I was in a church, watching the ritual of Communion,
something I had seen many times before, but this
time I saw it as if I was waking from a long
dream. I watched the priest at the altar, the
oversized image of a tortured, dying man
nailed to the wall behind him, pale and bleeding.
He held up a golden cup filled with red
wine, and said "This is my blood",
then drank it. He held up a small white wafer
and said "This is my body", then ate it. He
said "Do this in memory of me", and then I realized that
I had to choose what memory he referred to, a memory
of violent and painful death, a memory of persecution,
or a memory of a man that taught peace.
I realized that the image on the wall did not teach peace.
An image of anger and violence. A memory that has lasted nearly 2000 years. A unifying symbol. An inspiration. A source of fear. A device for controlling populations. A symbol of guilt. A man that died. A myth.