The Scars Remain
John 20:19-31
As far back as I can remember, my mother made drip coffee for each meal
at our house. She boiled water on the stove in her tea kettle and
then poured it through the grounds in her old aluminum drip coffee
pot. Of course, we children drank milk but at each meal, after we
all were seated and had prayed, my mother would serve my father a cup
of coffee and then she would pour one for herself. There were seven of
us and we didn’t own seven kitchen chairs, so the smallest child, not
counting the baby, was always squeezed into the old wooden
highchair. At this particular time, it was my little brother,
Roger, age 3½ who was squeezed into the high chair. At 5,
I had graduated to a regular kitchen chair, elevated with the Sears
catalogue. That day, my mother reached across the highchair and over
Roger to pour Pop’s coffee. And that’s when it happened. The handle on
the old pot broke and boiling coffee poured down on Roger’s side. The
screams that followed formed my nightmares for a long time to come.
My mother’s brother, Uncle Doc, was called. He rushed from his
medical office in town and ministered to Roger. I remember he said it
was good that my mother had not put butter on the burns. I know
there was a lot of pain; everyone did what they could to make Roger
feel better. Ice cream, plates of cookies, color books and toys
were offered by relatives, neighboring farm families and church people.
I especially coveted the wooden monkey on a stick that could be
manipulated by a string to walk up and down the stick. Eventually,
Roger healed. But whenever we swam in the pond and years later when we
went to the beach with Roger and his family in California, the scars
were evident. They never completely went away.
Sometimes I wonder what Roger thought when he glanced at those
scars. Did he think of the pain and suffering or did he remember
the healing and all the love and attention that were lavished on him?
As I look back, I remember both the bitter and the sweet that happened
on those days. Life is always an unpredictable mixture of suffering and
healing, isn’t it?
In today’s gospel, Jesus appears twice to the disciples in spite of
closed and locked doors. He died on the cross and rose again and
appeared again. I wonder why those five wounds in his hands and feet
and his side with their scars were still there after the
resurrection. Why didn’t Jesus appear to the disciples in a
perfect form with the evidence of his suffering gone? After all,
he was offering them peace and the gift of the Holy Spirit. Shouldn’t
they be allowed to accept those wonderful things and to move on with
their lives?
We don’t know why Thomas wasn’t with the other disciples on the evening
of the Resurrection. I’m reluctant to label him with the “D” word
on either that night or the night one week later when Thomas was with
them and with Jesus. Sometimes I am so quick to judge the actions
or inactions of another person. Maybe his mother-in-law was sick
on the night of the Resurrection. Maybe he was out feeding the
poor. Maybe he had shingles. And when he did hear about the
appearance of Jesus, maybe he was reluctant to accept the word of those
disciples who had not measured up in the past week in any way, shape or
form! Remember, they had scattered and hid when Jesus was
arrested. Remember the “rock” had deserted Him three times before
the cock crowed. Remember they weren’t even waiting at the tomb
on that Easter morning. How could you believe anything any of them said?
Remember the evening of the Resurrection? Jesus said to the
disciples who were with him in that locked room: “Peace be with
you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his
side. Remember the time one week later? Jesus stood among them
and said again, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your
finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my
side. Do not doubt but believe.” He offered his peace both times;
he offered his wounds and his healing and his scars both times to all
of them.
The gospel writer tells us he offered these signs so that they (and we)
may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that
through believing we may have life in his name. In American Sign
Language, the sign for Jesus is this: The middle finger of one hand
touches the middle of the palm of the other hand then this action is
repeated with the middle finger of the other hand. This action
indicates the wounds in Jesus' hands after he was nailed to the
cross. Of all the possible signs that might have been chosen for
the name of Jesus, this is the one that is used.
Perhaps our Lord appeared with wounds and scars still evident because
he shared the humanity of those disciples. They needed to be
reminded that the glory of the Resurrection is never separated from the
glory of the cross. The Risen Lord always shows us his
wounds. He was literally wounded and healed and scared and then
he was resurrected. He shares our humanity.
“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to
believe.” Our Lord does not say, “Better are those…” “More
faithful are those…” “Smarter or richer or wiser are
those…” Instead he says, “Blessed are those who have not seen and
yet have come to believe.” Faith is a wonderful blessing.
And as Jesus shares his wounds with us, he invites us to offer our pain
and our wounds, both visible and invisible to him for healing. My
little brother, Roger, carried visible scars for the rest of his
life. They were a reminder, not only of the pain, but also of the
healing.
Henri Nouwen wrote a book in 1970 titled The Wounded Healer.
I read it again this past week. It is a small book with a simple
but profound message. Before I read it the first time many years
ago, I assumed that Jesus was the wounded healer. That concept
wasn’t wrong but it was incomplete. We all have been wounded by
virtue of our humanity; we all have the capability to share healing in
our world by the grace of God. Jesus is the wounded healer but so
are we. Listen to what Henri Nouwen wrote:
“Making one’s own wounds a source of healing,
therefore, does not call for a sharing of superficial personal pains
but for a constant willingness to see one’s own pain and suffering as
rising from the depth of the human condition which all men share.”
Nouwen equates this kind of healing as not only care,
compassion, understanding and forgiveness. He also equates this ability
to offer healing with the ability to offer hospitality. In his
words:
“What does hospitality as a healing power
require? It requires first of all that the host feel at home in
his own house, and secondly that he create a free and fearless place
for the unexpected visitor.”
When we can finally look at and accept our own wounds and
the scars they have left, we can be freed to see the pain, the wounds,
and the scars that remain in others.
When we can finally accept our own wounds and scars, we can be freed to
discard offering judgment of others and instead offer the healing grace
of God.
When our sight is cloudy and we can’t see clearly, we can still be freed to believe by God’s incredible grace.
When we learn to feel at home in our own houses with all their scars
and imperfections, we can create an atmosphere of hospitality for the
strangers in our midst.
The scars that remain are the hope and the promise of the Resurrection.
Thanks be to God.
Amen
The Rev. Betsy Porter
St. James’ Episcopal Church
2 Easter
March 30, 2008
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