When I finished mass, a grandmother came to the sacristy, unbuttoned her coat and took out a small braided rope whip.

—Father, please bless my  whip.

I had been a missionary in Peru for two months and I was surprised. Now I’ve been here for forty years and I’ve blessed hundreds of whips, many every year, especially on the eve of Holy Week. Parents often give each of their children three lashes on Good Friday  “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”  And grandparents do the same for their children, who are now parents. The children receive it with humility and devotion, kneeling to ” help Jesus ” in his scourging.

There is no doubt that they learned it from the missionaries of the first evangelization of these lands.

On Good Friday, in practically every town and rural community, around four or five in the morning, the faithful gather at their church or chapel and carry a heavy wooden cross to the top of a hill. In this Andean region, every town is surrounded by hills, some higher, some lower. The procession can last for several hours. The Stations of the Cross are prayed and heartfelt hymns are sung in Quechua. When possible, a priest accompanies them, or, if one is unavailable, a catechist.

Upon reaching the summit, the cross is placed in a hole that has been previously dug. Then, one by one, everyone kneels before the cross, and the person in charge—who they would prefer to be the priest, although we usually refuse—flails the penitent three times on the back  “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,”  of course  , “to help Jesus.”

There are times during the year when someone comes to ask the priest, catechist, or their godparents for a lash as punishment for their husband, partner, or children, and these are usually accepted by the person receiving the lash as a sign of penance. But what surprises me most is when they do it with the positive intention of  “helping Jesus,”  that is, showing compassion for him, identifying with Christ.

There is no doubt that, in addition to being a penance that helps to master the body — so inclined to temptations, to “ discipline the colt ”, subject to so many instincts and whims — there is a luminous aspect to it: that of “helping Jesus”, which holds a profound charm.

The four evangelists recount the cruel scourging of Jesus at the hands of Roman soldiers. Saint Paul received “ five times the forty lashes minus one, and three times he was beaten with rods” (2 Corinthians 11:24).  Other saints suffered the same fate. And countless people, both past and present, discipline themselves as an expression of penance.

Perhaps the modern or postmodern mindset (which, ultimately, mistreats the body in countless ways) doesn’t understand this sacrifice. Perhaps because they don’t understand the tense relationship that sometimes exists between the soul and the body, which has been wounded by Original Sin and so many other personal sins.

I wish they could also understand its positive meaning. Helping Jesus with what? Undoubtedly, with saving souls, with “co-redeeming” him. It is a privilege.