Are the wounds of Christ eternal? Is there an ongoing message carved in his flesh? From the post resurrection incident where “doubting Thomas” was branded with that name it would appear so. The story is from John 20: 24 – 29 and has had a strong impact on our collective memory. Thomas had missed out on a visit by the resurrected, glorified Christ that the other apostles enjoyed. And so, he remained firm in his bitterness and refusal to believe. He said: “Unless I see the marks of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the nail marks and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.” Of course, Jesus soon accommodated him: “Then (Jesus) said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and put in into my side and do not be unbelieving but believe.” The point of this hands on experience attained its purpose: “Thomas answered and said to him, “My Lord and my God!”
Jesus’ wounds served a purpose. They were a silent but visible proclamation of the Gospel of God’s mercy. There is another post-resurrection story that may implicitly speak of his scars. In Luke 24: 14 – 35 we have the story of two unnamed forlorn disciples who were sadly slouching their way to the village, Emmaus, when Jesus, who appeared as a stranger, joined them. Jesus walked with them to their house and went unrecognized until he joined them for supper. There he took the bread and blessed it as they ate together. What in the blessing of the bread caused him to be recognized? His beautiful, familiar way of blessing the food? A divine lifting of his disguise? Or, when he lifted the bread for the blessing did his sleeves slide down his wrists and the scars on his hands become visible?
These scars speak of two remarkable things that are eternally linked in a peculiar dynamic. First of all, we see in Jesus’ scars the eternal evidence of humanity’s violence against God. Second, we are struck by the immeasurable weight of God’s loving kindness for our souls. This love that called upon him demanded a total self-emptying. These are important lessons that need visual expression so it is safe to assume his scars are indeed eternal.
Such personal conclusions reveal to me how I have evolved over my years of incarceration from a Protestant to a Catholic spirituality. In my Protestant spirituality I would sing of the blood but I did not like to visualize. Protestants exalt the cross but do not want the body of the crucified Jesus upon it. This empty cross some of the claim is more emblematic of the resurrected Christ.
Saints, both ancient and recent, know little of is empty, unbloodied cross. There is a weight of evidence that indicates how critical it is to remember and visualize the high price God paid to work out our salvation. God uses unusual ways to draw our attention to Jesus’ sufferings.
St. Francis of Assisi is well attested to have actually borne the wounds of Christ in his own body. He carried bleeding wounds in both feet, both hands and in his side. A thousand years later a humble, quiet yet thoroughly charismatic priest named Pio, who spent his life in an Italian monetary carried similar stigmata for fifty years. Mysteriously these wounds healed cleanly without a trace shortly before he died on September 23, 1968. Here are two historical figures in which God portrayed on the canvas of human flesh the bleeding wounds of Christ crucified.
Sister Maria Faustina Kowalska, a Twentieth Century saint canonized in 2000, had a series of visions and interactions with the Spirit of Jesus. In her experiences she never saw Jesus without graphic portrayal of his wounds, particularly the wound near his heart. She also declared Holy Communion as a perpetual expression within the believing community of the wounds and death of Christ.
If she is right (and Paul seems to back her up in 1 Corinthians 11: 26) Then our participation at the Lord’s table is in fact an adoration of his sufferings, his passion, his outpoured love for us. When the priest elevates the bread and cup and says with the people, “Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us; therefore, let us keep the feast. Alleluia,” our sanctified imaginations would transport us back in time to stand beside Mary and John as they witnessed Jesus dying in the bloody violence of his execution.
The wounds of Christ will always speak to us of the helplessness and desperation of our personal need and the unstoppable and efficacious love of God who was willing to pay such a price to capture us in his love. In Holy Communion we see the crucifixion, the wounds of Christ. And we can rest assured that he will love us as long as his scars remain. St. Bernard of Clairvaux (1091 – 1153) wrote:
I must also feed on the Paschal Lamb, for unless I eat his flesh and drink his blood, I have no life in me. It is one thing to follow Jesus, another to hold him, another to feed on him . . . (no Christian actions) are anything without the mystery (of the bread and the cup) of our redemption.
I remember when I was in the Duval County jail, just after being sentenced, the Chaplain called me out to inform me that my request for the sacrament of Holy Communion had been denied. He was very offhand, mater-of-fact, professional in his announcement of this no-big-deal religious matter. After all, one could always pray. Anywhere, really. And, regular Bible studies and preaching events were provided for inmates. However, he was unprepared for a man who regularly and easily discovered Christ present, physical and personal in this holy sacrament. He could not have hurt me more by reading a “Dear John” letter from my wife. He expected me to say, “OK.” Or, “Aw shucks!” Or, “Too bad.” Instead I erupted in deep sobs of grief. I felt abandoned as if the States Attorney not only denied me life, reputation and family, but also prevented from coming to the very body and blood of Christ himself.
I needed the visible, ritual sacramental drama of his ever present wounds so I could find a place to bring the intense suffering of my incarceration so recently forced upon me. It took me a great while, days, to recover from that horrible moment, but it was an awakening to me to realize how important this experience had become to me. In the Eucharist I come repeatedly to the still bleeding wounds of Christ.
When Christ gives us his body and blood he makes us who we are by making us his own. On the altar is our own mystery. We do not approach as mere spectators. As Rachel Hosmer and Alan Jones wrote in Living in the Spirit:
We receive Christ, and we receive our broken and healed selves back. When we say, “Amen,” after the priest has said, “the body of Christ,” we are saying “Amen,” to ourselves, too. Our brokenness is taken up into the broken bread, and we can begin again.
I had to learn to see in communion the eternal wounds of Christ and in them become able to empty my own suffering and torment and through them find healing. I needed more than a “spiritual” moment where I reverently prayed or meditated. I needed the physical ritual Jesus passed on to us. At the Last Supper Jesus said, “Do this . . .”, and so we should. Paul wrote, “I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you . . . For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup you proclaim the death of the Lord until he comes.”
It is at times a visceral, physical and very emotional worship experience for me. To receive the bread and the cup answers to my deep need to belong, to be secure, to be saved. To be loved. And, as long as his scars remain I know I am loved.
In Holy Communion I come to his wounds. As long as he bears his wounds I can come to him in my brokenness for healing. As long as he bears wounds no sin can have victory over me. As long as he bears his wounds my suffering can be dignified and my struggles rewarded. As long as he bears his wounds my faith will save me.
His wounds show me what my sins have done to him. And, if they are so bitter upon him what do they do to me? His scars show me what he has done for me. His scars draw me to trust in him. His scars. His scars. He loves me. I know he loves me as long as his scars remain.
