John 20:19-31
There are many characters in the Bible with whom I can easily relate, and Thomas is definitely one of them. In fact, Thomas is probably in the top five. I grew up calling him Doubting Thomas. “Don’t be a doubting Thomas” we sang as children. The hand motions even had us shaking our little fingers at the memory of him.
Personally, I think he gets a bum rap. First of all, we don’t name the other disciples by their biggest mistakes. Peter isn’t called Denying Peter, but Thomas has this ever-present adjective attached to his name. Second, I think Thomas is treated unfairly because he isn’t asking for special treatment. He just wants what the other disciples received when he wasn’t there.
I’ve often wondered where he was. Was it just bad timing? It was his turn to pick up supper, and Jesus just happened to appear while he was getting the hummus? Was he not with the other disciples because he was an introvert and he had to have some alone time because the other disciples were just getting on his last nerve? Was he not hiding in fear, as they were, but out looking for proof? Trying to get on with his life?
We don’t know where he was. We only know what he missed. Jesus appeared to the disciples, showed them his wounds, then blessed and commissioned them for service. When Thomas heard about what happened, of course he didn’t believe them. And who could blame him? It was pretty unbelievable news; but more importantly, he’d traveled around with these clowns for a long time, and he knew how often they got things wrong. So he says he has to see for himself. He wasn’t asking for something unreasonable. He was asking for the same thing the others got – a personal visit.
Try to imagine how Thomas felt. He wasn’t part of the inner circle. He wasn’t the one called “the disciple whom Jesus loved.” He wasn’t that sure of his relationship. But he had followed Jesus faithfully. And now Jesus was dead. His heart was too heavy, and his soul too weary, to believe his friends’ incredible tale. Why, it could very well be wishful thinking or even mass hysteria at work. If he let himself hope, only to have those hopes dashed, it might very well kill him. His wounds felt nearly fatal as it was. Besides, he knew the suffering that Jesus had endured. He knew the wounds that had been inflicted. He had been able to think of little else but the suffering of this One he loved. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the cross, the thorns, the nails. So he didn’t say, “Unless I see Jesus, I won’t believe.” He said, “Unless I see the wounds.” For if there are no wounds, then this is not the One I’ve been following. If there are no wounds, then this is not One who can understand my pain. If there are no wounds, then this is not my Christ.
Have you ever wondered about that, about why the scars remained? Why wouldn’t Jesus be resurrected in perfection? Wouldn’t victory over the grave be even more miraculous if it removed all signs of death? Wouldn’t God want to say, “You are so powerless that even your nails can’t leave holes?” Wouldn’t Christ want to proclaim, “You can’t hurt me!”
Evidently not. Evidently Christ wanted to proclaim, “You can hurt me, but not forever.” Evidently Christ wanted to say, “I am wounded, but I am still whole and well.” Evidently God wanted to proclaim, “Those of you who are scarred and wounded – I know how you feel.”
And doesn’t that include us all? We all have experienced wounds. Wounds of grief and loss of many kinds. Wounds caused by someone’s selfishness and indifference. Wounds caused by our own selflessness and lack of esteem. Wounds caused by lost relationships, broken promises, and mistrust. Wounds caused by abuse of every shape and size.
These wounds may be recent or they may have occurred long ago. Or the wounds may have mostly healed, but have left behind scars which are tender to the touch, like an old injury that aches when it rains.
Whatever our wounds, and however recent or long ago, we can find comfort because Christ, too, has suffered. We are not alone. Christ shares our pain, and we share in Christ’s resurrection. The resurrection does not mean elimination of the scars. Resurrection does mean elimination of despair.
But ours is not a culture that values scars. In some cultures, scars are signs of maturity, of entering adulthood, of courage and valor. But most people in our culture don’t want scars. A few years ago I saw an episode of the show “Extreme Make-over.” In this show, they take people who consider themselves to be ugly, and they give them extensive plastic surgery, plus dental work, lasik eye surgery, you name it. On the episode I watched, the young man receiving the make-over had a small scar on his forehead. It was not a horrible scar. It was not disfiguring. It looked to be maybe 1″ long. But he was eager to have it removed. He said that every time he looked in the mirror, he was reminded of how he got the scar. The young man had never been very popular, and he got in with a wild crowd who seemed to offer him acceptance. He thought they were his friends. Then one night, out of the blue, they attacked him. The scar they left on his face was a daily reminder of the scar they left on his psyche. I can understand him wanting to have it removed. But this attack was what got him to turn his life around, to take inventory of his life, to see where he was headed. In some cultures, that scar would be valued. But this young man couldn’t wait to have it removed. Again, I understand. If I had physical scars to go along with my emotional scars, I’d probably want them removed, too. Not just because of any disfigurement, but because you would know, just by looking at me, what I’d been through.
Showing your wounds is intimate. Scars can be very personal. And when your scars show, strangers might actually have the nerve to say, “So, how’d you get that scar?” And we may not want to tell.
And sometimes we don’t want to see. We don’t want to see the wounds. We don’t want to open ourselves to one another’s pain.
Many years ago I was visiting my grandmother, who had recently had a mastectomy. When she and I were alone, she asked me if I wanted to see her scar. I was young – twenty or twenty-two, I think. I was uncomfortable with the intimacy. I did not want to see her scar. I can’t remember how I said “no” – I hope it was at least polite. I just remember that I turned her down, that I turned away. I so wish I had the chance to do that moment over again. My grandmother lived alone; my grandfather was gone. She had no one to look at her scar with her, no one to love her into self-acceptance. She asked me if I wanted to see her scar. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a request . . . a request to share her pain. And I didn’t recognize it. And I am so sorry.
We get similar requests all the time. The waitress who tries to tell us her life story. The fellow passenger who tells us all about his recent surgeries. The coworker who tells anyone who will listen about her divorce. Some of us run away from such people, flee from such pain. We have quite enough of our own to be getting on with. But when we live in community, we need to be willing to share the pain. Being the church means being able to see the wounds, the scars, the pain, and not look away.
In our online book group during Lent, we discussed what the author calls “solar Christianity” – the belief that if we are faithful to God, life will be all sunshine and roses, and that if it’s not, we have failed to please God. Or if not a belief, solar Christianity can merely be a practice of ignoring the pain in life. Some people in the group admitted that they don’t share their deepest pain at church or with church people. But solar Christianity does not follow the example of Jesus Christ says, “See my wounds.” “Look at my hands and feet.” “Reach out your hand and put it in my side.” We have seen the wounds. The wounds of the Body of Christ.
We have seen, and we believe. Not only in the power of wounds, but in the power of the wounded. Not only in Christ’s solidarity with us, but in our solidarity with Christ. Not only in the healing of the wounds, but in the presence of the scars. We just have to learn not to turn away.