I uncontrollably wept when given a first glimpse of Michelangelo Buonarroti’s sculpture, the Pietá.

Today, I was given another quiet moment to ponder, gloriously alone, one of twelve copies of the original on loan from the Vatican to The Grotto, The National Sanctuary of our Sorrowful Mother and housed in their meditation chapel. I approach the sculpture with the reverence great and lasting works deserve.

Even though the 23 year old sculptor intended the balance, I’ve been mildly irritated by the distortions of the figures for years. This day, the subtle marks of the nails got me even though recent discoveries suggest a body wasn’t nailed to the Roman instrument of torture. The sheer weight and physical burden of her grown son splayed across the lap of Mary, his mother. Most mothers would consider the last moments with a child a blessing.

In the prolonged silence, my mind and emotions went a dozen different directions.

I considered the interweaving of bread and the injunction to be like Jesus.

I’ve been offered bread from many religions. Tidy wafers of the Catholics. More substantial consecration from the Jews. Stale bread from a hectic mormon kitchen and occasionally the delicious efforts of fresh baked bread in a simple home service. Many denominations offer the communion.

From experience and clients I’ve learned Be Like Jesus is harder.

As children in Sunday school, with our crayons and photocopies of the Sallman head, we are gently reminded to be like Jesus, to do as Jesus did. I can’t remember a time in youth I didn’t want to be like Jesus to the point I considered the convent. He loved children, respected women and lost his life (some historians say) because he was giving women too much political power. He was exemplar of goodness yet employed strong words when he considered action necessary.

As a young idealist, I prayed to be like Jesus. Studied ancient histories. Then I clued in. He didn’t have a place to lay his head and his own people abused and blamed him. I screeched to a halt on praying to be like him since I was already having a hard enough time growing up into real life.

When I began to treat clients I met the dark side of Be like Jesus, how deep it runs and how potentially harmful the concept can be.

In my child’s mind, and the minds of so many children, I comprehended the be nice, don’t hit, share your toys and hug people who are crying.

Through the endless nights of monsters in the closet, I mulled the stories of Jesus killed because he was nice. I wondered how his father, if he loved his son, could send his boy to save the world by letting his son be killed. Ergo, if I’m supposed to be like Jesus and save the world, when and how am I going to die? How am I supposed to save everybody? And by the way, we’re told god loves us but only one son is special. Jesus. How come I’m not special too? Why are only boys special? An enormous burden to save the world when you’re only a child. Shhh. It’s a secret.

Eventually, we grow up and leave internal debates buried in the recesses of our sub-conscious yet our behaviors resonate our dark reservations. In our daily choices of relationship with our work and the world, the subconscious regurgitates our fear as a codependent need to save, to caretake, to excuse really bad behavior. Et al.

Think on it. Some people are hamstrung, reluctant to do the work that excites them, by the childhood specter of someday they will need to save the world then die in a horrible manner. Why do anything at all if this is the case? This child philosophy stays with us and affects our life choices.

One session with a particularly gifted therapist shifted the whole perspective for me. He pointed out we each have our own work only we can do. In western interpretations of most religions, we are under injunction to sacrifice ourselves to save “everyone.” However, when does our self-sacrifice become self-flagellation on the alters of childhood nightmares? When is enough sacrifice, enough? When do we mature to the point we can let go of our invention of the codependent god who approves and saves us or condemns and shames us? When do we begin to live in the joy of a co-creating partner god in our lives? When do we believe ourselves enough to lay the burden of responsibility down and let people choose how they will live or die, physically or spiritually? When are we mature enough to trust Jesus did his creative work and concentrate on doing our own creative work?

The question comes down to a clear division of labor. The work we do in the world. Jesus had his assignment for his time. We have ours in our time. The one thing we know in our soul we have to pursue. Work only we can do as Jesus did the work only he could do in his world as he lived it.

There is one command from Jesus I hold close. “Greater works than these shall ye also do.” Too often overlooked or downplayed because mere mortals aren’t supposed to be worthy to do great works. I want to have faith to raise the dead. Michelangelo, doing his work, had the vision and courage as a youth to create a sculpture the world considers great 500 years later. Perhaps our task is to accomplish our own work one day at a time.