I was in a church, watching the ritual of Communion, something I had seen many times before, but this time I saw it as if I was waking from a long dream. I watched the priest at the altar, the oversized image of a tortured, dying man nailed to the wall behind him, pale and bleeding. He held up a golden cup filled with red wine, and said "This is my blood", then drank it. He held up a small white wafer and said "This is my body", then ate it. He said "Do this in memory of me", and then I realized that I had to choose what memory he referred to, a memory of violent and painful death, a memory of persecution, or a memory of a man that taught peace.

I realized that the image on the wall did not teach peace.

An image of anger and violence. A memory that has lasted nearly 2000 years. A unifying symbol. An inspiration. A source of fear. A device for controlling populations. A symbol of guilt. A man that died. A myth.