On Defacing a Crucifix

March 11, 2013Jonathan Edwards

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When my wife and I were first married, my brother gave us a crucifix for Christmas. It was ugly.

Not ugly like one would assume a desert wanderer to be.

Ugly like the racist image of European perfection. The face of a movie star. Brad or Johnny, maybe. Muscles flexed. A perfect six pack. Not a scratch on him. The look on his face might suggest that he was only mildly annoyed with his arrest and execution, as if to say: “My God, my God, is this gonna take long?”

The edges of the cross were not hard wood, but adorned with a sort of crown molding, each end carefully crafted into a flower. This was a decorative piece. Hardly an event to be testified to and mourned.

To be fair, the gift’s inspiration came from a favorite professor who insisted on hanging an image of the tortured Christ above the whiteboard at the beginning of each class session. This act, for us, was alive with rebellion and inspiration. The religous culture of our childhood had crosses, but no Christ hung from them. He was resurrected, in glory. We were to climb to his golden throne and perfect example, not sit at the foot of his cross and execution. And, even though we knew that our Lord hung between two thieves, those who suffered post-resurection were not sharing in the suffering of an empathetic and compassionate God, but living in rebellion and deserving of punishment. When the good professor hung the symbol in the classroom and pointed to it almost daily in his lecture, it was as if God were born new, in our minds. Or, better, born new into the world.

For too long, the voice of God has been the deep voice of my father, Luther. Judging with certainty. Memorizing scripture and waving it like a gavel.

Even at the adult age of 31, I am torn by a deep love for my dad and a deep frustration with the way he has used religion to guilt and shame. I feel the need, all at once, to allow his hand to push me to the ground, bowing in submission, and to scream through my teeth that I want no god, no master other than the Christ who is in the dirt, bloodied, with his friends: thieves, whores, cowardly disciples, questioning soldiers.

I did not have any intention to work out frustration or get creative when I entered the garage. I just wanted to have a smoke and listen to some music. Throw some darts and end the weekend in relaxation. My wife had been finishing some furniture where the gaudy image was hanging, exiled from the high traffic areas of our space ever since I brought it home from that Christmas gathering 4 years earlier. I picked up a can of spray paint at random and sprayed his face: yellow. Then another: blue. Another: green. I picked up a jar of white house paint, dipped my fingers in and flung the milky splatter across it. I ashed my smoke on his head once and then, liking the visual effect, dumped a near-by ash tray over it, the grit sticking to the wet paint.

I stared at it. I spit at it.

I felt, all at once, shame and freedom. Like blaspheming and worshipping. Like crucifixion and resurrection. Like servant and king.

INRI, written above on a waving banner like a flag of war. “King of the Jews.”

King of those who wander the desert, complaining. King of those who would push him away. King of those who would conspire to have him killed because they could not stand his voice any longer.

King of me, heretic. Who spat on his face and put a cigarette out on his ribs.

King, perhaps, of those tired of being forced to bow.

Of those whose hearts begin to wonder and dance, like flowers turning to face the new sun, at the hope of a God who gets down with us. We look forward to days, experiences when those silly thoughts can be pulled from the dusty shoe boxes in the closets of our minds. Or, we hope, from everyone’s mind!

This king of servants is all, and in all. All of you, all of me. All spit and paint and cigarette ash. All creation bows.

Tagged as: Authority, Crucifix, defacing, religion

  • Matt M

    Powerful. I totally felt the tension you experienced as I read what you wrote…the paradoxical rush of simultaneously experiencing the shame of defacing an image of Christ and liberating yourself from false notions of Him, participating both in His crucifixion and glorification. Very nice.

  • mariakirby

    Hi,

    Thanks so much for sharing. I have had similar thoughts as I have contemplated forgiveness. I thought you might appreciate a similarly themed interactive art experience that I made for Lent last year: http://thoughtloose.blogspot.com/search/label/religious

  • http://twitter.com/thesilentrising Jay Potter

    I think this blog post is the most spiritually impactful that I have read in a great while. Thank you for telling us about such a deeply spiritual moment you had with that ugly crucifix. I’ve had similar thoughts to do to such artifacts but could never bring myself to do so. And now I want to have a smoke…and search for an ugly European crucifix. Thank you.

  • Dave Trowbridge

    Quite lovely; thank you. Sort of your own “Piss Christ.”

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