A curious feature of the resurrection narrative in today’s Gospel is the emphasis placed on the wounds of the risen Christ. The Evangelist John mentions them twice.
First, Jesus appears, stands among the disciples, and says, “Peace be with you.” That greeting suggests that the disciples need reassurance. John has already told us that they’re hiding behind closed doors because they’re afraid of the authorities. But perhaps they’re also afraid of this mysterious figure that has suddenly appeared from nowhere—and certainly without having come in through the closed doors.
Then, after he says, “Peace be with you,” he shows them his hands and his side. Only then do the disciples recognize him: “Then the disciples were glad when they saw the Lord.” In other words, the disciples realize that it’s Jesus standing before them, risen from the dead, precisely because they see his wounds.
Throughout the various resurrection appearances, even those who were closest to Jesus during his earthly life have trouble recognizing him at first. But then there comes a moment when it becomes overwhelmingly clear who he is. Here, in this account, the clear markers of his identity are the scars in his hands and his side. Christ is gloriously risen; yet he reveals himself by means of his wounds.
This detail casts new light on the story of doubting Thomas that follows immediately afterwards. Here is the second instance where John mentions the wounds of the risen Christ. When the disciples tell Thomas, “We have seen the Lord,” he responds, “Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and place my finger in the mark of the nails, and place my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
On account of these words, Thomas has become known and loved down through the centuries as the patron saint of skeptics everywhere. But perhaps what he’s saying is not so much that he disbelieves the story, as that the only way that he will recognize this mysterious figure appearing to the disciples as Jesus is by touching his wounds.
In other words, perhaps Thomas doesn’t doubt that someone or something—a ghost, an angel, or a demon—is really appearing to the disciples. In those days, such supernatural apparitions were believed to be commonplace occurrences. But the only Jesus that Thomas wants anything to do with is the same Jesus that he knew during his earthly life, the same Jesus whom he saw crucified and laid in the tomb. No ghostly phantom will do.
In that case, Thomas’s attitude is not so much as doubt or lack of faith as an admirable insistence on the reality of Christ’s sufferings. One of the first heresies to trouble the early Church was known as docetism. The word comes from the Greek verb meaning “to appear” or “to seem.” According to this false teaching Jesus was indeed fully divine but had only the appearance or semblance of a human being. Thus, he could not suffer or die, and only appeared to suffer and die on the cross. It was all a sham. And three days later, he appeared to the disciples to reveal that his death was only an illusion after all. Everything was fine and there was nothing to worry about.
The Church rightly condemned this teaching as a dangerous heresy. Unless Jesus is truly human, unless he has shared fully in the human condition, then he cannot be the savior of real human beings. Unless he has truly suffered and died, he cannot redeem us from suffering and death. By repudiating docetism, the Church effectively took its stand with Thomas and said, “Unless we can place our fingers in the mark of the nails, and place our hands in his side, we don’t have a faith worth believing.”
In the course of my priestly ministry, I’ve discovered that as I get to know parishioners really well, there often comes a moment when they either come into my office or invite me into their home and sit me down and tell me the story of the worst things that have ever happened to them—bereavements, family tragedies, divorces, accidents, injuries, crimes, betrayals, assaults, incarcerations, incidents of childhood neglect or abuse.
It’s a privileged moment, and very humbling. I've come to think of it as "the showing of the wounds." The underlying premise is that I don’t really know you until I’ve seen your wounds. And by revealing your scars, you entrust me with the knowledge of who you really are, and you invite me into a closer pastoral relationship with you. And that’s precisely what the risen Jesus does when he shows the disciples—when he shows us—his wounds. He reveals to us who he really is, the crucified Savior, and invites us into the closest possible relationship with him.
Some years ago I read the story of a woman who’d suffered a great trauma, being assaulted in broad daylight in her own back yard. While her physical injuries were minimal, the psychological and emotional shock was overwhelming. She was hospitalized for several weeks and then spent months recovering on heavy doses of medication and frequent sessions with her therapist. Although everyone knew that something was wrong, the only people who knew what had happened were the police, her doctors, her therapist, and her pastor. Outside that circle, she just couldn’t talk about it.
Finally, her therapist suggested that a necessary step on the path of healing would be to tell someone else, perhaps a close friend. She told her pastor of this suggestion, and then said: “I want to tell my story to Joe.” The pastor was surprised. Although a member of the congregation, Joe seemed an odd candidate. Joe’s life seemed straightened out now, but several years back he’d become addicted to drugs, lost his career, lost his family, and had spent years in and out of rehab clinics. Now he mostly kept to himself. “Why Joe?” he asked. “Because,” she replied, “the only person I can talk to right now is someone who knows what it’s like to have been to hell and back.”
The message of today’s Easter Gospel is that we worship a risen Lord who has literally been to hell and back. He can understand anything we tell him and help us through anything we ever have to suffer. And he’s got the scars to prove it.
Acknowledgment: Key ideas for this sermon came from William R. Willimon, “He showed them his scars,” Pulpit Resource, Vol. 25, No. 2 (April, May, June 1997), 3-6.
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