The Night I Broke Jesus
Apr. 19th, 2021 12:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
storytimewithjoeAs an adult, I know that I am anything but alone when it comes to the subject of religion and trauma. Most people don’t like to talk about it. Absolutely nobody wants to go through it. Yet, it is something very common for many of us – which is why I think we NEED to talk about it.
Religious trauma can come in many forms. We all know about the realities of the Catholic church, priests, and little boys for decades and decades of silence. We know about sexual abuse across the board. We know of physical abuse. We know of very dark choices and cover-ups made behind cloistered walls. All of these are terrible and dismal. Fortunately for me, my experience did not go down any of these dark paths. But that doesn’t mean I escaped without experiencing my own forms of trauma.
As a young child being introduced to the Catholic Church, I really just never understood what was happening. My immediate family wasn’t particularly religious. My mother was an absolute atheist, and my dad was a stereotypical “Sunday Catholic” (e.g. do what you want all week long, and you’ll be fine as long as you go to church on Sunday). But, as an old Portuguese family in Ptown, growing up Catholic was simply what was done. And because many of the townsfolk still had deep and personal connections to the old country, Catholicism and Catholic images permeated much of life, whether we were aware of it or not. It was not at all unusual, for instance, to see in someone’s home a fairly large Catholic altar – lots of candles, rosaries, iconography, and crucifixes galore. Heck, even in our mostly non-religious house, for whatever reason, we seemed to have a lot of stuff. I remember a drawer-full of rosaries in the house, along with statues, and other kitsch that often indicates old world CATHOLIC more so than other flavors of Christianity. And for me, it was that stuff – that kitsch – that iconography – that gave me nightmares.
All of you know I have a vivid imagination and can be very creative when I start heading down a path. Well, that isn’t always a good thing – particularly when Catholic guilt came into play. And I can remember one particular episode from childhood that to this day – well over 40 years later, still gives me anxiety. Among all of the stuff that we had just hanging around the house, we had this one fairly large crucifix. I remember it was about a foot long, was made of a whitish plastic, along with a darkish extremely tortured-looking plastic Jesus. Ghoulish in his death, this plastic Jesus Ken doll creeped me out! Of all of the things that the Bible taught about the good in the world, I just never understood why sooooooo much emphasis was always on pain and suffering. But whether or not I understood it, it was there – all the time – everywhere. And in the face of that plastic Jesus, I always felt fear.
I was not old enough to really be introduced to that kind of a thing. My family figured that I would learn it all in Catechism. I had so many questions, and really nowhere to go for answers. But in the meantime, plastic Jesus hung there – eternally suffering. And for some reason, it felt like it was my fault.
Maybe I could do something to help? Maybe I could lesson Jesus’s sufferings? I didn’t really know who he was, per se. But I knew that I hated to see him suffer so. Why was nobody helping him? Why would nobody relieve his pain?
One night, as I could not get to sleep, and my brain spun, I looked over at the plastic Jesus that was in my room (why it was there, I have no idea). I couldn’t take it anymore! I was going to help! So carefully, and gently, I pulled at the plastic Jesus. Slowly, the nail holding his right hand in place began to move. I felt like I was going to be able to separate him from the cross and take him down. The connecting nail began to loosen, and I could feel the anticipation build, knowing that I was going to help my friend, Jesus. But then…
…SNAP!
I broke the arm of Jesus! So now on top of all the other suffering, he had a broken arm – broken right off! AND IT WAS MY FAULT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh, and to make matters worse, whatever resin was used for that Jesus was a reddish color on the inside.
Surely, I was going to be punished! Surely, I too would suffer! Would I too find myself on a plastic cross?!
I was terrified – TERRIFIED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I jumped back into bed and pulled the covers up all the way – as if that would protect me from eternal torture. I didn’t know what to expect. Should I expect avenging angels? Should I expect demons? From every corner in the room, I began to imagine eyes in the darkness. I was so scared, I couldn’t move. And there I lay – paralyzed in fear.
I don’t know when I got to sleep, but I remember the nightmares to this day. And looking back, it was Just So Unnecessary!
Nowadays, I can look back at this, shake my head, chuckle a little bit, and find the funny. But truthfully, nothing about it was funny. It was horrible. And that isn’t the kind of thing that I can just shake or make go away – not ever.
So yah… to my Christian friends out there – please know this. Not if, but when I get triggered by something relating to Christianity, I hope you understand that it isn’t because I have problems with the teachings of Jesus – I do not. Rather, it is the framework of “the church” and its many iterations that came along after that give me reasons to cringe. And specifically to my friends who are Christian parents bringing up children in the faith – please don’t ever put your child in a situation where something like that can happen. Go in stages. Emphasize the love. Answer any and every question your child has.
And please – do NOT have violent imagery around your child at an early age! It can really miss your kid up!
Religious trauma can come in many forms. We all know about the realities of the Catholic church, priests, and little boys for decades and decades of silence. We know about sexual abuse across the board. We know of physical abuse. We know of very dark choices and cover-ups made behind cloistered walls. All of these are terrible and dismal. Fortunately for me, my experience did not go down any of these dark paths. But that doesn’t mean I escaped without experiencing my own forms of trauma.
As a young child being introduced to the Catholic Church, I really just never understood what was happening. My immediate family wasn’t particularly religious. My mother was an absolute atheist, and my dad was a stereotypical “Sunday Catholic” (e.g. do what you want all week long, and you’ll be fine as long as you go to church on Sunday). But, as an old Portuguese family in Ptown, growing up Catholic was simply what was done. And because many of the townsfolk still had deep and personal connections to the old country, Catholicism and Catholic images permeated much of life, whether we were aware of it or not. It was not at all unusual, for instance, to see in someone’s home a fairly large Catholic altar – lots of candles, rosaries, iconography, and crucifixes galore. Heck, even in our mostly non-religious house, for whatever reason, we seemed to have a lot of stuff. I remember a drawer-full of rosaries in the house, along with statues, and other kitsch that often indicates old world CATHOLIC more so than other flavors of Christianity. And for me, it was that stuff – that kitsch – that iconography – that gave me nightmares.
All of you know I have a vivid imagination and can be very creative when I start heading down a path. Well, that isn’t always a good thing – particularly when Catholic guilt came into play. And I can remember one particular episode from childhood that to this day – well over 40 years later, still gives me anxiety. Among all of the stuff that we had just hanging around the house, we had this one fairly large crucifix. I remember it was about a foot long, was made of a whitish plastic, along with a darkish extremely tortured-looking plastic Jesus. Ghoulish in his death, this plastic Jesus Ken doll creeped me out! Of all of the things that the Bible taught about the good in the world, I just never understood why sooooooo much emphasis was always on pain and suffering. But whether or not I understood it, it was there – all the time – everywhere. And in the face of that plastic Jesus, I always felt fear.
I was not old enough to really be introduced to that kind of a thing. My family figured that I would learn it all in Catechism. I had so many questions, and really nowhere to go for answers. But in the meantime, plastic Jesus hung there – eternally suffering. And for some reason, it felt like it was my fault.
Maybe I could do something to help? Maybe I could lesson Jesus’s sufferings? I didn’t really know who he was, per se. But I knew that I hated to see him suffer so. Why was nobody helping him? Why would nobody relieve his pain?
One night, as I could not get to sleep, and my brain spun, I looked over at the plastic Jesus that was in my room (why it was there, I have no idea). I couldn’t take it anymore! I was going to help! So carefully, and gently, I pulled at the plastic Jesus. Slowly, the nail holding his right hand in place began to move. I felt like I was going to be able to separate him from the cross and take him down. The connecting nail began to loosen, and I could feel the anticipation build, knowing that I was going to help my friend, Jesus. But then…
…SNAP!
I broke the arm of Jesus! So now on top of all the other suffering, he had a broken arm – broken right off! AND IT WAS MY FAULT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh, and to make matters worse, whatever resin was used for that Jesus was a reddish color on the inside.
Surely, I was going to be punished! Surely, I too would suffer! Would I too find myself on a plastic cross?!
I was terrified – TERRIFIED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I jumped back into bed and pulled the covers up all the way – as if that would protect me from eternal torture. I didn’t know what to expect. Should I expect avenging angels? Should I expect demons? From every corner in the room, I began to imagine eyes in the darkness. I was so scared, I couldn’t move. And there I lay – paralyzed in fear.
I don’t know when I got to sleep, but I remember the nightmares to this day. And looking back, it was Just So Unnecessary!
Nowadays, I can look back at this, shake my head, chuckle a little bit, and find the funny. But truthfully, nothing about it was funny. It was horrible. And that isn’t the kind of thing that I can just shake or make go away – not ever.
So yah… to my Christian friends out there – please know this. Not if, but when I get triggered by something relating to Christianity, I hope you understand that it isn’t because I have problems with the teachings of Jesus – I do not. Rather, it is the framework of “the church” and its many iterations that came along after that give me reasons to cringe. And specifically to my friends who are Christian parents bringing up children in the faith – please don’t ever put your child in a situation where something like that can happen. Go in stages. Emphasize the love. Answer any and every question your child has.
And please – do NOT have violent imagery around your child at an early age! It can really miss your kid up!
