Poor Thomas. He’s gotten such a bad name for nothing more than asking for reasonable verification. We might think of him as the Gospel’s first empirical scientist, and yet he’s come to be known as the doubter. That’s because subheadings in the Bible—added rather recently by translators and publishers—are interpretive. For good or ill, they powerfully influence the way we read the texts.
There are numerous problems with characterizing Thomas principally as a doubter, but the one that stands out for me is that he asked Jesus for nothing more than what the other disciples already got. Remember that at the beginning of the Gospel passage we heard today, Jesus himself took the initiative to show his wounds to his frightened disciples. “Peace be with you.” he said, and then the text continues, “he showed them his hands and his side.”
Now I don’t know about you, but that’s not usually the first thing I’m inclined to do when I’m introducing myself to a room full of frightened people. It feels a bit like following “The Peace of the Lord be always with you” with “show each other your wounds as a sign of peace.” Or imagine welcoming our newcomers with “I’m so glad you’re visiting Trinity. My mother just died last week.” Even though hurts like these, and deeper wounds yet, are present in this very congregation here today.
All of us here have been hurt, and most of us observe social norms around showing and sharing our wounds. That’s probably all to the good. But Jesus, in addition to being unschooled in Episcopal manners, was making a point for his closest friends. And the point was not just that he was really the same guy who had been crucified and pierced, although he was that. The point was not just that he was fully human with a body that could be broken, although it was that. It was also a literal sign that he was hurt. Wounded in the flesh, just as his traumatized disciples had been wounded in their hearts. He showed up in their midst and met them right where they were. Wound to wound.
On the beautiful cover Chris Ambrose designed for our bulletin this week, the subtitle “The conversion of Thomas” invites us to think about the doubter in perhaps less prejudicial terms. But there are so many other things to call our attention in this very rich and nuanced story. It could just as well be subtitled “Insight within closed doors” or “The power of breath and touch” or “Blessed are those who believe.” Or perhaps you have a better idea. I invite you to hang on to your bulletin and read this passage slowly and deliberately when you have time. What calls your attention? Consider what you might call the story if Thomas’ doubts—or even his conversion—weren’t influencing your reading.
Myself, I’m inclined to call this story “The commissioning of the wounded.” Look anew at how it begins. The disciples have been traumatized by the painful and shameful execution of their teacher and friend. They were shuttered in a room, legitimately frightened for their own lives. These were not people functioning at their personal best. Jesus appeared in their midst, despite locked doors, and showed them his wounds. However weird this sequence of events may seem—and you can be sure that John’s hearers would have considered it plenty weird too—those wounded disciples responded with joy. His life and his wounds validated their own.
Jesus wished them peace, breathed his powerful Holy Spirit upon them, and then sent them out to continue his work of reconciliation. In the space of minutes, the traumatized ones became the entrusted ones.
Brene Brown, an author (and recent Netflix star) I admire, has spent her whole career researching… trust. As an academic social worker, she started out by asking what makes it possible for people to build trusting connections in our fragmented society. But early on in her research, she discovered a variable that consistently and significantly undermined trust and connection. People who suffer from shame—those who doubt their own worthiness and feel compelled to hide their wounds—are less able to connect. And as a result, Brene Brown discovered, they led lives of greater loneliness and isolation.
In contrast, people who are able to create trust and connection have a strong sense of worthiness. They are not afraid to be seen; neither for their strengths nor for their woundedness. They practice what Brene Brown calls the courage to be imperfect. They embrace and share their vulnerability: not because it’s comfortable for them, but because it’s the truth.
When we’re ashamed of our own truth; when we think that we’re not good enough or are damaged in some way—which all of us do sometimes—sharing our vulnerability seems terrifying. But vulnerability is also the birthplace of our joy, our creativity, our longing and our love. For the person who is confident of their worthiness, practicing vulnerability with others is worth the risk.
We can’t manufacture worthiness for ourselves, but we can accept it as a free gift of God. It is a gift when we recognize the goodness of our own creation. It is a gift when parents and partners remind us that we are worth more than our performance. It is a gift when we renounce the spiritual forces of wickedness. It is a gift when we turn to Jesus Christ. It is a gift when we realize, down in our bones, that God’s love for us is unlimited, and will not be thwarted, even by death.
It is also a gift to forgive, even as we have been forgiven. Jesus knew that about the disciples whom he commissioned to continue his work, just as he knows it about us. It was not the perfect ones whom he breathed his spirit upon, but rather the hurting ones. They were both wounded, and at the same time, worthy of all his presence and his trust.
So to all of you have been wounded and are wondering about it, know that I am wounded too. I grew up in a household of secrets and shame. I was sexually assaulted in high school. I have been betrayed by people I trusted deeply, and I have betrayed people who trusted me. And yet, I have been sent—even more than that, you called me—to tell you that you are worthy and you are forgiven. I can say that with confidence because I know that I am worthy and forgiven. And since this room isn’t locked, hopefully the word will get out.
Whatever you may feel ashamed of, whatever you feel you have to hide, whatever keeps you from going out to share this good news with others… you are worth more than that. You are needed more than that. It is actually your wounds that empower you to connect with and transform the next hurting person. So to all of you who are hurt—which is all of you—I appeal to your courage. Be brave to show your wounds and share them. In Episcopally-appropriate ways, of course. And go ahead and doubt the doctrine all you want: that’s the Episcopal way as well. But don’t doubt for a moment that it is Jesus’ wounds—and ours—that will save the world.
