Shame, Shamelessness, and the Parson

Shame, Shamelessness, and Narcissism

Shame sometimes looks like its opposite. When our shame becomes unbearable, it twists into an intractable shamelessness. Then we can hurt others without remorse. Unless something stokes our pride or satisfies our lust, it means nothing to us. When we are shameless, no consequence society can enforce will affect us. No matter how ferocious or ingenious, punishments cannot squeeze remorse from an indifferent heart. Catcalls, beatings, imprisonment, banishment might sting, but only those who entertain the possibility that they have done wrong will be moved to change. The shameless feel offended by chastisement. They see themselves as victims. Thus, they defend themselves from condemnation by condemning their accuser.

Of course, punishments can be unfair, for social conventions deem some of us more important than others. If we are lowly enough, we may find ourselves attacked simply because we dare to live. Society may blame us more intensely than it does others and hold us more severely to account. Some of us really are innocent victims. In that case, it can be hard not to take on what others tell us. It becomes hard not to feel ashamed.

Though unacceptable, such unfair treatment does not, by itself, lead to shamelessness. It takes a lifetime of denigration combined, perhaps, with entitlement, to instill in us such a defensive reaction to the world. The shameless one, like the narcissist, becomes lost in grandiosity. He demands veneration, asserts a love of self while having no idea what love is. He becomes defensive over imagined slights, and the anger that results protects his terrified ego.

Growing a Narcissist

Some analysts suggest that our modern dependence on social networking and the proliferation of selfies have made narcissism more prevalent. [1] But our upbringing is more likely than any later influence to cause the rupturing that leads to the overweening, yet fragile, ego that a narcissist clings to. Perhaps most important in how we develop is whether or not we receive an empathetic mirroring of our emotions.

Along with not noticing or reflection our feelings and thoughts back to us, our parents might have encouraged our cruel and inconsiderate actions in direct or subtle ways. They might have taught us that failure was not an option, that weakness was inexcusable. Perhaps they gave us too much power, or not enough. Whatever the cause, we see narcissism when we know it. Charismatic leaders of churches, political parties, and businesses often create, and then destroy, the institutions and organizations they inhabit.

Stories, too, are full of these characters, usually as a cautionary tale. There’s the myth of Narcissus, for instance, who died from a broken heart because he fell in love with the image of himself. Ultimately, he became nothing but that image, and an image could not love him back.

The evil stepmother in Snow White had an ego so frail, she could not bear that anyone be more beautiful than she. In her self-absorption, she imagined Snow White was her adversary, so she had no qualms about destroying the girl.

The Hans Christian Anderson story of the emperor who paraded naked in front of his city rather than admit he had no clothes had the desperate need for approval of many narcissists. He dared not believe the evidence of his eyes, nor the jeers of his own people, for he could not tolerate being wrong.

The Blustering Parson

A Norwegian folk tale tells the story of a parson who was not unlike the emperor. Having risen to the level of his incompetence, he blustered, demeaned others, and puffed himself up to prove his own worth, at least to himself.

It was common for him, while riding along the highway in his carriage, to cry out to another driver who came toward him on the road, “Get out of the way, get out of the way. The parson’s coming, the parson’s coming.”

The townsfolk knew him, and they tended to move over for him. It wasn’t worth getting on his bad side. Thus, he maintained his grandiose fantasy for years.

Then one day, he came across a carriage that would not pull off of the road. Though the parson gestured and shouted, the other driver ignored him. At last, in a panic, the cleric pulled his carriage to the side of the road. Livid, he was about to jump out and berate this other man, when that other carriage pulled up alongside him, and the king stuck his head out the window.

To his credit, the parson at least recognized that a king was more lordly than he.

But the king did not berate him. In measured and even tones, he said, “Come to my court tomorrow, prepared to answer three questions. If you can’t answer them, you’ll be defrocked.” Then his carriage pulled away.

Shamelessness to the Rescue

One might imagine that, deep in his core, the parson felt embarrassed, if not mortified. He’d revealed himself to be a blustering idiot, but he couldn’t acknowledge that even to himself. He had to pretend he was perfectly within his rights. How was he to know the king was hiding inside there? You can’t blame a man for what he can’t see.

But there it was. He’d been summoned by a power greater than himself. He might not respect that power, but he had to obey it.

You might imagine that a man who thought himself as brilliant as the parson did would relish the idea of showing up the king by answering his questions as easily as breathing. Yet, a secret part of him knew he didn’t have the brains for it. To keep himself from noticing that part, however, he complained that a fool could ask so many stupid questions that ten wise men wouldn’t be able to answer them, and besides, it was beneath him to go. So, he decided to send his sexton.

The parish sexton was, unlike the parson, a man with a good head on his shoulders, and he knew an opportunity when he saw one. So he agreed to dress up like the parson and meet the king in the morning.

Looking in the Mirror

As one might imagine, the king’s questions weren’t straightforward. In fact, they were as foolish as the parson imagined, and the parson would have been quite stumped by them. The sexton, however, did quite well.

When the king asked how far it was from east to west, the sexton said it was a day’s journey. After all, that’s how long the sun takes to rise in the east and set in the west.

Next the king asked how much the sexton thought he was worth. It’s a good question. Grandiosity is a reflection that, at heart, we feel ashamed. So how much are we worth if our ego is fragile? On the other hand, are we worth anything at all if we’re lost in shame? Can we see our true self behind our pretensions or humiliation? Not likely. We need others to hold up a mirror to us, though we must be willing to look in the mirror and accept what we see, whether it be censure or praise. Fortunately, the king was willing to look in the mirror the sexton held up to him.

It took the sexton some minutes to frame his answer, for he didn’t want to offend the king by offering a number too low, nor did he want to make a mistake by offering one that was too high. At last, he said, “Christ was worth thirty silver pieces, and not even a king can be worth more than that, so I’d value you at twenty-nine.”

A Good Parson

The king accepted that answer with a smile, for unlike some emperors—and perhaps some parsons—he knew he wasn’t God. He had power, of course, but that wasn’t all he had. He also felt comfortable enough with himself that he could accept being bested by a commoner. Even so, he figured his last question would stump the man.

“What am I thinking?” he asked.

“Well,” the sexton said, “you’re probably thinking I’m the parson. But I’m not. I’m the sexton.”

This time the king laughed outright. What a joke they’d played on him. But, though he might have been amused by the sexton’s responses, he wasn’t amused by the parson’s manipulation of the situation. The man was a disgrace to his office. Hi might not recognize his own shame, but the parson sure shamed himself and those around him. Beset by shame, he was unable to cope. The man sounds pitiable, and for that reason alone, he may have deserved leniency. But the king couldn’t just let it be. He had to do something.

“Tell you what,” the king said. “You go home now and trade places with the parson.”

So from then on, the parson had to work as the sexton, and the sexton served as the parson. And, because folk tales are supposed to have happy endings, so surely the new parson was a good man. [2]

Anticipatory Shame

We might feel satisfaction that the parson had his comeuppance, but shaming the shameless rarely accomplishes anything. How much did the parson learn from his experience? Did he feel humbled, or did he carry resentment with him for the rest of his life? The story doesn’t tell us, though if he was as shameless as a narcissist, he’d be abe to defend himself from the truth for a very long time.

On the other hand, it made sense to demote the parson. If he was making the sexton pretend to be him, and the sexton showed himself to be competent, if a quick wit is any indication, then why shouldn’t the two men change jobs? The king’s decree surely made things better for the parishioners, if not for the man who’d once led the flock.

It’s a hard thing to be forced to look at ourselves. We all bluster or pretend in some way. Most of us have some shame lurking within, enough to project onto others. When we don’t like the looks of someone, when they make us uncomfortable, they might be revealing a hidden pocket of shame in our own psyche. They might be holding up a mirror, if we dared to look. It’s the looking that would heal us.

Anticipatory shame, too, has its place. It keeps us from acting against our values. If we feel an urge to do what we know is wrong, that niggling anticipation of shame might keep us from doing it.

Not all of us feel shame about our transgressions, though, at least not unless we’re caught. After all, shame is a public thing. But some of us know that, whatever we do, we see ourselves, and that can bring us shame enough.

Facing Our True Selves

The parson had always been a fraud, but the only person who could chastise him for it was a man with more power than he had. Shamed and publicly humiliated, the parson could no longer lord his power over others.

For the parson, this was a nasty shock, but it’s not as if it made him any more unhappy. What kind of life is it, having to be better than everyone else, to hide your frailties, to puff yourself up with hot air? Surely he didn’t have any friends. He might have had acquaintances who wanted things from him, or hangers on who thought they could benefit from his position. But who would love him? Who would care enough to take his hand. Who would teach him that shamelessness doesn’t give us self-worth, nor that the shame that hides beneath it all is a lie?

We don’t have to stay miserable and alone. We can use failures as opportunities to grow. Humiliation helps no one, yet when we feel shamed, we want to shame others.

But shamed or shameless, that is not who we really are. The truth of ourselves is not that we are beloved. Maybe we aren’t some grand master who has the right to push other people off the road, but that’s just as well, for lording it over others doesn’t make us happy. It makes us alone.

If we can admit our shame and recognize the pain that hides within it, maybe we can start to accept ourselves. Maybe we can learn to love ourselves. Seeing the truth of who we are is not shameful. It’s transformative.

The Healing Power of Love

To maintain shamelessness, we must fool ourselves into thinking we’re someone we’re not. We must turn ourselves into a vision of perfection, like the reflection of Narcissus’ face in the lake. Our love for that imagined self, however, is as vacuous as was his. There is no substance there.

To be happy, we must let go of our pretensions and our shame. Then we may find joy, tenderness, beauty, peace, but we can’t get there if we don’t accept who we really are. To love ourselves, we must first know ourselves.

Even then, we don’t learn to love in a vacuum, nor by lying alone at the side of a lake. Instead, we must open up to the love of others. If the parson had let the sexton be his friend, all would have been different. If Narcissus could have seen Echo, could have felt even a bit of the love she had for him, he would not have died that day.

We need the love of others. Maybe we can find it by welcoming the love of a god. We can also reach out to therapists or ministers. Wherever we find it, we need someone to love us until we can love ourselves.

It’s hard to admit we’re hurting, for hurt makes us vulnerable. It’s hard to face our true self. Nor is it easy to open up to the love that is around us. But we must so, for only when blessed with relentless love will we find true healing. Then we can love ourselves, and one day, love others. In the face of true love, our shame, and our shamelessness, will fade away like the false image of Narcissus in the lake.

In faith and fondness,

Barbara

Credits

1. See Lunbeck, Elizabeth. The Americanization of Narcissism, Boston: Harvard University Press, 2014, 261.
2. Adapted from “The Parson and the Sexton,” Jane Yolen, ed., Favorite Folktales from around the World, New York: Random House, 1986, 29-30.

Photo by Sam Moqadam on Unsplash

Copyright © 2020 Barbara E. Stevens All Rights Reserved