The last thing I want to do on a Sunday morning is to sit (and interact) with an image of the Pope hitting himself. Yet, the picture, once settled in my mind as it has been this past week is impossible to look away from. The reason, I think, is quite apparent considering where my thoughts have been in the last month. But first, the image. In his biography of the former Pope, Msgr Slawomir Oder reveals that Pope John Paul II often inflicted blows and belt whippings on his body. The practice, otherwise known as self-flagellation was intended to elevate suffering as a means to feel closer to God. I will briefly note here that the reported actions of the former Pope, although still contested in some circles, have been arguably distanced from the practice of the Catholic church: which is to say that the choices of one man do not necessarily translate to the doctrine of multitudes.
I have not been in a Catholic church in well over a decade, but I still remember, and miss the solemnity of mass. One image that comes to mind is of my first holy communion; the lacy veil draped over my head covering, the white organza gown with its off-color beads, and that swollen feeling from the fullness of my pride, as much pride as a ten-year old could muster. I walked on the aisle, in a straight file with other pre-teens, each of us moving to the altar as if summoned, eager in our white, like young brides perhaps. This was my thought at the time, to receive God into myself, chewing on the wafer as I imagined Christ shedding his body on that cross, and of course! too, the slightly bitter after-taste of the wine. It was, to my mind, a closeness to the divine which felt palpable, almost as if I could rub my fingers against my flesh and feel God himself coursing through my veins.
Questions:
What does it mean to experience transcendence? To feel as if your life is more than flesh and blood, more than the slimy details of everyday boredoms? More than the hungers that keep you awake at night, in conversation with things not seen. How, in this day, of manufactured desires, where our ‘needs’ are culturally prescribed, do we connect with something bigger? Is there a world beyond this here-now, beyond our lusts and pride and fears and grand but fleeting pleasures? And does this world exist as the humming light at the end of final breath, or is it closer than we know, close enough perhaps for us to taste and see and hear, to feel the blisters on our skin and to know that we have touched heaven?
I have been thinking about transcendence, as I have been thinking about Easter. I have also, incidentally, been thinking about vanities and the futility that exists in this construction of time. If it is still not obvious, I will now say this: I am a woman of unapologetic faith who appears to be struck on occasion by profound existential angst. I find, on many days, my desire for answers to be more compelling of a force than my posture of trust. But it is also this desire for answers that keep me in conversation with God through prayer. Or maybe in conversation with all the unseen beings and intelligences that crowd this reality.
It is hard to think about transcendence or the human movement towards it when, as the cliché goes, you have to put food on your table. Survival is, after all, seems to be our biggest preoccupation in time. There is work to be worked, and life to be lived, and loves to be loved. And yet, somewhere in this wheel of commitments distractions, a Pope raises a belt to himself, maybe in a desperation to feel life in a context that is not immediately accessible, or maybe in the misguidance of self-focused righteousness.Of course, I do not condone self-flagellation, nor any kind of self-inflicted violence, especially as a woman who, 1.) has not too recently escaped the grip of violence myself and 2.) whose mind, when triggered, continues to conjure incidents of violence as if to foreshadow its psychological inescapability.
I am often drawn to the subject of violence and bodily violations, not necessarily violence as simply the act that is inflicted, but violence as an experience that is embodied. Specifically, I wonder what the ways in which violence have become encoded in our subconscious to the point where we are either running from it or running towards it. I mean to say that I think of Easter in the context of what was suffered, more so than in the context of what was survived. This focus matters because in Christian parlance, it is the resurrection that defines spiritual life—a kind of loud and brazen victory that shatters death and emerges unscathed; a hope so grand it sponsors entire lives and destinies. And yet, I find that at the level of narratology, I am more compelled by blood and water and crushed bones and the death of innocent slain.
We will not all go to the cross. And, unlike the self-acclaimed self-flagellants, we will not all raise belts to our skin—the truth is, we do not need to. There is no need to borrow suffering. Our pains, unique to our journeys, are as inescapable as the breath in our lungs. The question then is, can pain yield transcendence? Not the ones we impose on ourselves, nor the ones we willingly volunteer for, the flame of our love and sacrifice burning valiantly in our hearts. But instead, the accumulation of daily intrusions, invasions, brokenness: Can these give hope? Is there something of our present defeats and anguish that can yet be redeemed? I like to think so, though I offer no answers.
On a lighter note: I cannot believe how quickly time is passing, or how much kindness I have received from both friends and strangers. More about my experience of grace and hospitality soon, perhaps next month? :) Meanwhile, how are you? Please feel free to share either directly via email or in the comments. I am eager to be in conversation with you.
With love,
Tochi.
Hi Seun, it’s always a pleasure to read a kind and thoughtful comment which is my way to say: thanks for reaching out. I’m not on social media much these days but I’ll be sure to look out for your message as soon as I’m actively back on there.
I’ll be thinking about what you’ve shared here, especially about us wanting to know we are loved and accepted and finding a community that is there. I agree with you completely but now I am curiously thinking: what does acceptance mean? Is it a blanket template for everyone? How do I draw the line between the community who mask their indifference as acceptance or those that accept because in the fast paced world of capital and utility, acceptance feels kind of the easier route. I’m cynical I know and this is not even to negotiate the remarkable relationship you have with your friend in question. But maybe just to say, everything truly is up for conversation and maybe the only love that is true and grounded is not of this world. Which returns us then to God, the object of our averted gaze? #Sigh. Life is complicated and so is culturally conditioned guilt and fear (and I actually don’t have answers which you will come to find out soon enough) but maybe answers is not the point. Maybe absolution is not the point. I don’t know, really but I’m glad you are in a better place mentally.
A truthful opening:
This comment is a self-serving attempt to get your attention as much as I have tried on Facebook and Twitter. I am hoping you'd check out my messages there. Also, I am going to engage with your posts here every month now. You write well. So well.
I am not attempting to respond to some philosophical reflections here, just thinking about how I have negotiated lusts and depression in recent weeks. I am a Christian, and my faith is fundamental to my worldview. When it seems like I have erred, despite my full understanding of the doctrine of grace, I drift into this self-hurt panic. I judge myself to let my conscience experience some relief and courage to face God. It's an ongoing process between my perceived fallings and aspired sanctity. I don't take the route of self-inflicted physical pains, but the emotional torture in itself can be overwhelming.
Recently, I was in this flux again, and I reached out to a friend. Alarmed, she asked why I thought about her at such a fragile moment. I said, "Because I know you wouldn't judge me." It then struck me. We are all in search of acceptance. And maybe finding a community that sees, loves, and approves of us, no matter how lost and dead we are perceived, could be all we need to find a semblance of sanity and sanctity.