Frostpunk Divine Throne-Chapter 5: Symptom

Matilda's exclamation was naturally heard by Cyren, and knowledge belonging to this term also surged into his mind from memory.
"Divine will" was the element for casting divine arts. The more divine will one had, the more times and longer one could cast divine arts. The amount of divine will depended on one's own piety and the number of believers.
But "holy miracles" were another dimension, belonging not to "God" but to mortal "holiness."
The most basic divine arts couldn't really interfere with reality. For example, [Light] just summoned a ball of light, even gas lamps were brighter than it.
[Holy Healing] wasn't healing out of thin air either, it merely accelerated the natural recovery of wounds.
It was far from abilities like interfering with reality, manipulating matter, creating energy, or creating things from nothing.
"Holy miracles," however, were obtained through practicing doctrine, creating the deeds of those saints, and through repeated good deeds and holy acts, helping the poor to obtain one's own "holy miracles."
For example, Saint Martin sharing his cloak with the poor, Saint Francis kissing lepers, Saint Elizabeth sharing food from the castle with the poor.
Cyren's first holy miracle was [Wendington Preaching]. Four years of preaching allowed him to accumulate half a blurry holy miracle, and also granted him the first divine art that could interfere with reality, [Halt].
The second holy miracle was [Wind and Snow Rescue]. Just now, his act of disregarding his own condition and risking danger to rescue all survivors had actually exceeded the long four years before, coalescing into a complete holy miracle.
"Is this a holy miracle? This is my first time seeing a new holy miracle condense," Matilda said, walking through the snow with deep and shallow steps. Her delicate face appeared pale in the wind and snow, a few strands of orange-red hair showing from beneath the white headdress, like burning flames.
"I didn't expect it either," Cyren nodded. In peacetime, holy miracles indeed rarely appeared. "But you also participated in the rescue. It wasn't my task alone. Theoretically, the holy miracle should be diluted..."
Matilda shrugged, "Who knows, perhaps it's because I was also among those rescued."
"Is that so?" Cyren didn't continue asking, because the condition of the survivors nearby had already begun to deteriorate. Some who were in better condition woke up, but were only confused and desperate.
"I remember the eleventh carriage has anti-freeze oil and hand warmers. Help me get some," Cyren said to Matilda. She was the person in the best condition here.
"Alright," Matilda responded, then looked around. Suddenly her eyes lit up. "Ha, found it!"
She somehow brought out a sled from somewhere, then pulled the rope and went off carrying the sled to find the eleventh carriage.
Cyren withdrew his gaze and unfolded the golden light mist, concentrating his attention on the second holy miracle.
He had graduated from the Church's highest institution, the Theology Department of Florence University, and had memorized hundreds of divine arts in his mind. But hampered by his lack of faith in God, and currently not having a single believer, what he could cast was extremely limited.
But each holy miracle would provide a unique divine art.
He quietly felt the image of the holy miracle, establishing a connection with "God" in the unseen.
It was a very magical experience. It seemed the holy miracle was a kind of labor, and this labor served as an active bridge, erected between him and the Church's symbolic order, touching the big Other constructed by countless believers.
Although in Cyren's understanding, that sort of thing was purely fictitious, it unexpectedly gave him revelation and power.
"I came to cast fire upon the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!" (Luke 12:49)
[Holy Fire] burned fiercely, a blaze in the cold winter that would never extinguish before faith burned out.
Holy fire burned fiercely among the survivors, giving them warmth, while Cyren went to pull the sled together with Matilda.
Although the Northern Holy Seat had fallen, only three carriages were severely damaged. The remaining cargo was still there, but unfortunately they couldn't take it all, only selecting some urgently needed items to bring.
When they returned beneath the steel plate sheltered from the wind, a guard who had just awakened began to wail, holding a corpse beside him and refusing to let go for a long time.
It was a man who looked somewhat older than him, with fine stubble grown on his lips.
"Who was he to you?" Cyren crouched down, gently patting the guard's shoulder.
"My brother," his voice was hoarse and painful. But seeing the purple-black robe inside Cyren's coat, he still shouted hoarsely, "My lord."
"My condolences," was all Cyren could say.
"My lord, is he beyond saving?" The guard looked at Cyren with indescribably painful eyes, causing this analyst who had never experienced death to involuntarily avert his gaze, unable to bear looking into his eyes.
"My lord, has God abandoned us?"
Rustling sounds came from the small sheltered area. The few remaining survivors all looked toward Cyren.
They looked at Cyren with expectation or pain, waiting for his answer.
Cyren of course knew what they wanted. They only wanted a simple "God has not abandoned you." For these people who had suffered great pain and whose world had collapsed, this would be enormous comfort.
Even if they might know this was comfort, even if he explained nothing, it would be enough.
They only wanted a spiritual pillar, nothing more.
But as a non-believer, as a psychoanalyst, what he explored was "true desire," not providing people with spiritual pillars. The suturing that religion provided, just as Lacan satirized in "The Triumph of Religion," was a betrayal of desire.
"But if I say some nonsense like 'we must rely on ourselves' or 'be strong and everything will be fine'... they'll be disappointed, right?"
Cyren sighed.
No, perhaps they'd despair. If even the bishop has abandoned God, what support do they have to persist?
Those who hold faith must bear the weight of all people's trust.
Under their expectant gazes that gradually became disappointed, Cyren mumbled for a long time before forcing a fake smile, "The Lord has not abandoned you."
People all showed smiles, as if everything wasn't so terrible after all.
Somehow, Cyren thought of many of his patients.
One patient had claustrophobia because she had grown up under the discipline and confinement of her clan since childhood. She couldn't express her own desires. All desires were restricted by "old sayings" and "family rules." She feared the big Other would devour her, so it somatized into claustrophobia, fearing all narrow and dark spaces.
But once he cured the claustrophobia, she would have to directly face the real pain she was unwilling to bear. As a psychoanalyst, Cyren also couldn't overturn the feudal concepts in her family, which was the root of everything.
Another patient had a cuckold fetish. This was typical male hysteria, deliberately maintaining failure, maintaining his state of dissatisfaction, questioning the imaginary big Other. But the Other wouldn't respond. The cause was generally wanting to be seen but not valued, being instilled with the concept that "you must do such and such to be loved," and significant setbacks in memory.
But once he cured this symptom, the patient would have to directly face all this anxiety, to directly face the scene he least wanted to recall, which might lead to even greater mental pain.
For mental health utilitarianism, these people were all abnormal and needed treatment because they had problems, they weren't qualified social cogs.
Perhaps the conclusion would be platitudes like reconciling with oneself, forgiveness, moving on, and so forth, then prescribing some escitalopram, fluoxetine, and such medications.
But for psychoanalysts, the "symptom" was actually a kind of self-rescue. It sutured the subject's rifts and pain. Once the symptom was broken, it might instead plunge the subject into deeper, unsolvable pain.
He looked at these suffering people, they worried about the effects of the apocalypse, worried about the destruction of the world, worried about the death of loved ones, suffered from injury and disability, suffered from bleak prospects.
What they needed wasn't to "return to normal" but a "symptom."
Something that could suture their pain, explain things to them, support their subjectivity.
Faith was the greatest symptom collectively created by humanity.
Since ancient times, when ancestors were first awed by the power of nature, when they first felt in traumatic events that Real which cannot be symbolized, the symptom called "faith" appeared.
Cyren smiled and stood up, holding his pastoral staff like a shepherd, "Not only has God not abandoned you, on the contrary, this is God's test for you."
"God commanded the Church to establish shelters around the world, and then cold will cover the earth. Only true believers can overcome all difficulties and reach the ark promised by God."
"It's still twenty miles from here to Spessay. There, the Church has already led believers to build an enormous shelter, with warm boilers and flames, with harbors and houses sheltered from the wind, with stored bread and milk."
"And I, the newly appointed Bishop of Spessay, am responsible for leading the lambs still wandering outside to the land of the holy covenant."
He held his pastoral staff, like a true shepherd.