Day 8 - The Pit and the Pelican

I was always fascinated by the flagellants, the middle-ages folk who would publicly whip themselves, and each other, as penance for their sin. They stuck in my mind, both because 'flagelation' sounds like 'flatulence' — and because I both could and couldn't understand why anyone would hurt themselves to cast off sin. Or, if they needed to, why don't we? If they didn't need to, why on earth did they do it?

I found an ancient-looking book in an antiquarian bookstore in Frome, called 'The History of the Rod: Flagelation and the Flagelants'. It was £24 so I didn't buy it, but while I waited for a train I found a free version on Project Gutenberg. Perhaps this would have some answers for me. It was categorised as 'erotica', which raised my eyebrow, but it did have one chapter, among its 600 pages, related to that. I haven't got to that yet, so can only speculate on its contents. The book's introduction did make it clear the book was 'neither for the prurient or the prudish', which feels like a wonderful description to append to any book!

The history of the rod is pretty much as follows: a long time ago, people learned they could make people do what they want by hitting them with a stick, or at least by threatening to. By one measure, this was a remarkable driver of progress, because it’s pretty much the core of imperialism. Get a stick and hit people and you can be a foreman or a schoolmaster - or, unfortunatley, a missionary, as the tactic wasn’t unknown in the church. If you can grow your organisation big enough that you can delegate the violence to someone else, you can be the empress of India or the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. It was violent and by any modern measure cruel, but societies convinced themselves it was the default, the natural order. Spare the rod and spoil the child, and so forth. But even when that was the case, some people relished doling it out. In schools there was caning to teach and rebuke, which is horrible, and there was caning to work out the master’s frustrations with his home life. There was malicious glee.

But the other use of the rod or cane to inflict pain and punishment, which in combination I call painishment, was self-inflicted. If you could tame others, could you not tame yourself? In decades of plague, some people believed this was punishment for sin, and that they should turn to contrition. "The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: A broken and a contrite heart".

They would choose to be bludgeoned and whipped, and give up earthly delights. They would make a little hell on earth for themselves. Now, that’s an extreme measure. It’s generosity ad absurdam to take that much punishment to try and make things right for others — or the alternative, these people despised the sin within themselves with such burning disgust that they despised their own selves and bodies.

A horrific prospect. I think some people are overwhelmed with guilt and shame. And I think the people who are are often thinking irrationally. I’m among them. I have suffered under depression and anxiety for a long time. Not being depressed about anything, per se, but with feelings of shame and regret rather much in the abstract. I was in denial about this for years. I thought, everyone else in my household and my life has depression, but I intend to be the exception. One of us has to be the normal one, to steer this boat! It was a silly thought. I’m not a flaggelant, per se, but I can grasp the way that people harm themselves physically and in other ways and think they deserve it, that it is the only way to take the punishment they’re owed.

But it also doesn’t make any sense to me, after the crucifixion. Jesus made the sacrifice once for all, taking upon himself the sin of the world. I ought to be far free the heavy cloak of sin, and living in the freedom of the resurrection, a captive set free. I often think I’m a terrible example of Christianity because, almost be nature, Christianity shouldn’t be about needing to be wounded for transgressions, and feeling I deserve punishment. It feels like a lack of faith, and I would berate myself for this, but I think half the problem is that I berate myself unduly. If I’m depressed, and then I beat myself up for being depressed, well, it’s rather silly. But I rather wish I had smoother and more wonderful mental health - both, perhaps selfishly for my own sake, and so I wouldn’t seem such a messed up and wretched example of Christianity.

Self-giving is encouraged in Christianity. There’s an ancient myth of a pelican, pecking at her own breast to feed its young. O soft, self-wounding pelican. It’s a Christ-like image, although apparently pelicans don’t really do that. I told my therapist that I am too much like a pelican, when I’d rather be like a capybara: warm, maternal, but calm, not self-destructive. I think some of my self-defeating manner began as an attempt to help others... As a small child, my older brother fell out of the top bunk of a bunk-bed and I broke his fall. I was very upset and in pain, as he had fallen on me with his full weight, but I was comforted with the thought that maybe I saved his life. I’ve no idea if that’s really an origin behind my depressive resolution to fail. But while the mythological pelican inflicts wounds to feed others on its blood, I’ve taken to my own self-defeating ways without merit, and without it helping anyone else. When someone else is in trouble, I make it about myself, by creating frustrations and pains for myself, so that nobody will suffer more than me.

There’s some extremely strong wording in ‘Come Down, o Love Divine’, which is a favourite hymn of mine, which I probably cleave to unhelpfully:

“Let holy charity

mine outward vesture be,

and lowliness become my inner clothing;

true lowliness of heart

which takes the humbler part,

and o'er its own shortcomings weeps with loathing.”

I was a remarkably arrogant twenty-something, so maybe I have been angling towards ‘true lowliness of heart’, and missing it with a bump. The line ‘and oe’r its own shortcomings weeps with loathing’ is extreme! Most of the time, depression is a rollercoaster of nothing, but there is something barbed and awful and penitent in that, as a flaggulance of the heart. To *weep* with *loathing* over your shortcomings. What a mess it is, to be forgiven of sins and free from that hateful burden, that curse, but still feel you should hold that loathing within yourself. What a messy pudding!

Tom Wright, the former Bishop of Durham, whose books are all well worth reading, wrote one - I think called Surprised by Hope, which talks a lot about humility, but not this weeping, self-despising humility. In it, he argues that humility isn’t condemning yourself. Humility isn’t refusing all praise and forcefully yeeting yourself into a gutter. If someone speaks to you kindly, being humble doesn’t mean contradicting them and refusing to accept their words. That’s the opposite of humble, as it’s obsession with your own reputation. Trying to always be the lowest, and evade praise is an unhelpfully flagelant contortion, which centres yourself and your discomfort. If you aim to be humble, stop thinking about your highness or your lowliness. If you’re complimented, accept it and move on.

I should heed this message. I’ve been in a better state for it. Gradually I have risen out of the worst of the pit. Good, practical advice: keep a diary. It’s somewhere to vent, and it actually helps you keep track of moods’ highs and lows, and what causes them - and see how irrational some of it is. Anti-depressants help, and have by no means quelled my personality. Once I stopped hiding my depression, that helped a lot. Once I stopped hiding my non-binarism, that helped a lot. Realising my transgender identity was not transgressive, but transcendant. Talking honestly about this is probably healthy and good. I aim not to fall back into being a pelican, though I think a capybara might be too passive a replacement goal. They’re too laid back. They’re all low-fi hip hop beats and warm baths. I’d rather something more funky. More Christ-like. Suffering for others was kind-of a big thing for him, but his day to day life was richer and more imitable. He just got on with stuff, and so should we.