Last Thursday I read reports of ISIL fighters taking over Assyrian Christian villages in northeastern Syria. There was also some footage of people destroying artifacts in a museum in Mosul:
Being a Catholic, I was pretty bummed about the continued genocide of the Assyrians. Having received a degree in anthropology, the destruction of artifacts stung bad. Being a human on Earth, I found the entire situation untenable.
When someone I respect passes away, the first thing I try to do is take their book out of the library, or learn about their particular craft on Wikipedia, or otherwise dive in deeply to the work of their living days. Likewise, if there is trauma or terror brought upon a place or a thing, I try to learn about that which was traumatized.
There’s nothing more worthwhile or loving than that.
So I looked up the pieces that were destroyed. I discovered that there was a lamassu— a human-headed winged bull— right down the road, at the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago.
I decided that I would go there, and say a Catholic prayer to Jesus, the same Jesus of ISIL death cult fame. I would pray for tolerance and health and peace upon the world. And barring that, I would pray for the military defeat of our enemies, ISIL. All of them.
So the next day I did just that— got in a cab with a colleague and went down there to the museum in the middle of the work day.
And there it was.
It was huge and beautiful and perfect.
My colleague pointed out that this piece, which looked so looming and strong, had been “broken in antiquity”, according to the museum placard. One can only guess what that means— earthquake or accident or war.
And I just decided that my anger at the destruction, and my general fear of the brokenness of things, and my lack of control over Syria and Iraq, had to be let go.
That things simply get broken through time. And we’ve developed some great human methods for healing and fixing. Like this horse head, put together by a skilled craftsman:
So chipped and broken. And beautiful and whole now.
And even the removal of these objects from their place of origin can be called an act of breaking. Because things get broken.
So I said my prayers, with humility and earnestness more than fear and righteousness, and we moved along, trying to stay whole.
