Place, as I repeatedly say, is primary. It can also be sacred—even for “nonbelievers.” Because religion mantles the planet, both believers and nonbelievers can identify certain places that some group considers to be sacred: local houses of worship, for example. Internationally recognized “sacred sites” include the Temple Mount (Har haMoria or Harem al Sharif), St. Peter’s Basilica, the Great Mosque of Mecca, the Mahabodhi Temple, Stonehenge, and Varanasi. To those and other religious sites, you could probably add places that have become sacred by virtue of what took place on or near them or what they memorialize. Every country or region has such sacred ground.
For Americans, Gettysburg attracts nearly three million annual visitors, and other Civil War sites also attract large numbers of people. Some Revolutionary War battle sites or events also attract many people, as does the Alamo. At many of these sites people wander through museums with artifacts and walk past monuments to the people who fought for one cause or another, people who gave limbs or life in defense of their cause and who, because of their sacrifice, made the ground sacred. In Washington, D.C. the memorials include the Vietnam War Memorial, where some 50,000 names etched in stone command silence.
Around the world the reverence for sacred ground manifests itself wherever people remember events or people who shaped their culture or country. The sacred ground might even be a sports arena like the Boston Garden or Wrigley Field. In Pittsburgh’s Oakland one can see the remnants of a brick wall preserved by the city because it is the barrier over which Bill Mazeroski hit a World Series winning homerun against the New York Yankees in 1960.
In 1939 a great athlete called the end to his career in Yankee Stadium. Lou Gehrig called him self “the luckiest man.” He had played baseball on ground made sacred by the those who preceded him and those with whom he played. And he was, himself, one of the reasons that Yankee Stadium became “sacred.”
The other day I went to see a baseball game. Parents, grandparents, and friends with coolers filled with snacks, sandwiches, and drinks by their side, sat on aluminum bleachers, on portable lawn chairs, and blankets in the grass to watch teens play a game that Gehrig, one of the games great players, said he was lucky to play. As I watched the boys dive for balls on the dusty infield, make clouds of dust as they slid into bags, and landscape the dirt of the pitcher’s mound or around home plate as they came to bat, I heard someone outside the confines of the field call, “Mom, Mom, Mom.” The call came from the younger brother of one of the players. He had Down Syndrome and was playing in a pile of dirt next to the bleachers. As he dug with his hands, he uncovered a lump of dirt about the size of a basketball. Fascinated by it, he lifted the heavy mass skyward in joy, calling to his mother as he did so.
The event seemed to go largely unnoticed by all because their attention was centered on the sacred ground within the fences and the “heroic deeds” of the players as they struggled for victory. I could not see whether or not the mother responded to his call or his action. Maybe, all present should have noticed. That mass of dirt held high was sacred ground.
For Americans, Gettysburg attracts nearly three million annual visitors, and other Civil War sites also attract large numbers of people. Some Revolutionary War battle sites or events also attract many people, as does the Alamo. At many of these sites people wander through museums with artifacts and walk past monuments to the people who fought for one cause or another, people who gave limbs or life in defense of their cause and who, because of their sacrifice, made the ground sacred. In Washington, D.C. the memorials include the Vietnam War Memorial, where some 50,000 names etched in stone command silence.
Around the world the reverence for sacred ground manifests itself wherever people remember events or people who shaped their culture or country. The sacred ground might even be a sports arena like the Boston Garden or Wrigley Field. In Pittsburgh’s Oakland one can see the remnants of a brick wall preserved by the city because it is the barrier over which Bill Mazeroski hit a World Series winning homerun against the New York Yankees in 1960.
In 1939 a great athlete called the end to his career in Yankee Stadium. Lou Gehrig called him self “the luckiest man.” He had played baseball on ground made sacred by the those who preceded him and those with whom he played. And he was, himself, one of the reasons that Yankee Stadium became “sacred.”
The other day I went to see a baseball game. Parents, grandparents, and friends with coolers filled with snacks, sandwiches, and drinks by their side, sat on aluminum bleachers, on portable lawn chairs, and blankets in the grass to watch teens play a game that Gehrig, one of the games great players, said he was lucky to play. As I watched the boys dive for balls on the dusty infield, make clouds of dust as they slid into bags, and landscape the dirt of the pitcher’s mound or around home plate as they came to bat, I heard someone outside the confines of the field call, “Mom, Mom, Mom.” The call came from the younger brother of one of the players. He had Down Syndrome and was playing in a pile of dirt next to the bleachers. As he dug with his hands, he uncovered a lump of dirt about the size of a basketball. Fascinated by it, he lifted the heavy mass skyward in joy, calling to his mother as he did so.
The event seemed to go largely unnoticed by all because their attention was centered on the sacred ground within the fences and the “heroic deeds” of the players as they struggled for victory. I could not see whether or not the mother responded to his call or his action. Maybe, all present should have noticed. That mass of dirt held high was sacred ground.
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