i can remember being a young girl looking up at a life size crucifix in our church. it should have been a horrible image to a child. Jesus looked in so much pain looking up to the heavens. blood dripping down His face and neck from big huge thorns that dug into his scalp and more blood ran down his side, hands, and feet. a bone sticking out of His knee. the nails looked huge and painful. but all i could think of is God loved me that much and how important it was for me to try not to sin so i wouldnt put anymore pain on Christ. if all we ever see are the good feely things about our faith, especially the children, arent we robbing Jesus Christ and ourselves of the image of the greatest act of love ever throughout all of mankind?
Great post

It reminded me of Paul Thigpen’s beautiful conversion story in
Surprised by Truth. Here is an excerpt:
His Open Arms Welcomed Me
I was quite young the first time I saw him, so I don’t remember where it happened. But I do remember being terrified by the sight: that tortured man, thorn-crowned, blood-bathed, forsaken. The sculptor had spared no crease of agony; the painter, no crimson stroke. He was a nightmare in wood.
Yet I was strangely drawn to him as well. His open arms welcomed me; his uncovered breast stretched out like a refuge. I wanted to touch him.
Of course, I knew who he was. After all, I’d won the big prize—a Hershey Bar—for being the first kindergartner in our little Southern Presbyterian church to memorize the books of the Bible. And my parents had busted with pride on the morning when I stood before the congregation to recite the grand old affirmations of the Westminster Confession: Man’s chief end is to glorify God and to enjoy him forever. . . .
But in our church the cross on the wall was empty and clean. We read about the blood, we sang about the blood, but we didn’t splash it on our walls and doorposts.
In the years to follow, the man on the cross haunted me. When I found out that a schoolmate wore a crucifix around his neck, I asked my father to get me one. But he shook his head and said, “That’s just for Catholics.” There was no malice in his words; he simply spoke matter-of-factly, in the same way he might have observed that yarmulkes were just for Jews.
One day my aunt from New York came south to visit. She was always inheriting odd items from boarders in the residential motel where she worked, and this time she shared them with us. In a box of assorted old treasures calculated to fascinate a little boy for hours, I found him.
He was plaster of Paris, unfinished, maybe a foot long, cross and all. I ran my fingers over the smooth surface. The details were remarkable for so humble a work, though he had a flaw in his right foot. He was beautiful. But he was too white, too clean. So I found some old watercolors and painted every detail lovingly, with crimson dominating the whole. Then I kept him under my bed and took him out regularly so I could look at him, touch him, and wonder why he should be in some Catholic home instead of mine.
You can read the entire conversion story on EWTN’s wesite:
ewtn.com/library/ANSWERS/SURPRISE.htm
:harp: