Who do people think they hate?
SOCIETY. If they only knew
Jews and Muslims believe in Jesus. Of that, there is no question. Unlike Christians, however, they do not believe that Jesus was the Son of God. On that, Jews, Muslims and Christians differ. What they do not differ on is that Jesus existed. This post has nothing to do with religion, however.
Above are two pictures. On the left is the British actor Robert Powell, who played the character Jesus in a mini-series produced some years ago now, called “Jesus of Nazareth”. Powell received many plaudits for his portrayal; a screen portrayal must be convincing, believable, if you like. Powell was believable as Jesus. Even if Jesus’s status is not believable to other religions.
On the right is another representation of Jesus. It is the oldest wood carving in Europe and you can see it, free of charge, in Lucca Cathedral, in Italy. Lucca is a less-popular destination than the nearby cities of Pisa and Florence, but it was the birthplace of Giacomo Puccini, and so it holds opera-lovers in its thrall. And this crucifix holds me in its thrall, as well.
Powell represented Jesus as much of Christianity conceives Him. But Powell is British, and has very pale skin compared to those who are born and bred in the Middle East, such as Jesus. What struck me and my party when we visited Lucca was the dark skin tones of the crucifix. They come, at least in part, from the material from which the crucifix is hewn. However, we are not able to opine on whether the material made Jesus’s skin colour its own; whether it has darkened with age; or whether the material was selected in order best to represent Jesus’s skin colour, at the time if not now.
We do have an inkling of who might have been able to say the one or the other. His name was Nicodemus. He is mentioned in the Bible, primarily by Saint John. He was one of those who prepared Jesus’s body for burial, so there is no question but that he had intimate knowledge of the man’s skin colour.
It is descriptions by Nicodemus that tradition has it that the sculptor knew how to shape his crucifix. We have no documentary proof of this, but the crucifix’s age certainly allows of the proposition.
Does it matter? If Pablo Picasso had drawn a square face for Jesus, would that not have meant as much in terms of its symbolism? As symbolism, certainly. What this statue’s repute as being “the most accurate representation anywhere of Jesus, the man” does to the observer is it links mankind to the subject, through personal knowledge.
If I told you that Pele was a very kind man, you may recall newspaper reports that said so, and agree. But, if I tell you that I know someone whose father greeted Pele as he crossed a hotel lobby with such fervour and enthusiasm as to convince the footballer in that moment that he must have met the friend’s father somewhere before and therefore engaged in conversation with him, you would rely not only on the newspapers for your knowledge of Pele’s kindness, but would perhaps yourself even cite this greeting in a hotel lobby as conclusive evidence of that fact.
We are able to love screen characters who are not even the men and women who play them. When learning of some aspects of screen stars, like Bing Crosby, Bill Cosby, Mel Gibson, Johnny Depp, we may treat the reports with scepticism. But, if you knew Freddie Mercury, your impression of Paul Prenter as he gave his RTE interview about the singer would have differed.
And, by the same token, and far more importantly, we are able to hate faceless groups of people amassed under a banner, sometimes of our own invention: communists, gays, transgender people, Nazis, “them”, but not one of whose members we are personally acquainted with. How do we know Lucca’s crucifix represents Jesus? Because of Nicodemus. And how do we know all the bad things about the group we hate? Yes, how do we know that?
Hatred isn’t just throwing bricks through windows and setting fire to refugee accommodation. It goes hand in hand with a self-satisfied comfort obtained by rationalising to the self the notion that it is all right to exploit others, or to put one over on them, or to achieve political victory over them, or if they die in a house fire. It’s okay, because we hated them. The hatred with which we convince ourselves that we are right is superfluous: it has to be, because we don’t seriously contend that hatred per se is right, do we? If it isn’t right, then it cannot form a justification for something else. The something else itself has to be right. But much of what hatred ultimately justifies isn’t right at all, and we know it.
When we hate, we will cite reasons. What we’ve heard and what we’ve seen. What we’ve heard and seen will make us want to destroy those we hate. And that is best done from a distance, because, close up, there’s always a danger we could get friendly.
The Internet is a great means for remote contact. And, it’s a given these days, it is also a great channel for hatred. What’s incredible is that its proponents at no time seem to have conceived that the means by which people could stay in contact is the means by which they can hate each other; that’s only slightly less incredible than that that is what some use the Internet for, just as an airman can more easily drop bombs on a city than walk up to its population and fry them with a flame-thrower. So, what? Well, quite a lot of what, actually.
When a personal link, however far removed, is attested to, right down to the lover or the hater in question, perspective is gained. Nothing banishes unwarranted hatred like a personal insight. Because we seek to destroy that which we hate. And we would never destroy our friends. And friends are people we know.
Go and get to know someone you hate.
What harm could it do? What harm could not doing it do?