(a)I don't agree with Gibson's anti-Semitism;
and
(b) while I do agree with his portrayal of the crucifixion in all it's horror, I don't need to see fake pain and blood when I've seen enough of the real stuff.
The Romans designed crucifixion as a deterrent to rebellion, and, to their way of thinking, the more tortuous the death, the less likely anyone would want to end up dying that way. (Reminds me of the arguments for the death penalty in today's politics, but that's another story).
We've cleaned things up--a lot. People wear plain crucifixes, jeweled crucifixes, elaborate ones and simple ones. Very few think about what a cross actually meant to the people who died on them or, just as bad, watched their loved ones suffer, unable to do anything about it.
I'm not a traditional Christian--some would say I'm not a Christian at all--but I had an opportunity to see the crucifixion in all its horror through someone else's eyes, and I have never forgotten it.
My children were three and five when our family was invited to their cousin's wedding at St. Peter's Catholic Church in New Westminster, B. C. We arrived early because their father was the family photographer and he wanted to "scope out" the best places. Most Catholic churches have at least a simulacrum of a person on the cross over their altars, but St. Peter's was like nothing I'd ever seen. The Christ figure, had he been standing, would have been at least 9 feet tall, and as lifelike as the artist could make him.
I noted him, but I was my husband's "designated assistant," and I had other things to do. I was setting up camera equipment when my son came up to me and said, very softly, "Mommy, why is that man hanging there?" I started to ask "What man?" but didn't; Dee's eyes looked like he was wearing magnifying spectacles and I could see the altar, the cross and the figure behind him.
I think I said we were not a religious household, but my kids had been taught that Christmas was the celebration of the birth of a very special teacher and Easter was, if not a celebration of his resurrection, a commemoration of his death and of new life. But we had not told a three and five year old how he died.
I put the camera gear down. "Dee, that man isn't alive. He's a statue." I knelt down so our eyes were on the same level. "Do you remember the story of Jesus? That he was a very great teacher?" Dee nodded. "And that the authorities of his time didn't like what he taught and killed him?" He nodded again and whispered, "But why..." and couldn't find any more words. I said, "Why did they make that statue?" He nodded again. "That cross is how they killed him. And people don't want to ever forget what happened or why. So they made that statue."
"He really is a statue?" Dee asked; his eyes were still dilated and almost black, but they were back to their normal size.
"Absolutely." I stood up. "Do you want to come with me and we'll see?" He nodded and took my hand. I'm don't know where his sister had been while we were talking, but she materialized on my other side and the three of us walked the length of the church and up the steps to the altar. I don't remember the rest of our conversation, but it was long enough for their father to set up his camera in the balcony and take a time-lapse photo of the altar, the cross and the three of us standing there.
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