Emotional and psychological dissonance in the Christian story of the crucified Jesus.

When I was eight, I lived in Monterey, California. Around Easter time, the butterflies would start coming out – and not just the famous monarchs. Tiger swallowtails, satyrs, red admirals, painted ladies, silvery blues, mourning cloaks, thousands of absolutely beautiful insects flitted and floated lightly through the flowery neighborhood from early spring through the fall.

And I would collect them. A mini-big game hunter, I'd stalk them with my little butterfly net and a jar or box to put them in. There were so many, it was criminally easy; some I could catch with my bare hands. I'd take them home and, carefully and gently so as not to smudge the delicate powder that was their coloring, I'd stick a pin through their abdomens and affix them to a board. Even at eight I felt saddened by the hard, cruel fact that I was killing them.

So why did I do it? I was in enraptured by their beauty, their brightly colorful, radiant-but-oh-so-delicate and ethereal gloriousness. I wanted to capture that beauty, make it mine and hold onto it as long as I possibly could. Sure I was bugged by what I was doing. I was conflicted. On the one hand, what I was doing seemed wrong; on the other hand, I really wanted to possess that beauty. And, like a child, I was willing to push aside the concerns and feelings of guilt. I was cruel, but I didn't enjoy it.

Click forward 40-odd years. I'm sitting in St. Mary's cathedral in Austin, Texas. The building is an exquisite gothic style built of Texas limestone, with a prominent rose window that's a curious mix of medieval design inset with modern colored glass. Inside it's dark, cool and quiet, with only two other people praying silently. The tall, narrow stained glass windows lining the nave are a stunning tribute to color, light and faith. High above the nave is a stained glass Mary in a pastoral Heaven. She's oddly short and a little pudgy, uncomfortably reminding me of my older sister – herself a saintly woman and undoubtedly a better Catholic than Mary ever was.

Below the window and behind the altar is the main man himself, a larger-than-life crucifixion carved in wood. A wooden representation of humanity unable to free himself from the tree. Why? Because he's up there for us. Because we fear death so much and so desperately want to hang onto life, that we've let him die for our desire.

I think about what this crucifixion means. While the details vary among the Christian sects, the gist of the story is this: God, or the Son of God, descended to the Earth, via an immaculate conception, to live among us as a fellow human. After growing up in an apparently unremarkable childhood and some years as an adult, he then sacrificed himself on the cross in order that we might have the gift of eternal life. By proxy, we participate in nailing this innocent, caring, harmless man to a cross where he dies a slow and agonizing death. It is, after all, our sins he died for. Our weakness, our vanity, our desperate desire for immortality. And really, this was a particularly savage and brutal death during which he was mocked by the authorities and taunted by most of the crowd. With this sacrifice, like a butterfly we are freed from an earth-bound existence centered around consumption and transformed into an ethereal soul, unfettered from the earth, able to flutter into the sky and drink the nectar of heaven.

It is said he gave us this gift gladly and voluntarily. I am awed and delighted and warmed to receive it; I am also saddened to think that this was the only way. I'm afraid of death as much as anyone and would love to be immortal. But I also tend to think that eternity either belongs to us or it doesn't, and no belief in God or human sacrifice will give us what we don't already possess. By accepting that sacrifice, we are complicit in the murder of an innocent; by receiving that gift, we are grateful accomplices to a crime. I can understand the want, the desperate need, and the awesome reward that might be the result, but maybe we shouldn't be too happy about it.