Pain in Catholicism

The section of Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses on pain was fascinating. When I was growing up, there was this focus in church on something probably akin to 'holy pain.' As a kid in Catholic school, we did the Stations of the Cross. I hated doing it because the process itself was almost painful to me. It's a lot of standing, then kneeling, and we went through all twelve stations without stopping. I can't remember what the point of going through the Stations of the Cross is (probably to be fully aware of the process of Jesus' crucifixion and almost empathize with him) but I remember what it was like to sit there, kneeling before images of Jesus on the cross. The pews of my childhood church (included in the video) were never the most comfortable; during Mass as a kid, I always tried to set most of my weight on the pew itself when we had to kneel for prayer. The cushions were never adequate enough to support even the body of a seven-year-old. The pews themselves could even be designed to make you learn to ignore the pain in order to listen and understand the sermon better. After however long Mass was, although it's been a few years, I would get up feeling uncomfortable from just how hard the pews were. 

There were people who practiced self-flagellation in the Middle Ages. Even Jesus' death is viewed as the ultimate sacrifice, the literal first thing I saw walking into church was a crucifix depicting Jesus slowly dying. Pain has always been a common practice in Catholicism, a way to push your limits in the physical realm. It's like we have to spend the rest of our lives making up for the original sin and one of the most common ways across history to repent was through physical pain. 

Maybe fasting can be considered a sort of pain. You're depriving yourself of something your body needs in order to heighten your senses and awareness of that around you. I don't necessarily consider fasting to pain me personally, but it might be a kind of 'holy pain.' During Lent, we were told to give up one thing (food, mostly) that we loved for the entirety of the month. My sister, when she was in kindergarten, gave up hitting me, only to probably lapse a week or so later (we have proof of this because she wrote it on her homework in child-print). A friend of mine gave up Hot Cheetos in high school. You aren't really supposed to eat meat either. By depriving yourself of something you love or you need, you're pushing your body into focusing on more than just what it wants/needs. 

Touch is central to other practices in Catholicism. In Catholic school, every May, we'd pray the rosary ten times every day. It was emotionally draining to do for young me, who could barely stand an hour-long Mass, but I don't think I'll ever forget how smooth the beads felt under my fingers. You count every bead as you say a 'Hail Mary.' It's a very tactile part of Catholicism, but so are scapulars and even the Eucharist. Looking back, a lot of religious practices I had growing up revolved around touch. You dip your fingers in holy water and te persignas. You do the same when you walk past other churches, when you walk up the aisles, and pass the crucifix. On Ash Wednesday, the palm-ash cross on your forehead was very noticeable as it dried on your skin. I can't remember what the holiday was called, but a priest came to school and put a cross of candles against our throats for good health. That feeling alone was enough to remember: it was cool, smooth wax wrapped with a rough, scratchy ribbon. 

Touch is intrinsically tied with a Catholic idea of pain and other rituals. Ackerman puts this entire idea into words so eloquently when she writes "We come into this world with only the slender word 'I,' and giving it up in a sacred delirium is the painful ecstasy religions demand" (101). I don't know if my experiences ever really quite reach the level she describes, but it's certainly possible to have happened throughout history.