Your Own Chocolate Jesus

While Carpe'ing me Some Diem, I catch wind of the statue of Jesus that has everybody in a furor. Apparently it is not the fact that it is made out of chocolate (though as we hurtle towards Easter I can’t help but wonder, as with bunnies, is it more humane to eat the ears first?) but the fact that it is not only anatomically but historically correct: the Romans didn’t feel the need to dress their victims for the occasion. At all.

The lack of even a loincloth has critics in an uproar, resulting in the cancellation of the art show highlighting the piece. The statue of itself has been spirited off to an unknown (though well-refrigerated) box truck, the twenty-first century equivalent to a catacomb, I guess.

Hmmm. There is nothing decent or civilized about the crucifiction. Unimaginable torture, unbearable agony, excruciating humiliation, ultimate betrayal, all the worst physical and psychological nightmares of the human race distilled into a few short hours. What happens when we try to hide that behind a loincloth?

Jesus’ ministry on earth wasn’t directed towards the pious, the modest, the properly dressed. Does “brood of vipers” ring a bell?! He hung out with the hookers, the thieves, the demonized, the terminally infirm. Their lives were totally transformed BECAUSE they were “naked” before Him, and willing to let Him love them anyway. And therein bloomed the miracles.

I wonder how many Christians through the ages and into the future missed out on intimacy with Christ because they were, are and will be ashamed to show up without their Prada, much less their loincloth. Those times are when we need Him—and He wants us—the most. How many people have rejected Him outright because some pompous legalist told them there was a rigid protocol, a standard of worthiness, or an elevated dress code required to gain audience?

I know I have. And yet even when I’m most revolting, even when no human could stand to be near me, He shows up saying “I know EXACTLY how you feel.” And offers miracles.