When I was a child, there was a large wooden crucifix on the living room wall of my parents’ home. At least three feet high. A very lifelike figure of Christ hanging in agony — face twisted in sorrow, eyes aimed longingly skyward, brow and abdomen and hands and feet dripping with blood.

I did whatever I could to avoid looking at it directly. Instead I would study it from the side, the way you look at something you’re not sure you should be seeing.