What about the wounds?
I’ve always been touched by the intimacy of the two Gospel of John resurrection accounts when Jesus enters the locked room. In the first he breathes the Holy Spirit on the disciples sending them out into the world. (This is such a different story than the Acts Holy Spirit falling like flames on the gathered.) John goes on to include Jesus’ showing his wounds to his friends and inviting them to belief. It’s intimate and vulnerable.
Sunday at St. Mary’s, Anchorage, the preacher focused on John’s second locked-room appearance and on Thomas, the so-called Doubting one, and how he should better be called the Brave one for his apostolic journeys all the way to India that followed.(1) But what caught my attention as I heard the oh-so-familiar reading was Thomas’ claim that he would not believe in Jesus’ appearance unless he could touch his wounds. And perhaps you’ve seen the famous Caravaggio painting of him doing just that.(2)
In my experience there aren’t many people who actually want to touch another person’s wounds—or for that matter be present to them. I think of my pastoral visits to nursing homes, rehab centers, hospitals, and especially a “County Facility of Last Resort” I’ll call it—a place where people who could not afford other care ended up. I went there as part of a rota of interfaith ministers to lead services. Patients were wheeled in on their beds or in chairs. Most were heavily drugged. Younger people who had been in terrible accidents, now bedridden for life, older people with dementia or other debilitating conditions: the place was filled with wounds. And, as I learned most of the patients there were hardly ever visited. I remember looking at one young man staring vacantly at the ceiling from his bed and thinking “this could be my son.” How painful it would be to visit him. Could I do it?
Our culture devotes itself to pretending that there are no wounds. There are senior-living gated communities: I’ve often wondered if the gates were to keep danger out or to keep the elderly in. Death and dying kept out of sight. Coverage of gun violence focuses on the incident, and the causality count, the perpetrator—but there is rarely attention paid to the wounded. To the wounds of the survivors. A few good thoughts and prayers offered (and sometimes not even that) and then get on with life. As though there were/are no wounds.
Frankly, many of us do not want to touch anyone else’s wounds. It’s almost impossible to be present to another in their wounds without getting in touch with my own fragility, and my own wounds. To be present to the wounded is to know my own vulnerability. (In that sense we can perhaps view Thomas as the Brave before he left for India.)
And then, there is Jesus. He greets Thomas by sharing his wounds and inviting him to touch them. The text does not tell us if he did. I rather think Thomas didn’t touch them. The fact of Jesus’ showing his wounds was enough—perhaps more than enough. Knowing what we now know about trauma and how it can be re-triggered I imagine just seeing those wounds took Thomas back to the crucifixion. Jesus inviting Thomas to be present to him, in his woundedness. This is real, Thomas.
Most of us don’t want to let others know we are wounded. We’re raised to be more of a keep-up-the-appearance of “How are you?” “Fine, I’m Fine.”(3)
To share my wounds is to be vulnerable.
Of course, when we don’t dare share our wounds, often they come out in ways that are harmful or over-reactive. As a modest example, I think of a person I know who was standing in line at a gathering in a small theater. A woman who was trying to redirect the line touched them lightly on the arm to get their attention. They screamed, “Don’t touch me! Don’t you ever touch me!” An awkward silence fell. I suspect that light touch on the arm touched a hidden wound that was not visible—had not been shared. And clearly not healed. I dare say, we can all think of more glaring and damaging examples.
There is more to healing our wounds than just sharing them but sharing them can be a vital part of their healing. And sharing them at a minimum assures us that we are not alone. That is healing. Consider the healing power of 12 Step communities, where everyone present is together in their woundedness—sharing their own wounds and being present to those of others. Therapy groups, grief groups, trauma recovery groups entrust themselves to that same healing process.
That, it seems to me, is at the heart of this story. Thomas being present to the wounded Jesus knows that Jesus is present to him in his own woundedness. Present to us in our woundedness. Incarnation means the divine is present—no matter what.
And, what about us? To be an Easter people is to trust the resurrection—the energy for life at work in the world. Always.
There are two locked room appearances and I’m struck by that. Apparently the first visit of Jesus risen was not trusted enough to unlock the doors. Perhaps the disciples, commissioned as apostles, couldn’t really imagine what that calling might entail. How would their lives be if they trusted the new life that had visited them? Who would they become? What might they dare do?
In each visit Jesus shared his wounds, yet trusting the resurrection doesn’t end there. It might begin there, but what else? We are beckoned not only to know that God is with us in our woundedness, but also is inviting us into newness. I ask myself, What might that look like for me? Today?
Perhaps I’m being invited to trust the resurrection energy at work in the world enough to stand with others in their woundedness, and to dare to share the truth of my own wounds, trusting that no matter how alone I may think I am, I am not alone and the energy of new life is flowing. Perhaps I am being invited to open my heart to the hurting earth, to stand with and reach out with healing touch. Perhaps. . .
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(1) St. Mary’s Episcopal Church, Anchorage, AK. The Rev. Israel Portilla-Gomez preached.
(2) Caravaggio’s painting: https://www.caravaggio.org/the-incredulity-of-saint-thomas.jsp
(3) It is true that there are people who have fallen into the habit of proclaiming their victimization whenever they can, but I think more of us refrain from such sharing. Wounds can be ghastly, messy, horrifying. Caring for the wounded on a battlefield or on city streets, or in school yards is heroic work. Many wounds are inherited as we now know, and they do not evidence themselves in the same way. Other wounds too, are internal, not visible to the eye. All are marks of our vulnerability. We are more than our wounds, yes, but to pretend that we are not wounded is to live in a fantasy world.
It is a lovely reflection, Rev. Patricia. Thank you for sharing.