Alleluia! Christ is risen! (The Lord is risen indeed.) Jesus has triumphed over death. He has vanquished sin. He is the victor. He is in his glory!

How do you suppose that looks? Shining? Radiant? Magnificent? [Pointing to the Communion Window over the altar.] Sort of like that fellow up there?

Well, maybe sometime, but not this morning. The disciples have been told that Jesus is risen, and they don’t believe it. (I mean, would you?) And later that day, they’re huddling in fear in a locked room, and he appears. "Peace," he says, and then, immediately, what does he do? Shows them his beautiful vestments? His glorious crown? His radiant body? No. He shows them his wounds. And it’s not until then, until they see the wounds, that the disciples see that it is Jesus.

But you know, poor old Thomas wasn’t there. So they say to him, "We’ve seen the Lord." And he says, "Yeah, right. Unless I see the wounds for myself and stick my fingers in them, I’m not believing it." I feel for Thomas. He gets labeled "Doubting Thomas," but he’s no different than any one of the other disciples. They didn’t believe it when they were told that Jesus had been seen, and they wouldn’t believe it was Jesus unless they saw the wounds. But poor ol’ Thomas, he gets singled out.

A week later they’re gathered again, and Thomas is with them this time. Jesus appears again, and says, "Peace." And, as an act of grace, he gives Thomas what he needs to believe. Once again, Jesus shows his wounds, his badge of recognition. And he says to Thomas, "Go ahead, stick your fingers in." And then in our translation, he says, not "Do not doubt, but believe," but the Greek doesn’t say anything about "doubt." It really says, "Do not be unbelieving, but believe." Now, doubt is a topic for another day, but it is not the opposite of belief. Jesus has given what Thomas needs to move from unbelief to belief. And Thomas, who said he’d have to stick his fingers in the wounds, doesn’t. Instead, he answers with the most powerful statement of faith you’ll find in the Bible: "My Lord and my God."

You know, John’s gospel is big on perception, realization, understanding —seeing— seeing is a central theme in John, and Thomas has seen what John’s Gospel has been trying to get us to see all along — that Jesus is "My Lord and my God!" Not just a teacher of wisdom, not just a miracle worker, not just a very holy man, but "my Lord and my God." Finally, Thomas sees it.

And the catalyst for this crescendo in John’s gospel and Thomas’ life is, whoda thunk?, not the resurrected, glorified Jesus astounding us with his glory and power and might and magnificence, but Jesus sharing his wounds. What a profound statement: we recognize Christ by his woundedness. It is by seeing how human he is, how like us he is (because we’re all wounded), that we are able to see how he is God at work in the midst of woundedness. It’s moving to see that God was, and is, wounded for us. Woundedness is a powerful connection.

Now, this story isn’t something that just happened a long time ago. This story is happening every day, all the time, now. It is a connection of woundedness that so often enables us to see that Christ is in the room. Every day, people are brought to faith, and people are able to see that Christ is with them in their struggle, because the Body of Christ shows its wounds.

Now, I don’t think that merely being wounded is necessarily a good or redemptive thing. Our wounds, our weaknesses, can, no doubt, be very destructive. But, they can also be the most astounding agents for healing. And, it seems to me, the difference between them being destructive or healing is whether we try desperately to hide them, protect the shameful secret that we are wounded, or whether we share them, let people see them, and allow God to use them in others’ lives and in our own.

And how often I’ve seen Christ work through shared woundedness. The most obvious example for me is Alcoholics Anonymous. I’ve dealt with lots of addicts, and as long as they say, "I can handle this," they can’t. I do not have hope for their recovery until they say, "I can’t do this alone." The road to healing and wholeness, spiritual and physical, begins when they go into a room full of people and say, "My name is Bill, and I’m an a alcoholic." They are saying, "My name is Bill, and I want you wounded people to see that I am a wounded person." It is a powerful connection, full of the potential for healing. And if you don’t think that it is of God, allow me to invite you to a Monday night AA meeting at St. John’s. Monday night meetings are "open" (you don’t have to be an alcoholic to go), and I think you’ll see that what they call their "Higher Power" is what we recognize as our wounded healer, Christ. On Monday nights at St. John’s, Christ is an alcoholic.

I have seen such powerfully transformative healing when Christ has appeared as someone allowing others to see their wounds as a victim of sexual abuse, allowing others to see their wounds as a victim of depression or other mental illness, allowing others to see their wounds as a victim of unemployment, allowing others to see their wounds as a victim of grief, allowing others to see their wounds as a victim of disease, allowing others to see their wounds as a victim of prejudice, allowing others to see their wounds, showing their wounds, showing our wounds, showing your wounds.

How powerful it is for someone to stand in a room and say, "I want to share with you wounded people my woundedness. It’s not easy; I’d rather try to convince you that I’m whole and complete and strong and healthy in every way, but the fact is, I’m wounded." In priests’ offices, in group therapy sessions, in restaurants at lunch, in the parking lot, people show their hands, share their wounds, and, whenever or wherever that happens, it is clear to me, as it was clear to Thomas, that the Risen Christ is present.

Throughout Lent, I was exhorting you to "Go Fishin’," to bring people to church. Many of you did; don’t stop! But I think we should expect people we invite to ask (with or without words), "What sort of Savior will I find there?" I hope they will find a Savior who is an alcoholic; a Savior who is a victim of sexual abuse; a Savior who is depressed; a Savior who is unemployed; a Savior who is in the depths of grief; a Savior who has cancer, or AIDS, or Lupus, or any of a thousand other diseases; a Savior who is discriminated against because of race, or gender, or orientation, or nationality. I hope they will find a Savior who is wounded.

But if you try to tell someone you’re inviting to church all that, you’ll probably scare them away. So, I’d like to suggest another tactic. When they ask (with or without words), "What kind of Savior will I find there?" I suggest that you show them your hands, and tell them that this is a place where you can share your wounds.

If they don’t understand that, just say, "Come give it a try for a while. You’ll see."