Sermon, Easter 2 (C)

This morning we continue on our Easter journey, as John’s gorgeously mystical Gospel is divulging great truths about the Christ – as I mentioned a few weeks ago, John always presents Jesus in this Christological perspective, and in the post-Resurrection chapters it is not even possible to deny.

But what about Doubt?

Ah, yes, this is Doubting Thomas Sunday. Poor Thomas.

All he did was ask a question, to his friends, about the unfathomable story that they’ve shared with him.

Now, the context for this passage is important, as well as the content. From the start, we hear:

“When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week…”

When we start off a passage like that, it’s helpful to get some clarification.

THAT day – which day again? The first day of the week – which week?

Well, it’s actually the same day that Mary has just told the disciples that she has seen the Lord.

A mere three days since the horrors of the crucifixion.

They are terrified for their own safety; they are grieving their friend; they are confused about their future. They’re still baffled by the empty tomb.

And so they’re together; that day, that evening – the first day of the week, locked away upstairs, trying to figure out what happened.

What it could mean: for Jesus. For them. For all of humanity.

And these are big and difficult questions to grapple with at the best of times – and they’ve been living the exact opposite of that for several days now.

Their minds; their hearts; their souls: have been chaos.

And into this chaos comes Jesus; inexplicably, unimaginably: there is Jesus.

Showing to them his wounds.

This is important: because Jesus IS wounded.

In the Resurrection, he did not rise unwounded.

So perhaps Jesus – in showing these wounds – is doing so not just to prove who he is, and not just to show the immeasurable power of God, but to acknowledge human woundedness.

Not just his woundedness: theirs. Ours.

It’s no wonder Thomas wants some clarification when the other disciples tell him that Jesus popped in for a quick chat over dinner.

And Thomas had a reputation for seeking clarity in the teachings of Jesus, often using rhetoric. He’s inviting people to ask questions, to understand better before they take action. He is the apostle who has encouraged the others to stay with Jesus, to seek deeper knowledge and wisdom.

So it was to be expected, when the disciples tell Thomas that they have seen the Risen Jesus (and he has not) that he asks some specific questions.

And he goes to the woundedness.

Thomas was on to something: wounds tell a story. They answer questions that words cannot.

For we all carry wounds. We all have imperfect bodies. We have all had our hearts broken. We have all questioned the meaning of life.

We have all experienced pain: in body, mind, and spirit.

And: we all have scars.

Scars are fascinating things – because they are not wounds anymore.

They are healed.

The body has an amazing ability to repair wounds: on our skin, in our organs, even our bones. The science is astonishing in itself; but the reason that scars are still visible is because the healing process forces things to line up differently. Normal skin, for example, is made up of proteins in a random basketweave pattern; scar tissue’s proteins align themselves in the same direction.

The implications of this are different based on the tissue, too:

In bones, this makes a repaired area stronger than the original.

In flesh, it makes the skin less pliable, theoretically less prone to re-injury; however it also makes that skin more susceptible to ultraviolet light, and unable to grow hair follicles.

Scars are interesting. They tell a story, they convey a healing.

They show the world that we have been wounded, and will never be the same.

But they also show the world that the wound we had is no longer a wound.

Now, we all know the process between wound and scar is not instantaneous – even a papercut will take some time to heal up. It’s a process; and sometimes a process involves forward and backward motion.

If an injury is left to heal in ideal circumstances, it will likely heal – ideally.

But here in the real world, we know that sometimes there are setbacks… stretching our fingers can re-open a papercut, infection into a cut can need further intervention, stubbing an already bruised toe – well, we know how unpleasant that can be.

Wounds hurt; If ignored, they can worsen.

Healing is dynamic;

and it’s a process that we can’t articulate the *exact* moment when it’s done.

And this is what Thomas draws our attention to today.

He asks to see the wounds that Jesus endured. Not the minor scrapes and bruises; the substantial life-ending wounds. In his hands – in his side.

Thomas does not express doubt – he does not even ask specifics about the resurrection – he focuses his question on the wounds.

Are they wounds that show any sign of healing? For the wounds of the dead do not heal.

Have the wounds begun to heal, are they mid-process? If so he would not be able to insert his finger or hand.

Let me see the wounds; he says.

And when Jesus comes back and invites Thomas to see the wounds, we don’t even know if Thomas did touch them – but he would have seen them in the process of healing: a sign of life.

So, despite what renaissance-era art would tell us, it is unlikely that Thomas would have re-opened these wounds just to place his hand or finger in – we all know that re-opening a wound adds pain and delays healing.

Instead, we are comforted in the lesson that Thomas shares: he sees that God is ALIVE. Living – healing.

For Jesus is not showing fresh wounds to Thomas – he is showing wounds that have been healing for a week.

Wounds that are on their way to being scars.

And he declares: My Lord and My God.

And we are all invited, by the Risen Christ himself, to believe: for we have no reason to question or doubt.

Jesus and Thomas give us the reminder of the power of healing; and we come to believe and know that through believing we too may have life in his name.

This passage reminds us that we are wounded;

Sometimes in body, sometimes in mind, sometimes in spirit.

And Jesus shows us the reminder to not cause woundedness to others out of our own pain.

And – very importantly - we are assured that healing happens: often with work, intervention, intentionality, time – and faith. But it happens.

We come to Jesus with a broken heart and he accompanies us into new and renewed relationships.

We challenge God with our desperate souls, and God inspires us to see the beauty of the created world to remind us of the miraculous in our midst.

We come to Christ seeking solace, and he gives us balm for our souls with words of peace.

God does not remove our wounds from us; God gives us the path the healing.

And we know that when we come to Jesus, acknowledging our woundedness, asking for healing, God does not abandon us.

For God wishes us to make the transition from wounded to scarred:

A place where the healing has at least begun;

a place where we (hopefully) will not re-enter a place of injury;

a place where we do not ignore the past but neither are we bound in it;

a place where we can help others along a healing journey.

The place of a scar – a healed wound – is a place of peace.

The peace that comes from a calmer spirit;

The peace that comes from a lighter heart;

The peace that comes from a healthier sense of self and community.

The peace that comes from the calming of the chaos:

The peace that comes from Christ alone.

So just as Jesus wished his disciples Peace as part of their healing:

May we all be blessed with this offering from Jan Richardson:

Blessing in the Chaos

To all that is chaotic in you,

let there come silence.

Let there be a calming of the clamoring,

a stilling of the voices that have laid their claim on you,

that have made their home in you,

that go with you even to the holy places

but will not let you rest,

will not let you hear your life with wholeness

or feel the grace that fashioned you.

Let what distracts you cease.

Let what divides you cease.

Let there come an end to what diminishes and demeans,

and let depart all that keeps you in its cage.

Let there be an opening

into the quiet that lies beneath the chaos,

where you find the peace

you did not think possible

and see what shimmers within the storm.