Theater of Jesus: Suffering and Redemption in Mexico by Salvatore Scalora, Director William Benton Museum of Art University of Connecticut Back to Main Page

Weary Jesus by Robert Lewis

Robert Lewis is a norteamericano photographer/artist/educator who has traveled the various regions of Mexico seeking his subjects. He has followed in the footsteps of numerous other artists who have been drawn to the beauty and magic of the landscape and to the warmth of the people. While his first major project of eleven years was related to documenting the changing landscape of the mercados, the markets, he never dreamed that his next overlapping project would involve the interior sanctuary of churches and the cemeteries of the dead.

It was in a small chapel, about a half-dozen years ago, that he recounts having had an experience which connected him to Jesus icons. It was a simple act. He witnessed a man who prayed intimately to a statue of Jesus, speaking out loud and caressing the figure with his hand. This is a scene that repeats itself among devout church-goers a thousand times a day in Mexico. Yet, for Robert Lewis, a foreign visitor from the north, the spiritual connection he witnessed between the man and his Jesus was profound. This simple encounter became an event of personal revelation to Robert Lewis. He kept on shooting in the mercados, but his eye was increasingly drawn to the icons all around him.

By 1992, Lewis embarked on a concentrated series of pilgrimages, seeking to capture on film a great many of the iconic manifestations of Jesus Christ in the contemporary culture of Mexico. His quest took him on a meandering path that snaked from the Yucatan to Puebla, and from Michoacan to Veracruz and beyond. Reflecting back on his travels seeking Jesus, he found Mexico to be a fountainhead of devout religious peoples who celebrated their Roman Catholicism in tiny ways each day - in tiny, but sure steps toward heaven. On these journeys, Lewis opened his sensibilities and his heart to the beauty of Jesus icons in all their varying physical and visual states - from newly made to decomposing, from sweet to acrid, and from beautiful to grotesque. Robert Lewis found Jesus many times over; Robert Lewis found Jesus in the churches where he was bleeding and suffering; Robert Lewis found Jesus in the cemeteries where he was blessing the tombs of the dead. He became like the man in the church who spoke to Jesus and touched him. This exhibition, a major body of color photographs, allows viewers to reap the fruits of his quest.

Though it may appear from looking at Lewis' photographs that Jesus has always been a spiritual presence in Mexico, in actuality, Jesus is a late-comer, an immigrant who cam by boat less than five-hundred years ago. How Jesus sailed to the shores of Mexico from Europe is the story of the founding of modern, Mexican mestizo, mixed culture. After the successful sixteenth century conquest of Mexico by the Spaniards led by Cortes, Christian missionaries embarked upon a vast and ambitious spiritual campaign aimed at evangelizing the enslaved Mexican Indian population of the Aztec empire. This group of indigenous Indians included tribes whom the Aztecs themselves had conquered such as the Mayans, the Mixtecs, and the Tarascans. It was God's design and not an accident, the Spaniards reasoned, that they were given the opportunity to spread the "One True Faith" in the New World and introduce the Holy Family and the Saints to the "heathens." The massive process of religious conversions was undertaken with great zeal, because most Spaniards truly believed it was their obligation to spread Christianity throughout the colonial empire. In sixteenth century Spain, church and state were wed as one. Mexico's ancient heathen gods, with names like Quetzalcoatl and Mictlantecuhtli, were eradicated like vicious devil-weeds by the Spanish Church, and in their place were planted the divine seed of Catholic redemption.

For the Mexican Indians as a conquered people, this encounter brought with it a total immersion into the foreign culture of Spain. The assimilation process brought the full weight of the Spanish Church to bear in the New World, dramatically altering the secular and spiritual lives of the natives. Mother Spain, in order to ensure the spiritual transformation of her colony, sent missionary troops to Mexico in 1524; the Franciscans, the Dominicans, the Jesuits, and the Carmelites participated.

Eager to begin the process of preaching Salvation and teaching the ways of the Cross, each religious order, using Indian laborers, began building accommodations for the Savior. Within a short time, fortress-like holy houses and mission schools spread inland. Often built on top of former Aztec pyramid temples, the symbolism of Christian domination was not lost on the Indians. The monks and friars made the Indians not only their spiritual children but also their laborers. Throughout the new territory, bell towers penetrated the sky, announcing that Jesus the Savior resided within. When the Mass bells rang out, the converts came to marvel at the magical apparition of Jesus. They cam and were transfixed by the sight of the Crucifix hovering silently in the air above the central altar while the good monks and friars preached a paternal message declaring the Indians God's children, and Jesus their brother.

When the missionaries began baptizing their new Christian children, they pondered what course their religious teaching should take. How could they present images of their Savior, the bloodied Jesus of the Cross, to the Indians and not inadvertently reinforce and promote the practice of human sacrifice? Could the iconic presence and the teachings of a compassionate, pacifist Jesus quell the sacrificial use of the obsidian knife? The missionaries' response to this dilemma was to use the Aztec precedent to their advantage and to focus their teachings on the vivid images of the Passion of Christ - the period of events beginning with the Judgment, moving to the Crucifixion, and culminating in the Resurrection. The embodiments of the life of Jesus Christ would come face to face with the ancient gods of Mexico.

Spanish missionaries began teaching that as the martyr of the Cross, Jesus exemplified the thousands of Indians who had been sacrificially killed at the hands of their own brothers. The Indians studied the figure on the Cross. Although the bearded Santo Cristo had come from a distant land across a great ocean, he seemed somehow familiar to them. His blood flowed like that of humans, like the Aztec sacrificial victims. For the Indians, blood was an empirical commodity, and so the missionaries focused on the ceremonies of Easter Week, Semana Santa, to introduce the cult of the penitentes, the penitents, to the natives.

Based on physical acts of penance as vehicles for Salvation, religious cults became popular in Southern Europe during the Medieval period. Church dogma taught that self-mortification was a way of sharing in the suffering of Jesus but, more importantly, it was a way to purify the mind and the heart; suffering lined the pathway to the redemption of sins and ultimately to the gates of heaven. For the Mexican Indian population, the transition from suffering slaves to penitentes was a short path.

In the end, over a period of fifty years, the missionaries' goal was achieved; the conversion of the Indians to Catholicism was ultimately successful. The new practices and rituals took hold in the rich, mixed, cultural fabric of Mexico, which included Spaniards, Indians, Criollos, first-generation Europeans born in Mexico, and mestizos, mixed bloods. The missionaries' most successful teaching tools were the sculptural images of Jesus Christ displayed for veneration. Mirroring Cortes' earlier assault on the Mexicans with gunpowder, the images of the Passion of Christ became potent religious artillery.

Some of the most intense and idiosyncratic images of Jesus icons, which Robert Lewis photographed, were carved sculptures displayed within Baroque-styled, colonial churches. These religious sanctuaries originally served as dramatic theaters that starred members of the Holy Family in scenes from the life of Christ replete with a supporting cast of Saints set within the splendors of heaven and the demon-filled horrors of hell. To create religious statues, the Catholic Church employed many fine Indian sculptors. For centuries, these often brutally grotesque images have touched and inspired worshipers. Just as Robert Lewis did with his camera lens, the faithful regularly find their Jesus still weeping a mixture of tears, sweat, and blood. Two thousand years after his Crucifixion, the fluids of Jesus' suffering still flow in the eyes of modern day supplicants and penitentes. Christ of the Purple Robe, the mocked Jesus enduring the Passion, eternally manifests his martyrdom.

Today, Catholic Mexicans love their Jesus dearly and weave his image firmly within the fabric of their lives. Jesus is truly their King even though he seldom is pictured in the red robe and golden crown of a monarch. As Robert Lewis discovered, Jesus' most acclaimed roles are those of his suffering. Who can deny his touching humility and his vulnerability?

Mexico is rightfully said to be the world center of the cult of the suffering Jesus. In every village, town, and city, Christ's bleeding heart continues to be a fountain that nurses legions of thirsty lambs. Like the star actor in an on-location movie shoot, the parishioners prepare him. They dress the body of Christ; they disrobe him; they tie up his arms with satin ropes; they tuck the sheet under his beard; they fix his thorny crown upon his head; and they lay the timbers of the Cross upon his sore, indented shoulder. They do this so the ways of the compassionate Christ are perpetually available for adoration - He is the man.

The images of the Holy Family and the organization of Saints are such an integral and natural element of modern life that Robert Lewis would often find plaster relics of Jesus or the Virgin Mary situated in the mercados. In Mexico, Jesus is never far away from you; to visit him, you just stop into one of his many churches, dip your finger into the well of Holy Water, and make the Sign of the Cross to sanctify yourself. If you seek a private audience with Jesus, your wishes can always be accommodated in the side altars and architectural niches. Gently illuminated, sometimes with the flickering flames of votive candles, these spaces offer a degree of intimacy. Here the religious may connect to their suffering Jesus in an emotive fashion. Beaten, suffering, forsaken, wounded, pitiful, and scorned, Jesus is literally down-to-earth. He is at their level, reminding them that he became human on their behalf. As the Savior who died for their sins, he is always available to them.

Pious seeking eyes may find a life-sized, realistic Jesus who is bent forward, with authentic human hair hanging frayed and limp, framing his gaunt, bruised face. The unkempt coarseness of his hair contrasts the leaking wounds that map across his face and body. His visage is etched by familiarity in the minds of the supplicants, many of whom come to visit every day, seven days a week. They are the deeply faithful who are reassured by viewing his painted wounds and staring into his serene, glass eyes. They speak to him softly and touch him; they act like the man whom Robert Lewis watched at the beginning of his journey. In return, Jesus has many revelations of the flesh to show them. He is their suffering Jesus.

My sweet Jesus! I see again what they have done to you! My worries are nothing compared to yours. I am so sorry to trouble you, my dear Lord, but you must help me. I have no one else to turn to.

It is most reassuring to the supplicants that the sores and bodily ruptures of the Savior are forever set, frozen in the statuary. The Lord loves to perform miracles by answering prayers and healing wounds, but he wears his own wounds to remind people of the suffering he endured for them. They are the eternal fissures of love. Only through these portals of battered flesh and dripping bodily fluids can sinners find their way to eternal Salvation. Robert Lewis has touched these wounds with his artist's eye and documented them on film for all of us to view.

Without waiting for Easter week, many of the supplicants offer themselves up to Jesus as penitentes year-round. They regularly demonstrate their acceptance of the penitential code of order. The Jesus tableaux point the way. In the churches, you can sometimes see them crawling down the clay and stone tiled aisles toward the altar. They know that Jesus is watching when their knees begin to bleed and their rigid, aching backs silently spasm. Their lips never stop whispering to him and their dark eyes are wet pools. Robert Lewis has seen them numerous times, but his focus has been the isolated icons toward which they crawl. His own artistry has been heightened by surmounting the technical difficulties of shooting in the uncontrollable spaces of churches and cemeteries and by unobtrusively shooting while the penitentes continued their hushed prayers.

Jesus, my King, I am not worthy to kiss your feet. Gladly would I be the first to pass a wet, cotton cloth over your torn flesh. Your lamb's blood would color its white purity with affirmations of my sins, my dear Lord. All this you did for me! You know, I am not worthy. Yet, all this I would do now in your memory, in your footsteps, in the glory of your light.

I have also seen the penitentes in Mexico. Once, without a sound in a church in Oaxaca, I watched as an old, wrinkled man got up from praying on his knees in the aisle and walked up slowly to a life-sized Jesus statue set elevated on a square, stone column. He snaked his shaking, bony right hand quietly across the gulf of air and touched the naked foot of Jesus Carrying the Cross. Like a tiny sparrow, his cupped hand alighted there for a guarded moment; then he drew his hand back, swinging his thumbnail to his lips, kissing the imaginary Jesus face, over and over.

For Robert Lewis, his project to photograph the Jesus icons has resulted in a comprehensive, visual inventory of the best, archetypal manifestations of Jesus in Mexico. In some instances, the artist found his subject to be cruelly and severely wounded, and yet in other instances he found the afflictions were only modestly demonstrated. Each level of wounding possesses a corresponding level of emotive projection. The variety is due to many factors including the creative attitude of the artisan, the period of time during which the piece was created, and the specific location for which the sculpture was made.

In addition to the subject of Jesus Carrying the Cross, one of the most widely depicted images of Jesus is known as Ecce Homo, which means behold the man in Latin. The original reference is from the Bible (John 19:5) where Pontius Pilate presents Jesus, after he has been scourged, to the crowd of Jews who will decide his fate.

Then cam Jesus forth, wearing the crown of thorns, and the purple robe. And Pilate saith unto them, "Behold the man!" When the chief priests therefore and officers saw him, they cried out, saying, "Crucify him! Crucify him!" Pilate saith unto them, "Take ye him and crucify him: for I find no fault in him."

Ecce Homo depicts the Savior before he is crucified - a bloodied Jesus with his hands bound and a knotted cord around his neck, wearing a crown of thorns. He may be shown stripped naked, save a loincloth, or he may be dressed in a full-length robe. Usually, Jesus is pictured seated, as if he is taking a few moments of time in order to contemplate his situation. In actuality, Jesus' moment of contemplation is meant to be emulated by his worshipers. Robert Lewis' figure 1 is an archetypal image of Ecce Homo without the cord binding his hands together and looping around his neck. this type of rope may wear itself off, fall off accidentally, or it may be deliberately removed; nevertheless, this traditional Ecce Homo draws out pity through his pose and facial expression.

Figure 2 is also an image of Ecce Homo but highly unusual in its contorted, standing pose. The emphasized constriction of the fingers of the hands, the bulging veins, the lurid expression of the face, and the near nakedness of this Jesus leave us with a nightmarish impression. While other such images may rely on the horror of the flesh wounds, this one uses the entire, expressive pose to great advantage. This Jesus' crooked, bodily distortion and frightening expression draw our imaginations into the dark, shadowy side of sacred madness.

Pathos saturates the stunning portrayal of Ecce Homo, figure 3. The white, silken richness of Jesus' robe, his dejected and forlorn downward gaze, and the way his hands are bound by the extra lead hanging down from the noose around his neck create an absolutely amazing, emotive vignette. Jesus' crown of thorns is a black, ringed bramble with sharp spikes, which dig into his scalp and rip the surrounding air. The darkened coloration of Jesus' bound hands is in stark contrast to the lighter coloration of his face. We can painfully imagine his bloody hands and arms are hemorrhaged from the beating he has suffered.

Yet another version of Ecce Homo, figure 4, creates a surreal, contemporary tableau set within a religious articles shop. Jesus is a life-sized talisman who awaits someone to purchase him for use as a household charm. If we were in Brooklyn, New York, we might find a similar talisman or perhaps we would find the healer-spirit, San Lazaro, Saint Lazarus, in a Cuban barrio botanica, a neighborhood religious articles shop. In his hand, Jesus holds a sugar cane stalk and is commonly known as Nuestro Senor de Cana, Our Lord of the Cane. The cane stalk is a localized, Mexican variation. The original, European-inspired image most often shows Jesus holding a reed, which was given to him by the Roman soldiers as a mocking replacement of a king's scepter. Oddly, because of the setting in a commercial establishment, Our Lord of the Cane might appear at first glance to be a homeless man who has sought comfort and refuge, resting his bloodied feet atop pillows. Raw, exposed to passerby, utterly realistic, this figure speaks to the dire sadness of poverty, to social isolation, and to the devaluation of human life.

The Spanish, and later Mexican, capacity to view their Savior in a terribly tortured physical state is clearly demonstrated in figure 5. This type of depiction is commonly called El Senor de la Column, the Lord of the Column; it shows Jesus after he is scourged and crowned but still tied to the whipping column. Set within a glassed-in box diorama, we peer into a tragic and eerie scene, the equivalent of an artistic installation. Jesus' back is so flayed and split open that the flesh looks as if it were burned and charred. He is a specimen, an animal in a giant glass cage. Kneeling and forlorn, he is the physically broken man. The butchery and inhumanity of his tormentors is almost beyond comprehension. The column is clearly the symbol of Rome's authority over his punishment. His red skirt and gold tassels, theatrical elements of his mockery as the King of the Jews, only add to the emotional tension of this sculpture. The agony of Jesus is purely brutal. Fortunately for us, he looks downward and avoids our voyeuristic glances; we are afforded the luxury of viewing this traumatic scene without further embarrassment or shame. Note that beneath the figure of Jesus you find a bare, light bulb fixture attached to the floor. A low position method of lighting is often used in horror movies to create lurid, other-worldly shadows and apparitions. Which pilgrim would not untie his hands, clean and dress his wounds? Is he not the most deserving person of all for our love and kindness? Is he not also the most untouchable?

In figure 6, we find a variation of Our Lord of the Column. Here, Jesus is standing, tied to the whipping post. Though the wounds are not of the same degree as the previous image, they are severe, especially around the legs, arms, and sunken ribs. Visually, the off-center effect of the red skirt, which Jesus wears around his waist, gathered by a hoop that holds the fabric to the statue, is extraordinary. It speaks of the dislocation of the body. Photographically, this Jesus statue is obviously of a small scale; however, it reads as if it were life-size or larger, testifying to the engaging nature of the image. Milagros, votive offerings made of silver, are pinned on the surface of the skirt by means of attached ribbons. These traditional votives visually represent an individual's particular petition. Milagros come in an assortment of shapes representing body parts, animals, and figures.

In figure 7, we view an isolated Jesus who appears to be a medical specimen sealed up in a glass viewing-chamber. This figure of Jesus rests on his belly like a helpless baby in a crib. He wears the three-pointed crown, las tres potencias, representing the three powers of Judgment, Memory, and Will. Another visual reference of the crown is certainly the Holy Trinity. This image is especially popular in all parts of South America where Roman Catholicism is practiced, as evidenced in the popularized, color chromolithograph of El Cristo Rey.

This particular three-dimensional depiction is intriguing from several perspectives. The terrible sores on Jesus' back symbolize his scourging by the soldiers, but they also most certainly reference the leper sores of San Lazaro, a South American saint, who is characterized as a beggar on crutches. In actuality, San Lazaro is a powerful saint who receives prayers to heal the sick. In modern times, the leper sores of San Lazaro have become associated with the deadly AIDS virus. This poor Jesus with blood-blackened fingertips may also be viewed as a victim of a futuristic, deadly, germ-warfare disease, existing in an isolation chamber, too contagious to be touched. The soft pillow tucked under his sore elbows adds an element of tenderness and caring. This particular glass-encased tableau and many others like it are unique to Mexico. These often overt images of sadism speak to the fervor of Spanish Catholicism and the cult of the Passion of Christ.

Figure 8 is an example of an Ecce Homo Jesus who is fully dressed in a long robe, preventing the viewing of the physical horror that lies beneath. In this instance, Jesus holds up his rope-bound hands as evidence of his bondage. His gold- embossed chamber is extraordinarily beautiful; it is a compressed space of isolation. this element of isolation is a key aspect of Jesus as Ecce Homo. Overall, this very handsome sculpture projects an image of Jesus as the Divine Son of God.

Though they are related to the image of Ecce Homo, figure 9, figure 10, figure 11, and figure 12 are depictions of a specific variation called Jesus Nazarene. In these representations, the Savior is given a more dignified appearance in which the vestments take on a major function, covering the body and minimizing the visual effects of the torments of the flesh. In these sculptures the viewer is teased into imagining the horror, which lies beneath the robes. His kingly appearance and bearing are strongly felt, in spite of the claustrophobic compression of the chambers.

The simple starkness of the setting and the whiteness that enshrouds the Jesus Nazarene depicted in figure 11 are emphasized by the pinkish calla lily lamps set on either side of the tiny stage-like setting. Projecting a Moorish-Spanish stylization in the geometric patterning of the fabric of the robe, this Jesus figure is gracefully positioned within its setting. Facial bruises and blackened fingertips brutally betray the purity of this melancholy chapel.

Jesus Carrying the Cross was the subject of a great many Spanish colonial paintings. Figure 13 is a sculptural representation of this theme. This is the scene from Jesus' journey to Calvary Hill, the place of the skulls, which continues even today to be dramatically reenacted by crucifers during Semana Santa in many Spanish-speaking countries all over the world. Carved figures continue to be paraded out of the churches and through the streets to the passionate pleasure of Easter Week worshipers. In colonial Mexico, there were dozens of penitential brotherhoods who carried replicas of the Cross. In the major cities, processions of followers could be numbered in the tens of thousands.

El Cristo Negro, the Black Christ, pictured in figure 14, is an unusual racial phenomenon with long-standing ties to countries that once belonged in Mother Spain's colonial empire. Two examples are the Black Christ of the Philippines and the South American Mater Salvatoris, Mother of Salvation. This stunning crucified Jesus wears las tres potencias crown and halo combination. His hair is distinctly African in texture and creates a tent ring effect around his face. These important black Christs and Madonnas represent the nonwhite variations of the Holy Family, which allowed for their acceptance by brown and black-skinned people who were enslaved or descendants of slaves. Overall, this Jesus' blackness is a stirring mystery, which adds an additional level of appeal to the most potent image in the Catholic religion.

One of the most surreal images in Robert Lewis' project portfolio has to be the multiple crucified Jesus Crosses in figure 15. Initially, the viewer might suppose this scene to be a computer-generated image. In reality, it is an image of an actual wall displaying crosses available for sale at a religious articles store. The multiple, floating crosses suggest a squadron of flying machines. For some people, such a sight might be a vision of heavenly ecstasy and for others, it might seem a drug-induced vision from the depths of some post-apocalyptic time.

Dead Christs in glass coffins, figure 16, figure 17, and figure 18, lie sleeping all over Mexico and are referred to as El Santo Entierro, or Jesus in the Holy Sepulcher. To many supplicants, the coffins are, most significantly, proof of the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus, but they also emit a powerful aura of magic. The glassy-eyed face of Jesus in figure 18 wears a vacant, lifeless expression as his eyes stare beyond us. His mouth is open and still, frozen after his final gasp of air.

On the surface of his robed chest, we find tiny photographs, which have been affixed. They are the smiling faces of his little, sick children. They desperately need a miracle of healing from him. The mothers and fathers came to the church to ask Jesus to help their children. So he would not forget their child's gentle face, they left the photographs. Some of the parents also left the traditional tiny, silver milagros, just to be sure. The supplicants take these displays of miraculous activities into their hearts, but secretly they thank God that it is not their own child's face pinned on Jesus' robe.

The image is eerie, overall. That bit of paint that has flecked off of Jesus' nose, the wet glassy eyes, and those open lips suggest an uneasy death. He could be a stand-in for a contemporary shooting victim found on the streets, maybe even in Mexico City, where modern day Barabbases make a career of violent crimes, robbing and killing without prejudice, resident Mexicans and gringo tourists.

In Lewis' photograph, figure 17, the eternal rest, which Jesus pledges to his followers, has been granted to him as well. In viewing this icon, we could be identifying a friend or a relative at the morgue or visiting the deathbed of a friend who has AIDS; instead, we are at the side of our own dead Jesus. We may find a hint of fear in his half-closed eyes; a moment of doubt and dread appears to have overcome him. Like all good mourners, we must put our hands on the sepulcher and deposit our oily fingerprints. The church caretakers do not mind the oily smears on the glass - really they do not. It would be silly to put a "Do Not Touch" sign on the sepulcher; no one would heed it.

Robert Lewis found the Resurrected Jesus outdoors. Jesus and his holy hordes were standing guard over the graveyards, perched high among the heavy stone slabs and the cement urns, which hold yesterday's fresh flowers and the ghost-dried bouquets that betray the unvisited tombs. Lewis found many replicas of Jesus on the Cross on the front of cement and stone markers. Sometimes, Jesus on the Cross appeared to ride atop the tombs like a Mercedes hood ornament. Robert Lewis even documented Jesus holy cards in the cemetery.

Under the warm, sunny skies of Mexico, Robert Lewis drifted through these melancholic fields of the dead, reading the names of strangers. More than once, he saw Jesus wet with bright red touch-up paint on his cement robe. Carved wooden Jesus figures would rot if they were exposed to the elements of nature. Unpainted, they are better suited for the comfort and shelter of churches. Outside, under the celestial elements of the sun, moon, and stars, Jesus is often painted silver and blue, set in baroque, modern, and postmodern settings.

Each burial plot is a little property. The dead own it, but the living have to tend it when they come to visit. The devil is banned from these encampments of the faithful. The only winged creatures allowed to visit are pretty birds, butterflies, and angels. Crosses cast reassuring lacy shadows on the slabs and vaults of the dearly departed. This is the correct address, but they are no longer here. When the children ask, "Where did granny go?", every mother and father answer in the expected way, "She is in heaven now. Abuelita, grandmother, is with Jesus, up in the sky." The children look upward, hoping for traces of abuelita in the clouds of paradise. The parents only stare down at the earth.

The El Sagrado Corazon de Jesus, The Sacred Heart of Jesus, signals Salvation and Suffering. The Sacred Heart is perceived by Catholics as the symbol of the love that Jesus has for humanity. The depiction of Jesus in this manifestation uses elements that project significant meaning. Sitting squarely on the outside surface of the middle of his chest, the heart is encircles tightly by the crown of thorns, referring back to the pain of his Passion. The soft, stylized organ bleeds where the thorns pierce. If a sword-like knife pierces diagonally through the heart, it represents the heartache and the pain that Jesus endured. If the top of the heart is capped with a small truncated Cross, it symbolizes the Crucifixion.

No matter what visual variables there are, you will always find one constant: the heart is surrounded by burning flames and radiating rays of light. The pulsating heart is a miraculous organ, which offers regenerative powers to supplicants. It is literally burning with love, a beacon of hope, a lighthouse of Salvation in the coming storm, as in figure 19. In the context of Mexican religious fine art, the profound image of the Sacred Heart was developed in the late seventeenth century. It is Baroque and its cult associations continue to live on.

Today, in the Chicano barrios of Los Angeles, gang members are enamored of tattooing the badge of the Sacred Heart on their arms and chests, thus connecting them to a 2,000 year-old line of suffering. With their tattoos proudly displayed, they are simply modern-day Jesus men and women, who believe they are unjustly targeted by law officials. They will tell you they are crucified for who they are, just like their brother, the Chosen One, the King of All Suffering, Jesus. Prisons all over the world are filled with men and women who subscribe to his martyrdom and his Sacred Heart by having their bodies tattooed - a very painful ritual.

The suffering heart has become a universal symbol in the Roman Catholic world; however, it is not exclusively a Jesus trademark. For instance, in the creolized Vodou religion, Erzulie Freda, the goddess of love, is pictured as the Mater Dolorosa, Sorrowful Mother, a South-American, Catholic Madonna. In the chromolithographic image dedicated to her, the bejeweled Mater Dolorosa holds her hands over her sword-pierced heart. She suffers her agony for all of us, just as Jesus once did. She worries for her family, her husband and her children. she is our eternal mother.

Throughout other Robert Lewis photographs of Jesus as the Sacred Heart, figure 20, figure 22, and figure 23, we find a warm, forgiving Savior who welcomes us, his brothers and sisters, with tender, outstretched arms.

Figure 21 is a wonderful example of the heightened, rather than diminished, visual power of the fragmented Jesus. This ceramic figure, broken just below the waist and missing both hands, is another manifestation of the helpless, tortured man. He survives in this broken form as the tragic amputee, the deformed beggar. The fragmented Jesus is no less powerful an icon than the whole body image.

In another of Robert Lewis' photographs, the head of Jesus stands alone, decapitated. The ghostly white relief in figure 24, which rests atop the center of a Crucifix, is extraordinary. From a Jungian point of view, we can read this symbolically as the death of Jesus. The wavy loops in Jesus' crown are repeated in the rhythmic wave motif used in the ironwork behind it. The diffused light, which drapes itself across the oversized face, renders the head in pallid grayness, a bruised light, which distorts the facial structures.

The isolated head brings to mind the two-dimensional image of El Divino Rostro, the Divine Face, or Veronica's Veil, which is said to have been created miraculously. According to legend, it came about when a woman named Veronica approached Jesus as he struggled to carry the Cross toward Calvary Hill. She used a cloth to wipe away his sweat and blood. When she later examined the cloth, she found an image of his face imprinted on its surface. Veronica's name is most likely derived from Vera Icon, which means True Image.

Figure 25 reveals an extremely intriguing image formed by a series of decorative ribbons, which encircle a contemporary printed holy card of Jesus. This depiction of Jesus as a blindfolded man makes a visual and emotional link to political prisoners who are executed for their beliefs and to innocent victims of kidnapping. Blindfolded by the wide band of ribbon, our Jesus awaits his interrogation to begin or for his firing squad sentence to be carried out. Blindfolded, he is the anonymous one, the faceless one, standing in place of countless men and women. He could be one of the thousands of people who disappeared at the hands of Argentinean Army death squads, a murder victim of Haiti's infamous paramilitary group, Ton Ton Macoutes, or an executed prisoner of centuries of wars.

Let us examine one final image. As the mantle of night has fallen over the graveyard in the Yucatan, figure 20, the smoky skies are filled with threatening storm clouds. Our eyes can still make out the promise of hope, ESPERANZA, painted on a rear wall between tombs. The warm illumination inside the crypt soothes away the harsh grayness of death and coming night. We may find hope in this illuminated vision. Our Savior, Jesus of the Sacred Heart, stands guard over the arched portal of the dead one, a Mexican woman.

Inside the cement chamber, she lies in memorial. Perhaps, she feared the dark when she was alive and slept close to her husband in bed? Perhaps, she made him promise her a night-light in the cemetery? Perhaps, it was her husband who feared to sleep without her after she died? Perhaps, he arranged for the illumination at night so he could be sure her spirit wasn't frightened? Or perhaps, it was her son-in-law who surprised the family with the gift of light? We will never know how the family managed such an expense in impoverished Yucatan, but we can recognize this testament of kindness, respect, and love.

The illumination beyond the darkness of death is the esperanza of the living. Esperanza is the bow on the ribbon that binds the kindness of beliefs, the charity of prayer, and the blessing of convictions. The archetypal woman within is our mother, our grandmother, our wife, our sister, and our daughter. My own mother, Josephine, is buried in the old, municipal cemetery in Siracusa, Sicily. This photograph brought me there, to her. Though buried worlds apart, I think of my mother and this unnamed woman as metaphorical sisters, sisters united into one. Every evening this archetypal mother sits within the shelter of her honey-colored house, keeping the glow alive for us, waiting and looking out for our coming spirit. Though she is lonely, she is patient and kind. When it is our time to be with her, she believes our spirits will come out at night, just like hers did. She will not allow us to be frightened on our first night in this place of the skulls. She will rock us sweetly in her arms as we await the dawn together.

It is time to leave our visual journey and let it sink slowly into the realm of experience. It is time to leave the world, which artist Robert Lewis has imaged so provocatively for us. In the same way that night and day are one complete cycle of our daily experiences, our life is one complete turn of the revolving door from birth to death. Through the act of Resurrection, Jesus has promised a second spiritual life to his disciples and followers. He has promised that we will awaken from our sleep of death and rise up to walk into his light; thus, his worshipers believe and hope.