I see from your many and convergent messages that you keep on dwelling on the point of religious images; and I keep it still on my mind too. I’m going to tell you about a real situation I once found myself in, which I think was what set me thinking that our images should be joyful, while often they are not. Christian images are for the most part serious and sorrowful, and that does not inspire joy.

I had gone to give a Retreat to married couples in the Retreat House of the Jesuits in Mérida, Venezuela. The place was wonderful. In the middle of the Andes with all the wild beauty of the mountains and the clouds. Though the incident that gave rise to the Retreat House there had been a sorrowful tragedy. A plane full with students of St Ignatius High School in Caracas in their end-of-school excursion had crashed in that place and all died. The monument in their memory was the best possible one: the Retreat House with a lake by the side in the middle of which were preserved on an island the two propellers of the ill-fated plane, and a slab with the names of all the boys.

People kept arriving at the place along the afternoon, and I had settled in the director’s room, when a group of the men, just arrived, saw my door open, drifted in, and began to talk with me informally. I welcomed them, they sat down on chairs round my table, and we began to acquaint ourselves with one another, as that is the best way to begin a Retreat, and I knew it.

I plunged into the cheerful give-and-take, but soon I noticed an obvious problem. On my table, just by my side, was a religious image. It was a life-sized bust of the Ecce Homo, that is Christ in his Passion in Pilate’s court, with the crown of thorns, his face full of blood, the reed as sceptre in his hands, and the scarlet mantle the Roman soldiers have wrapped round his back in scorn. It was a very realistic image, full-size, and it occupied the whole left side on my table.

All very devout, to be sure. But I looked at the suffering Christ, looked at my friends all round, and I couldn’t miss the contrast. My friends were talking, laughing, telling jokes, fooling with each other; all had beer cans in their hands, and several were smoking. And just in front of them was Christ with his thorns and his blood. That did not fit. I tried to draw their attention away from the sight and joined their talk intently. I didn’t want to spoil for them that first contact that was greatly going to help the Retreat. I wasn’t going to tell them to put out their cigarettes, to throw away their beers, to kneel down, and to start saying the rosary before the Suffering Christ. There would be time enough for prayer the following days. So we talked and laughed and they drank and they smoked as much as they wanted. They finally left after that auspicious informal inauguration of the Retreat.

When they had left and the smoke of their cigarettes was dispersed, I closed the door of the room. I took in my hands the image of the Suffering Christ, I kissed him on the forehead, I lifted it carefully as it was heavy, and I lovingly placed it inside the large cupboard against the wall. I closed the cupboard, and there it remained hidden all the days of the Retreat while I received the retreatants in the room, listened to them, spoke with them, smiled to them, and encouraged them in their spiritual endeavour. The Suffering Christ surely blessed them from his hiding in the cupboard, but did not form part of the ornaments in the room so long as I stayed in it. I wanted joy, and joy is not possible before a head crowned with thorns.

Once the Retreat was over, I took out the Suffering Christ from his hiding, placed it back on the table, kissed him on his forehead, and left it there for the next Retreat director to deal with. This happened quite some years ago, and I suppose the bust is still there. The lesson I learned is also with me still.