Rose Ensemble: Il Poverello

Friday night I went to a concert made up of music devoted to St. Francis of Assisi--in some cases with lyrics by St. Francis.
Here are some ramblings based on things written during the show:

I.
During the pre-concert discussion, Jordan Sramek (the director--who looks so young to be so accomplished!--I give him four years on me, if that) told us a bit about the religious climate of Italy in the 13th century. Great fervor all around certainly, but the thing that never fails to grab my brain and hold on tight is sects of flagellants. These were individuals so devout that they cut a piece out of the back of their robes, so that they might roam through the streets, displaying their wounds and adding more.
Mr. Sramek called this "penitent pain." I'd not heard it described in that manner before and I'm sort of in love with the term.
Modernity doesn't get this behavior. (Though I'm sure there were those in the middle ages who didn't get it either.) In general, we are all raised to be so sure of ourselves and so self-sufficient, that the idea of "penitent pain" causes much squirming.
I can't come up with the sort of feelings that would lead me to beat myself in the name of god....and if I can't (I who often have feelings of "unworthy" in the face of the divine), it seems no wonder this sort of thing holds no sway in hearts and minds but to be labelled bizarre--unhealthy.

I don't condone this sort of behavior--self injury is never a good thing, but there is the sort of wonder in it...an intensity that defies definition. Is it a blend of feelings of near-pathological unworth and longing that mingles with frustration as one cannot touch the divine? Chronic apologia for behaviors in fellow humans that are less than godly? ...so there is a greater involvement with the community/ion of souls than we are currently capable of? Or hidden in the depths of all this there is fear?
I always feel that people who are overwhelmingly sure of their faith are completely full of it, and have no place displaying it like they do, but honestly under certainty (of any sort) there is so often doubt and fear.

I have no answers, and I'm not out to make an analytic argument one way or another. Regardless, I find it fascinating that on the one had the religious fervor led to cathedral construction like crazy, the springing up of various monastic orders (even things that approximated a monastic order among lay people) and masses of music, and on the other: penitent pain. mea culpa. mea maxima culpa.

II.
I enjoy the chill of large churches. I can't really explain this feeling, but there is a special vaulted-ceiling, stone floor, stone walls chill. It always soothes me. Perhaps it is just the association with travel and having spent some of my very best days roaming around in damp monuments to faith. Whatever it is, it's cozy to me when logic says it should be exactly the opposite.

III.
There is a special power in doing something alone. I have been fighting with myself lately about whether I need someone to share in my "religious" experiences with me--my moments of soul-soaring (music, outdoors, etc) or if these are things that are just as glorious when the communion occurring is with the self. I think I may have answered this on Friday.
I would like a companion who enriches my life in some way, but there was power and great calm to be had in just allowing the spirit and joy to flow out of myself (to the gods--to other people--to the wooden Marys over my head) and then back into myself. I've been mourning having someone to share "my moments of overflow", but perhaps I do not need that as much as I thought.

IV.
Post the above, this dialogue came to me:

Once, I feel I was a great lady
and groups of musicians played
for my pleasure in the sun
of a great garden.
A question:
Once?
Yes. Once, I reply,
for what am I now?
Comes the stunned response:
What aren't you now?