Jesus is hanging on a metal cross. This cross is part of a stand so it is freestanding rather than designed to hang on the wall. The metal is silver and Jesus is silver and the nails that are attaching him to the cross are silver. The cross and stand are about a foot and a half tall and the base is round. The cross is not just two straight pieces of metal in the shape of a T, but rather the T has scalloped edges on both sides and on top. The element that makes this crucifix different from others that I’ve seen is that around the base and up through the T of the cross, there are intricate mosaic pictures. For example, right behind Jesus’s head is a white dove with its wings spread on a blue background. The dove has a halo around its head and the mosaic work is so fine that you can see individual pieces that have been placed to show the feathers on the dove’s body and on its wings. The dove’s beak is yellow and its one eye is black, but you can also see the white of its eye next to the black pupil. On each of the three points of the T there are buildings created in tiny pieces of mosaic tiles. The top one has three domes and suggests it might be St. Petersburg, where the Russian Orthodox church resides. All the buildings are public buildings, not churches, and they all have columns out front and many steps leading up to their wide porches and each has a tower on top. This is quite an accomplishment in tiny pieces of mosaic, and the time it must have taken to construct these scenes, which surely were hand done, must have been considerable. I can imagine a dark headed man leaned over a work table, carefully selecting each tiny piece of tile to form the varying shades of blue sky that serve as the backdrop to these buildings. That man would have to possess such patience to undertake this sort of art work, creating pictures one tiny piece at a time.
This crucifix has another story, as well. It came to us from our old friend Bud, who was a Catholic monk for a few short years, along with his old friend, Carl, who actually owned this crucifix. Or rather, as Bud told us, probably stole it from the monastery where they were living. Carl had a bad habit of stealing things: money from the collection plate, along with swigging down the wine after the mass, and taking anything else that suited him. He didn’t linger at the monastery for obvious reasons, and he carried his habit of pilfering with him throughout his life. When he died, we happened to be there for his estate sale, and neighbors came by to see if Carl had that stray piece of silver that went missing after one of his visits to their homes. No one held any malice towards him for his petty thievery – he was a charming sort of man – but his exploits did not go unnoticed. And this crucifix holds a special place in our home primarily because of the irony of its procurement: a man in the house of the Lord, presumably working hard to be better, lifting it one night simply because he couldn’t help himself. A regular kleptomaniac, I think would be the best way to describe Carl. He didn’t want to sell this crucifix. He just had to steal it for some reason or other. An act that propelled him forward in life: one petty theft after another until his home upon his death was a veritable treasure trove of objects waiting to be retrieved by their rightful owners. I don’t know the monastery where Bud and Carl were. I’m not sure I would feel a need to return the crucifix even if I knew. There’s something satisfying about having this object in my life. It reminds me that we’re all fallible, each in our own way.
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