My husband's business is the local Christian bookstore. We sell Bibles, music, books. Some giftware. Most of our customers are of the evangelical persuasion, but occasionally someone Catholic comes in looking for a particular item.
We personally don't use, wouldn't know how to really, a rosary or the deuterocanonicals but lots of people do, and it's a small town, so we try to keep a few of these things in stock.
We also carry crucifixes. Little ones on chains, big ones to hang on the wall. Growing up Pentecostal, I was always taught that crucifixes were, if not actually wrong, misguided things. You see, Jesus isn't still on the cross. And to portray him as such was to belittle his victory over death. To miss the point.
Since then, I've come to appreciate the image. Not to dwell on, but to be reminded.
So the other day we went to a Catholic supplier in Toronto to restock our supply of crucifixes. It's a very interesting store - so different from ours - and we poked around for a while, eavesdropped on the staff complaining about one of their suppliers who is also one of ours, admired the prints from the St. John's Bible, then picked up our purchase from the wholesale office and left.
When we got home, my husband needed to put price stickers on each of the half dozen that we'd bought, so he took them out of their white boxboard boxes.
When he opened one of them, something fell out and onto the kitchen floor. A tiny brass coloured nail. We figured it was for hanging the cross on the wall.
But no.
On closer examination, one of Jesus' hands was missing the nail that should have been holding it to the wood. There was a tiny perfect round hole in the middle of his right palm. And a tiny perfect brass nail lying in mine.
Um, yeah. Now what?
After some brief discussion, it was decided that I, as designated tool person in our house, should go get a hammer and put the thing back.
I should hammer the nail back into Jesus' hand.
What? Seriously? No way. Really? I don't want to hammer the nail into his hand. What am I, a lame sermon illustration?
Either that, or we drive all the way back to TO to exchange it for another one.
I was kind of hoping the hammer would be missing. No such luck.
So I sat at the dining room table and nailed Jesus to the cross.
Once the nail was in place, the tension of the arm being held down caused the other one to pop out. So I nailed that one, too.
If I get struck by lightning, you'll know why.
r
We personally don't use, wouldn't know how to really, a rosary or the deuterocanonicals but lots of people do, and it's a small town, so we try to keep a few of these things in stock.
We also carry crucifixes. Little ones on chains, big ones to hang on the wall. Growing up Pentecostal, I was always taught that crucifixes were, if not actually wrong, misguided things. You see, Jesus isn't still on the cross. And to portray him as such was to belittle his victory over death. To miss the point.
Since then, I've come to appreciate the image. Not to dwell on, but to be reminded.
So the other day we went to a Catholic supplier in Toronto to restock our supply of crucifixes. It's a very interesting store - so different from ours - and we poked around for a while, eavesdropped on the staff complaining about one of their suppliers who is also one of ours, admired the prints from the St. John's Bible, then picked up our purchase from the wholesale office and left.
When we got home, my husband needed to put price stickers on each of the half dozen that we'd bought, so he took them out of their white boxboard boxes.
When he opened one of them, something fell out and onto the kitchen floor. A tiny brass coloured nail. We figured it was for hanging the cross on the wall.
But no.
On closer examination, one of Jesus' hands was missing the nail that should have been holding it to the wood. There was a tiny perfect round hole in the middle of his right palm. And a tiny perfect brass nail lying in mine.
Um, yeah. Now what?
After some brief discussion, it was decided that I, as designated tool person in our house, should go get a hammer and put the thing back.
I should hammer the nail back into Jesus' hand.
What? Seriously? No way. Really? I don't want to hammer the nail into his hand. What am I, a lame sermon illustration?
Either that, or we drive all the way back to TO to exchange it for another one.
I was kind of hoping the hammer would be missing. No such luck.
So I sat at the dining room table and nailed Jesus to the cross.
Once the nail was in place, the tension of the arm being held down caused the other one to pop out. So I nailed that one, too.
If I get struck by lightning, you'll know why.
r
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