Jesus was Smashed in My Hometown: A Reflection

What rage must be in the heart of a man to destroy beauty? What depth of brokenness finds expression in breaking? What kind of pain inflicts pain on others? 

On the night of July 2^nd, a statue of Jesus was destroyed in downtown Peoria, my hometown. In the heart of Illinois, The Sacred Heart of Jesus was broken. His face was smashed in. His hands were broken off. To add irony to injury, the statue was to be the focal point of soon to open Serenity Memorial Park, a small privately owned park dedicated to the victims of violence in Peoria. The imported statue cost $15,000, paid for largely out of the pocket of business owner, Pierre Serafin. I decided to drive downtown and take some time to photograph and contemplate this statue. These are my reflections.

I was surprised by was the silence. No mourners, no flowers, no epitaphs to note the pitiable sight. No fence or gate to prevent me from coming close to the statue. Indeed, the whirr and grind of industry hadn’t slowed to a stop. The rush of traffic continued down the road. Machines beeped and groaned from nearby warehouses. Where was the outrage at this violation? In the news reports, certainly. In the few who stopped to gaze and photograph. Somehow, this seemed insufficient.

I was amazed at just how accessible the damage was. The hands of the statue, cruelly removed, sat on the pedestal. The ground was littered with chips and bits of plaster, sent flying in the violent act. I could see the hole where the face once was. I could see the gap between the arms and the torso, created by the force of the strikes required to knock the hands off. Everything in this lamentable sight quietly screamed about the cruel destruction that had taken place just a few days before. It sat virtually untouched, appearing just as it probably did moments after its destroyers had completed their work. 

I’m not sure what I expected. Hundreds of mourners? No. It’s just a statue. This city has more bitter losses to mourn. Piles of flowers? Maybe. But, again, would such an act be justified for a statue? A tall fence preventing me from getting close? Possibly. Stealing the shards or hands as a souvenir would compound an already heartbreaking scene. It would take a dreadfully unscrupulous man to do so.

And why was I here? I knew I wanted to come to witness this scene for myself. Was I a tourist or gawker, come to ooh and ah and get that perfect shot? Was I a mourner, come to weep and lament? I was probably somewhere in between.

When I heard about the destruction of this statue, my emotions were mixed. I felt sorrow, frustration, anger. Why? It’s just a statue, an image that some parts of the Christian community would decry as idolatrous. However, the religious images used by our Christian brothers and sisters are not, when properly understood, idols. Yes, we realize that Jesus probably didn’t look like that. They are tools for prayer, allowing us to contemplate the symbols and beauty, slow our racing thoughts, and focus our prayers toward God. Religious images are special. They point beyond themselves to a heavenly reality. They, like icons, function as “windows to heaven.” They give a glimpse, however imperfect a glimpse, of the reality of the world to come.

Coming to embrace religious images was a major shift in my journey toward the great tradition. In my personal faith walk, they are valuable tools. This is part of the reason I think this destruction hurt me personally. A thing of beauty is crushed. An image that points us to God is smashed. A picture of my Lord is splintered. The hands that mirror the hands that hold the world lay on the ground. The face that mirrors the face that spoke words of hope and life is bashed in. The sacred heart that mirrors the heart that loves me is all that survived this vicious assault. An image of the Lord killed by violence has become a victim of violence. Hasn’t humanity done enough to Jesus? Is it really necessary to destroy his image?

Perhaps this is why this sight drew me to come and see. The violence of this iconoclasm reminds me of the violence of the cross. We may never know who vandalized this statue or why, but I do know why my Lord was killed by violence. “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.”

I don’t know who destroyed this statue. I do know who killed Jesus. I did. “Behold the man upon a cross,/ My sin upon His shoulders;/ Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice/ Call out among the scoffers./ It was my sin that held Him there/ Until it was accomplished;/ His dying breath has brought me life –/ I know that it is finished.” Jesus’ death dealt with my sin problem. He was obedient when I couldn’t be. My sin made it necessary for him to come to die. More accurately, my sin is why he chose to come to die. Out of love for me, my Lord became a servant. Out of love for me, my Lord died.

The image of the broken savior forces me to remember my broken savior. As I speculate and wonder at who might have committed this act of violence, it forces me to wonder if I would have cried “crucify him!” when violence was committed against my Lord. It forces me to remember that the same violence that would smash an image of Jesus resides in my heart. It reminds me that such violence is only dealt with by the blood of Christ.

But that’s not where the story ends. Christ is risen! The story of the statue is, for now, one of violence and loss. I don’t think that is where this story will end. If the public response is any indication, this statue will rise again. Perhaps, then, this iconoclasm is a gift. Not that the vandalization itself was good. It was evil. But God has an uncanny way of using the most broken, evil parts of this world to bring redemption. Perhaps this brokenness can serve as a reminder that violence exists deep in the hearts of the citizens of this city. However, this violence will not have the last word. The scarred hands of the risen Lord reach out with compassion. His eyes and lips smile in hope. His sacred heart beats with the love of God. No act of violence, no act of vandalism, can change that. Perhaps this violence and vandalism can draw it to our attention.

I hope that this statue and its message of violence and hope can be a source of life and light for my community. I hope that it can draw our minds and hearts to Jesus. In some redemptive irony, I pray that this violent act can bring hope to the families who have lost loved ones to violence, the purpose for which this park was created. Christ has endured the most violence this world can offer: death itself. But death could not hold him. Christ arose!