The lives of all humans are firmly planted in the soils of time and place. Both seem fundamental to existence, but for each of us time is place-dependent. As I have noted, if I ask you to think of ten minutes ago, you cannot do so without linking your memory, your past time, to a place. Even if you try to ascribe your time to an action and say, "This is what I was doing ten minutes ago," that "doing" occurred in a place. And if we go to the origin of the Cosmos, we again find time dependent upon place; there was no time until there was a place for its unfolding. That gives place, at least to me, a primacy.
Place can also be sacred—even for “nonbelievers” who might disdain the word "sacred." 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 (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 not by virtue of some religious leader or event, but by virtue of a purely secular action they now memorialize. Every country or region has such sacred ground. Every memorial stands on 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. And outside the historical sites that elicit reverence, memorials serve as symbolic proxies, many of them in cities far from the sacred ground they represent. In Washington, D.C., for example, such monuments include the Vietnam War Memorial with 50,000 names of the war dead etched in stone commanding reverent silence.
Around the world the reverence for sacred ground manifests itself wherever people remember events or people who shaped their culture or country, such as World War I’s Battle of Verdun, where nearly 300,000 soldiers died in 1916. The sacred ground might even be a sports arena like the Boston Garden, Wrigley Field, or the Estadio Monumental. In Pittsburgh's Oakland neighborhood one can see the remnants of a brick outfield wall preserved by the city because it is the Forbes Field barrier over which Bill Mazeroski hit a dramatic World Series home run against the New York Yankees in 1960. That brick wall stands on "sacred ground" in the memories of the team's fans. In 1939 a great athlete called the end to his career in Yankee Stadium. Lou Gehrig called himself “the luckiest man” because he played baseball on ground made sacred by those who preceded him and those with whom he played. Gehrig was, himself, one of the reasons that Yankee Stadium became “sacred ground” for so many baseball fans.
The other day I went to see a local baseball game. Parents, grandparents, and friends with coolers filled with snacks, sandwiches, and drinks sat on aluminum bleachers, on portable lawn chairs, and on blankets spread on a grassy hill to watch teens play a game that Gehrig, one of the game’s great players, said he was lucky to play. As I watched the boys dive for balls on the dirt infield, make clouds of dust as they slid into second base, and landscape the the pitcher’s mound or the batter's box with their spikes 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 in a concretion 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 foul lines and on 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. To that child, the mass of dirt he held high was sacred ground.
Bound as we are to place, we acknowledge its significance by the role it plays in the unfolding of time. As we recognize people and events that have influenced the course of humanity, we proclaim a specialness to this or that place. But in doing so, we often ignore the sacredness of ground on which each of us lives our daily lives. Yes, place is primary, but it is also meaningless without us, even the "least" of us. Your neighbor, your countryman, the rich and poor, and even your distant enemy all walk on sacred ground. When all of us can ascribe sacredness to one another, all places will become sacred.
Place can also be sacred—even for “nonbelievers” who might disdain the word "sacred." 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 (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 not by virtue of some religious leader or event, but by virtue of a purely secular action they now memorialize. Every country or region has such sacred ground. Every memorial stands on 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. And outside the historical sites that elicit reverence, memorials serve as symbolic proxies, many of them in cities far from the sacred ground they represent. In Washington, D.C., for example, such monuments include the Vietnam War Memorial with 50,000 names of the war dead etched in stone commanding reverent silence.
Around the world the reverence for sacred ground manifests itself wherever people remember events or people who shaped their culture or country, such as World War I’s Battle of Verdun, where nearly 300,000 soldiers died in 1916. The sacred ground might even be a sports arena like the Boston Garden, Wrigley Field, or the Estadio Monumental. In Pittsburgh's Oakland neighborhood one can see the remnants of a brick outfield wall preserved by the city because it is the Forbes Field barrier over which Bill Mazeroski hit a dramatic World Series home run against the New York Yankees in 1960. That brick wall stands on "sacred ground" in the memories of the team's fans. In 1939 a great athlete called the end to his career in Yankee Stadium. Lou Gehrig called himself “the luckiest man” because he played baseball on ground made sacred by those who preceded him and those with whom he played. Gehrig was, himself, one of the reasons that Yankee Stadium became “sacred ground” for so many baseball fans.
The other day I went to see a local baseball game. Parents, grandparents, and friends with coolers filled with snacks, sandwiches, and drinks sat on aluminum bleachers, on portable lawn chairs, and on blankets spread on a grassy hill to watch teens play a game that Gehrig, one of the game’s great players, said he was lucky to play. As I watched the boys dive for balls on the dirt infield, make clouds of dust as they slid into second base, and landscape the the pitcher’s mound or the batter's box with their spikes 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 in a concretion 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 foul lines and on 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. To that child, the mass of dirt he held high was sacred ground.
Bound as we are to place, we acknowledge its significance by the role it plays in the unfolding of time. As we recognize people and events that have influenced the course of humanity, we proclaim a specialness to this or that place. But in doing so, we often ignore the sacredness of ground on which each of us lives our daily lives. Yes, place is primary, but it is also meaningless without us, even the "least" of us. Your neighbor, your countryman, the rich and poor, and even your distant enemy all walk on sacred ground. When all of us can ascribe sacredness to one another, all places will become sacred.
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