From the Gospel: Healed by his wounds
True healing, both psychological and spiritual, flows not from strength alone, but from compassionate solidarity born of shared brokenness
Second Sunday of Easter (Divine Mercy Sunday). Today’s readings: Acts 5:12-16; Revelation 1:9-11a, 12-13, 17-19; John 20:19-31.
A Roman crucifixion was a brutal affair. Cicero famously described it as “a most cruel and disgusting punishment” and insisted it was so horrific that it should be kept distant from the eyes, ears and minds of Roman citizens. Designed to inflict maximum pain and humiliation, it reduced its victim to a bloodied, broken mass. In the case of Jesus, his crucifixion was preceded by a merciless scourging which would have torn his back, shoulders, sides and legs to shreds.
I recall these facts not to dwell on horror for its own sake, but to highlight what follows: that the Risen Jesus who appears to his disciples from Easter Sunday onwards bears little resemblance to the battered corpse taken down from the cross on Good Friday. Even his closest friends struggle to recognise him; his glorified body is no longer bound by the laws of time and space; locked doors are no obstacle to him as he enters the upper room where his fearful disciples are gathered.
And yet, for some reason, he retains the wounds inflicted by the nails and spear during his Passion. Twice in today’s Gospel, John notes that when Jesus appears to his companions, he shows them his pierced hands and side. Knowing that Thomas – absent during the first appearance – had refused to believe unless he saw and touched the nail marks, Jesus gently invites him: “Put your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and put it into my side, and do not be unbelieving, but believe.”
When I was younger, I used to find it strange that the risen and glorified Christ would still bear the marks of suffering. Could he not have healed even those? Yet reflection, prayer and experience have shown me otherwise. He kept them for one simple, profound reason: so that he might be recognised by them. His wounds are like an identity card, or the medals of a victorious warrior. In Christ’s hands and side, they become not signs of humiliation and death, but emblems of love.
Those who have faced and integrated their own suffering are best able to bring healing to others, not despite their wounds but through them
The concept of the “wounded healer”, first introduced by psychiatrist Carl Jung (1875-1961), suggests that those who have faced and integrated their own suffering are best able to bring healing to others, not despite their wounds but through them.
Dutch theologian Henri Nouwen (1932-1996) later applied this insight to the spiritual life, teaching that Christian ministers and leaders are called to recognise and embrace their own vulnerability. In doing so, they become instruments of Christ’s healing love, just as Jesus himself healed humanity through his wounds. True healing, both psychological and spiritual, flows not from strength alone, but from compassionate solidarity born of shared brokenness.
On this Divine Mercy Sunday, I would like to give the word to Pope Francis who made the proclamation of God’s mercy the hallmark of his pontificate: “But how can wounds heal us?” he asked in 2021. He went on to explain: “By mercy. In those wounds, like Thomas, we can literally touch the fact that God has loved us to the end. He has made our wounds his own and borne our weaknesses in his own body. His wounds are open channels between him and us, shedding mercy upon our misery. His wounds are the pathways that God has opened up for us to enter into his tender love and actually ‘touch’ who he is. Let us never again doubt his mercy. … His radiant wounds dispel the darkness we carry within. Like Thomas, we discover God; we realise how close he is to us, and we are moved to exclaim, ‘My Lord and my God!’”
Rest in God’s infinite mercy, Holy Father.
bgatt@maltachurchtribunals.org