It wasn't until a branch of my family relocated to Kentucky that I became acquainted with Touchdown Jesus. I don't remember that first trip heading south through Ohio, but I remember the return trip. I was caravanning with my father and the rest of the family in the lead car. I followed in my trusty truck, Bucephalus.
Ohio, like most of my beloved Midwest, is flat as an iron. This gives the eye a certain tendency to wander across the landscape looking for something to take in, especially when driving through the region. Little things along the side of the road stand out: the way a corn field looks like a running woman as you drive past, the family that has a caboose tucked behind two fruit trees in front of their house, a rocky stream bed cutting through a cow pasture. It was grey that day, in early winter, and it gave the ground a curious sickly look to its normal green-brown.
My eye didn't have far to wander when we got close, of course. I was surprised to learn that it was only 62 feet, from torso to fingertip, because in person it appears far larger. Perhaps it was the low building behind it, or the lowness of the land in general, but that day Touchdown Jesus lorded over the land. If you've never seen it, neither my description nor photographs will do it justice. That day, the white craggy surface of Jesus' arms stood out brilliantly against the sky. I almost didn't believe what I was seeing, but there was no mistaking it.
The son of God. Up to his waste in water, holding his hands apart and his chin upward. Across his chest was a slightly misshapen cross. True to the name I would learn much, much later, his face had the almost indignant look of a football fan throwing up his arms as his team scores. "Of course this would happen," it seemed to say. "It was a forgone conclusion."
Of course, the first thing I thought was that I'd somehow driven to a post-apocolyptic future where anarchy reigned. Like the Statue of Liberty, it looked as if some damn dirty apes had gone and blown up Jesus. As if to complete the image of a forgotten relic, some children were climbing up on to Jesus and jumping into the water below.
My phone rang as soon as I had driven past the spectacle. "Oh my god," said my stepmother. "Did you see that back there?" I said that I did, and told her about the apes and the children. She laughed. "Your father said, 'help! Help! Someone throw Jesus a rope, he's caught in the quicksand!'"
And so it began for us. We'd tell stories to the disbelieving faces of friends and relatives who hadn't reason to explore Ohio. When discussing religion around the house -- a rare event -- "Quicksand Jesus" wasn't far behind.
I was shocked then that years since I had last laid eyes on the waterlogged savior, news should filter back to me about the statue. I was in the final stages of my bus trip across America (see: Assault on America's Senses) in Seattle. My friend Matt turned a sly eye to me while crossing the street and asked if I'd heard of 'Touchdown Jesus.' At first, I thought he meant the Bobby Bare song (which I genuinely adore), but he said no.
He described the statue as anyone would: one hand used to quickly indicate the water level across the torso, and then throwing his hands up as if in exasperation. I immediately understood. He went on to tell me that a freak bolt of lightning had hit Jesus' outstretched fingertip which sent the entire structure up in a burst of flame. Apparently, unworried of divine intervention/wrath, the statue was made of styrofoam over a metal frame. No attempt had been made to guard against lightning.
"It's in the middle of Tornado Alley," I said, in disbelief as he showed me the article announcing the destruction. "You'd think they'd do something!"
But they didn't, and now I don't know if I'll have the heart to glance out my window the next time I travel that way. It was silly, bombastic, and possibly obscene. But I was glad it existed, if only because it meant that the world was a little stranger.
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Read about the statue, its history, a list of nicknames, and how PETA is going to be involved in its rebuilding on Wikipedia.
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