What the Wounds Would Say

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

April 15, 2012 Sermon

John 20:19-30


You may have “life in this name,” the Book of Memory and Hope teaches us.

You may have life in this name! The name of the risen Christ, the one whose wounds have been healed, and we can see them, and we can touch them, and they don’t hurt anymore! Which means maybe someday our wounds won’t hurt anymore, either. Which is why we want life in this name!

Which is why the parents of Evelyn Louise Bowhay-Carnes have presented their child to us for the Sacrament of Infant Baptism. They have said, in this act, that they want life in the name of the risen Christ for their child. They want the peace of Christ, the shalom of Christ, the healing and wholeness and hope of Christ, the peace that passes all understanding of Christ, to be with her. And also with you. And I dare say, also with them, as they seek your help in raising her in the faith.

And so we made covenant promises with God and with one another to make this so in our Sacrament this morning, trusting that the risen life we claim in Christ will be made real for Evy-Lou. Her parents expressed their commitment to journey with her to discover the wonder of God’s love made manifest here this day. And we, her congregation, pledged to welcome her into the full life of this community. To open our hearts to her in her most vulnerable places. To lead her always to the table of sustenance. To offer her the wisdom of the ages as she hungers for truth.

And she will hunger for truth!

We said we would love her, that we would support her, that we would care for her as she lives and grows among us. We said, “I Do.” We said it a lot! And our “I Do’s” were as binding in this sacred covenant vow this morning as ever a marriage vow was that has been made among beloved partners throughout all time.

What God has joined together, let no one put asunder.

So we are “one body” now with Evy-Lou, much the way married partners become “one body” in their commitment to one another. She has joined us in the font of our identity. “Clothed with Christ,” with us, in the spirit of resurrection.

Which is why we come back . . . Sunday after Sunday after Sunday . . . for this new creation we become when the risen Christ holds our flesh in his hands and breathes the Holy Spirit through us, as he did with the disciples in that upper room in our Gospel of John text.


There’s just one problem.

This is the second Sunday of Easter. The afterthought Sunday. The one where the Great Alleluia already seems hung up on the shelf for next year. The one where year after year poor Thomas gets a really bad rap for his infamous “doubting,” held up for all to “anti-emulate.”

We have come back for this new life in the name of the risen Christ we have promised Evy-Lou in her baptism, only to find ourselves surrounded with a rag-tag group of scared and confused and yes, “doubting” disciples in their first century Jerusalem home. With the door locked shut. For them and maybe for some of us. Because they, and perhaps we, are still afraid.

The disciples know what “those good religious authorities” did to Jesus. They handed him over to be crucified! The disciples know it could happen to them, too. And to us, too. So we lock the door. Bolt it shut. In fear and trepidation.

And, I might add, with good reason.

We call it “church hurt,” here at Madison Square. That profound violation of body and spirit that occurs when religious law is invoked with religious fervor against some of God’s most faithful people. It happened to Jesus. It happened to Thomas. It has happened to many of us. And we will do whatever it takes to keep it from happening again, won’t we?

Hence the locked door. The fearful gathering. The refusal to trust what has not yet earned our trust, or what we have not yet let earn our trust. And so we wait . . . behind a locked door . . . and wait . . . and wait . . .

It has been a long week.

The thing is nobody knows “church hurt” better than Jesus does. Nobody. He literally bears the scars on his body, his hands, his feet, his side. These wounds that Thomas is so desperate to see.

It is, after all, not so much evidence of the resurrection that Thomas seeks as it is evidence of the crucifixion! Because the crucifixion was real, and it hurt, and you just can’t gloss it over and say everything is “okay” now, can you? Thomas is not “okay”!

Because the thing is, Thomas bears “church hurt” wounds, too. All the disciples do. Maybe their wounds as visible as the wounds of Jesus, and maybe ours aren’t either. But those wounds are still with us, whether those wounds are from “church hurt,” or just plain “regular hurt,” and they aren’t going away, and so we have to figure out how to keep going forward with them, not in spite of them . . .

And that is what the resurrection is all about.

Thomas finally trusts the resurrection is real when he can see for himself that the wounds of crucifixion really have been healed, not ignored. Transformed, not tossed aside. Transfigured, to use theological language. They just plain don’t hurt anymore!

This is the resurrection hope we cling to Sunday after Sunday as we come home for new life in the name of the risen Christ. That whatever wounds we bear, and whatever wounds we have inflicted, they just aren’t the final answer. They just aren’t. That we have been baptized into the life, death, and resurrection of Christ, and our wounds can be healed, too!

That, in our baptism, they already are.

When I met with the parents of Evy-Lou in preparation for this Sacrament, we talked about what Baptism meant to them. We talked about the kind of life they want for Evy-Lou, the kind of church they want for her, the kind of faith they want for her.

And, like every parent that ever was, they shared how much they want her to be well. How much they want to protect her from pain. And how much hope they found in this congregation that Evy-Lou would be loved and nurtured and celebrated and anointed with grace and mercy. Given all the spiritual tools she will need for a life of joy and service. The shalom she will need to live a resurrected life in Christ.

But the truth is, as hard as we try, we will not be able to keep Evy-Lou from pain in her life. There will be wounds that are hers and hers alone, just like there are for all of us. And we, even in our deepest desire to be faithful to our covenant vows to her this morning, we will make mistakes. And so will you, her parents . . .

The promise of Baptism to Evy-Lou today is not that she will be without pain in her life, as much as we wish it would be so. The promise of Baptism to Evy-Lou today is that she has been clothed with Christ for every part of her life, and even into her death, and that this clothing serves as a great seal of resurrection protection that will transfigure whatever wounds she bears into God’s promised shalom hope and grace and love.

This is, in fact, the baptismal promise for every one of us.

That we may trust our wounds to the God who knows what it is to be wounded. And our healing to the God who knows what it is to be healed. And our new life daily to the God who is desperate to give us all a second chance . . . or a third chance . . . or a three-hundredth chance. That we may, with our wounds—and not in spite of them—even learn how to trust “church” again.

Because, in the end, this is the only way we will recognize the risen Christ in our midst. When we trust our wounds to one another, and watch them heal before our eyes.

I pray it may be so for us this day.

Amen.