On Martyrdom

For one reason or another the idea of Martyrdom and martyrs has been on my mind recently. I’ve been comparing the classical idea of a martyr with a typical current rendition, and I must say that there are certain types of martyrs I absolutely loathe. Really, Martyrdom can be quite contemptuous.

Perhaps you’ve read Fox’s Book of Martyrs and find my statement misguided, even absurd; or perhaps you have a sniveling Aunt or in-law and are shouting amen (while contemplating forwarding them a link to this post). Those two stances are indicative of the epic battle of definition; and the two results lie on different sides of the road: one an ideal worthy of admiration and aspiration, the other a self-absorbed carcass subsisting on its own stench.

The key, I think, to aspirational Martyrdom has precisely nothing to do with Martyrdom at all. Men and women who die or make costly sacrifices for an ideal have their hearts, minds and souls wrapped up in the ideal itself. They count the cost and give freely of themselves to something bigger, something more enduring than their mortal pain. In fact, use of the possessive “their” is inappropriate in this context, for the “pain” doesn’t belong to them at all, it belongs to the cause. In the end, these true martyrs don’t consider themselves special, they don’t claim any significance or fame; they give everything (and take nothing but the natural result of association) for the sake of something else. Here, remembering the martyr alone is a disservice to what he or she fought for. Rather the death or sacrifice of a person ought only to serve as a beacon towards the shining goal–indeed, focus on the means to the end serves only to detract from the end itself.

Then of course we have the other martyr; your skulking coworker who volunteers to do the worst tasks so he or she can complain or wear that pained expression. The in-law who makes sure everyone knows how “put out” or “inconvenienced” he or she is yet refuses any help with a holier-than-thou pout. The recluse who moans that “no one understands” him and takes solace in his elite (and painfully ignored) complexity. Yes, these martyrs are not the same as our heroes above, for their ideal is inbred and they love nothing more than themselves. Bereavement here is never hidden; shit is worn with a pained and subtly arrogant showmanship and the martyr’s only comfort is found inside his or her withering isolated in-turned heart. Their greatest loss, if only they knew, is the outside world; the great, magnificent land of Others.

“I must decrease and He must increase” is the true clarion call of a martyr. “Being understood” doesn’t matter anymore, rather the focus shifts to understanding others.

So when you fast, don’t wear ashes and don’t let your hair go un-groomed, rather wash your face and comb your hair, for your Father who sees in secret will reward you. (link)