Last night I had this dream: I was walking through a beautiful garden. I came upon a statuary image of Christ. It was in a shaded alcove surrounded by a beautiful trellis entwined with wild vines of flowering bougainvillea.
The image was made of clay that was still moist. For some inexplicable reason it had not cured and hardened. It had obviously been created by a very talented and skilled artist. The great love and devotion that the unnamed artist had for their subject was clearly evident in the realization of this piece. It once must have been breathtakingly beautiful. This I could see in spite of the sad condition in which I now found it.
Tragically, it had been ruined by countless people coming along and putting their hands on it. Probably some just wanted to touch it because it was so beautiful. No doubt they wanted to feel it, to experience its beauty, perhaps hoping that some of that beauty could become theirs. But it was plain to see that others had been clumsy and careless and their heavy-handed touch had forever marred this once precious statue. They had no appreciation for the work of the artist, nor had they any sense of respect or reverence for the sacred which it represented. It was also evident that someone had deliberately vandalized the image, the grotesque twisting of the once fine features of Christ’s face and the mangling of parts of his body betrayed a profound contempt for the art and the artist that had created it.
I picked up the statue, the broken body of Christ, and carried it to a docent in the park. I showed her what had happened, crying, “Look what they’ve done. They’ve ruined it. I tried to fix it but I couldn’t do it. I don’t know what to do!”
Gently taking my arm she softly said, “I know, I know.” Her voice was calm and soothing but still I was distraught, inconsolable.
Sobbing, I laid the destroyed image of Christ down on a bench and walked away.