ball over the plate
when and where, in height, in coverage,
I wish it to be.
A few days before he died on the 50th anniversary of independence, the ailing John Adams received a delegation of the town elders. They were there to ask for something to be read at the celebrations. Expecting noble and high-flown words, they were shocked at what he gave them. They perhaps did not understand how noble it was, even if not high-flown. What he gave them was not a speech, but a toast. Today, on this glorious Fourth, raise your cups and make that toast:
Independency forever!
Liberty:
The fireworks are roses in the bouquet we're giving you, Liberty.
Hear our love in their explosions.
The sounds of delight in the watching crowds are your hymns,
our rededication to you, the offering.
Lugh:
The spears of Lugh are standing straight, erect, golden, in the wheat fields.
And when we reap them, we cut off their blades with our own.
And when we grind them, we soften the sharpness of a god to that fit for the nondivine.
And when we eat them, we bring into our lives His power,
enlivening us, empowering us, encouraging us to thank Him.
And we do:
Lugh, thank you.
We are here at the feast of Lugh
to honor, praise, and worship the hero of the gods.
Lugh Lámhfhada
Lugh Samhioldanach
He whose arms extend greatly
He of many arts
May he be pleased with this rite.
May he be our champion
May all our fields and crafts be blessed by him.
Defeat the Dark One,
Bright One, Champion,
your spear bright against the darkness,
a thunderbolt in a clear sky.
Chase away hail and heavy rain
and bring safely to harvest
our grain, our hearts.
The God and Goddess:
I place this loaf before the altar,
as first fruits, as thank-you gift,
to you, Goddess, who sends the grain,
to you, God, who
is
the grain:cut down and consumed on this holy day,
the feast of loaves.
Thunderbird:
From cloud-terrace-topped mountains you fly,
each wing beat a roll of thunder,
rain pouring from your feathers to soak the prayer feathers we set up in the earth
to call you here, to welcome you here.
Eagle of Thunder, you come to end this dry time,
its heat become the lightning that flashes from your eyes.
May prosperity ride your diamond-edged sickle,
Reaper, Harvester,
as it cuts through this season's grains.
I offer this loaf of last year's grain in thanks for this year's harvest.
I hang this sickle, symbol of the harvest, on my door, so that each time I come in, each time I go out, I will be reminded of this sacred time, of how the gods of growth, and the spirits of the land and plants, brought us here, to where we have food to be grateful to them for.
The God:
The sweeping of the reaper's blade cuts quite away your offered head, the grain from which is ever made when threshed and ground our welcome bread, this present that we offer you, from last year's harvest, rightly due, O Dying God, for whom these words are said.
Strike down, god of grain, the grain that stands even now, golden in the fields,
even as
you
were struck down, struck down yourself in That Time,once and again, and always again, in this.
On one side the light, on the other the dark,
we stand in this moment of balance.
I would prefer the light, but the earth begs to differ,
and, turning about the sun, turns her half on which I live away,
away into the dark.
I can't help but grant you the power, what use would it be to resist?
I will go with you then, complaining as little as I can,
into the dark period of the year,
believing your promise that your turning will go on,
and return my half of the world to the light.
I offer to the gods of the dark season this fruit of the light.
The Goddess:
The world is revolving into the year's dark half.
Now, while it is still bright, we celebrate what summer's warmth has brought us.
When our hearts teeter on a point between happiness and despair,
may we remember this moment,
and how it brought us harvest,
and how it comforted us,
and encouraged us to plant hope's seed in the waiting earth,
Mother of All.
May their turning be the beauty of my life's accomplishment.
May their falling be my letting go of life.
May their raking together be my gathering with the Ancestors.
May their rotting into compost be my absorption into the Earth.
In their feeding new growth, may I see my own rebirth.
Dryads, may the glories of your glories be my teachers
in this season of the dying year.
Wind, I throw these crumbled leaves to you for toys.
Make beauty with them and I will watch:
You and I will share the fun.
Leaves that are falling from late autumn's weeping trees:
I praise you.
Stubble in corn fields, left behind after harvest:
I praise you.
Chill of the evening that comes bringing winter:
I praise you.
Cut off from the harvesting of yellow wheat,
I, who live far from the farms,
turn instead to the gold of the trees, to the red, to the orange,
that feed my soul with beauty as surely as the grain feeds my body.
A Pagan, worshipper of the particular, at home in the land I find myself in,
praises, not the far-found fields, but the trees on my street.
