Why Is Jesus Bleeding?

My three year old son was a ring bearer in a wedding a few weeks ago. I couldn’t help myself, he just looked so adorable, I think I followed him around all day smiling and snapping photos of him. I was in full on “Mommy Bliss Mode”, when the pre-ceremony tour of the the church lead to a moment that felt like someone punched me in the stomach.

“Mommy, why is Jesus bleeding?”

Oh, no. 

I jerked my head left toward the crucifix, which was life size, at eye level, and in color. I guess I took it for granted. I mean, my son sees crucifixes all the time. They’re all around our house and we sit in front of one every Sunday at Mass, but he had never seen one that graphic, up close and personal.

Part of me was pissed at whoever thought putting this bloody crucifix up here was a good idea. Didn’t they realize kids were going to see this!? That was no help to me now, though.

I looked down at his little face as he asked me again, “Mommy, what happened to Jesus’ hands and his belly and his feet?”

Oh, no. 

I could feel my breath quicken and my heart start pounding as he stared up at me, eyes wide and mouth open. What could I say? What could I do? How was I going to explain this one? It was another one of those moments when I thought, Dear God, why did you ever ask me to be a parent?!

Then it hit me. In a moment, I realized how callous I had become to the crucifix. I see it all the time. One hangs around my neck, another hangs above my bed, and another in my classroom. I’ve seen The Passion of Christ, I’ve read The Physician’s Account of the Crucifixion, I’ve taught my CCD classes and high school students about it. Somehow, though, I had forgotten the sheer horror of what I looked at each day. I had gotten lost in the mess of it all. Thirteen years ago, when I first fell in love with the Lord, I fell in love with the cross. I looked at it and I let it overwhelm me: the sheer horror and magnitude of what Jesus had endured just for me. I knew nothing, except that I was loved. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life, and I wonder now how I could have lost sight of it.

As I looked down at my son, I realized that in those thirteen years during which I had grown in the knowledge of my faith, I had gotten caught up in the books, the retreats, the arguments over whether we should hold hands during the Our Father, or use chalices made of glass or gold. I was too busy patting myself on the back as I collected various editions of the Breviary, translations of bibles, and icons for my walls, to see what all of those things were supposed to be pointing me towards.

They should have been pointing me toward a man. A man who was beaten, bruised, cut, scraped, hit, scratched, abandoned, whipped, pierced, hung, stabbed, mocked, killed. For me. For love.

And now I know why someone decided to place that crucifix there, with the bleeding, lifeless body of Jesus so clearly displayed in all of it’s horror. They put it for anyone who has ever walked by a crucifix without batting an eye. For anyone who ever put a cross around their neck and saw nothing but a piece of jewelry. For anyone who ever thought that the crucifixion of Jesus was not the most important thing anyone had ever done for them. They put it there for me.

As my son still stood, waiting for the answer, the pastor walked over to us. “Mommy, why is Jesus bleeding?” Having heard the question, Father looked down at the little boy in front of him, whom he had never met, and answered in the simplest, most beautiful way, that I never would have thought of.

“Because he knew you would be here.” And then he stretched out his arms, “And he wanted you to know he loves you this much.”

I know now that when my son asks me how God loves him, I won’t tell him about the books on the shelf. I won’t tell him about the bells that ring during the Eucharistic Prayer. I won’t tell him about the position of the altar, and I won’t tell him about how many rosaries I have that were blessed by popes. I’ll show him the crucifix. I’ll tell him that he will make mistakes and endure suffering in his life, but that Jesus died so that he doesn’t have to go through it alone. He doesn’t have to be hopeless. He doesn’t have to be afraid. He doesn’t have to be unloved.

So, why is Jesus bleeding? Maybe the three year old had it right. Maybe we should all be asking ourselves that question every time we see a crucifix. So that we never, ever forget the answer.