He wasn’t there. He missed it. Just like I missed it. Just like you missed it.

After Jesus was dead, his disciples knew that they might be rounded up, so they huddled in fear in a house with the doors and windows locked. And Jesus came and stood among them and showed them his hands and side and said, “Peace be with you,” and breathed on them and said, “Receive the Holy Spirit.”

And he, Thomas, and we, you and I, missed it. Thomas wasn’t there. Neither were we. And so Thomas said what we probably would have said if we were told that someone we saw die had turned up alive: “I’m not believing it unless I see the wounds.” I’m not down on Thomas like so many preachers have been for so long; I probably would have said the same thing he did.

A week later, Jesus came back to them, and this time Thomas was with them. Jesus doesn’t scold Thomas, or blame him; he just gives him what he needs: “Peace be with you,” he says. “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”

Leslie Flynn tells a story of a small boy being raised in a frontier city by his grandmother. One night the house catches on fire. The grandmother tries to rescue the boy who was asleep in the bedroom upstairs, but is overcome by smoke and dies in the fire.

This frontier city doesn't have much of a fire department. A crowd gathers around the house and they hear the boy crying out for help. The lower floor is a wall of flames and no one seems to know what to do. Suddenly, a man pushes through the crowd and begins climbing an iron drainage pipe that runs to the roof. The pipe is hot from the fire, but he makes it to a second floor window. The man crawls through the window and finds the boy. With the crowd cheering him on, the man climbs back down the hot iron pipe with the boy on his back.

A few weeks later, a hearing was held to determine in whose custody the boy would be placed. Each person wanting the child was allowed to make a brief statement. The first man said, "I am a farmer and would give the boy a good home. He would grow up on the farm and learn a trade."

The second person to speak said, "I am a schoolteacher and I would see to it that he received a good education." Finally, the banker said, "My wife and I would be able to give the boy a fine home and a fine education. We would like him to come and live with us."

The judge looked around and asked, "Is there anyone else who would like to say anything?" From the back row, a man rose and said, "These other people may be able to offer some things I can't. All I can offer is my love." Then, he slowly removed his hands from his coat pockets. A gasp went up from the crowd because his hands were scarred terribly from climbing up and down the hot pipe. The boy recognized the man as the one who had saved his life and ran into his waiting arms.

The farmer, the teacher, and the banker simply sat down. Everyone knew what the decision would be. The scarred hands proved that this man had given more than all the others.

Jesus says to Thomas, “Reach out and touch my wounds.” And Thomas said, “My Lord and my God.” We weren’t there. We weren’t in that room. We missed that. But maybe not really.

I don’t want to analyze this too much, but I want you to know that when I am most aware that Christ is in the room is not when I’m showing someone how intact and perfect and unmarked I am; I am most aware of Christ’s presence in the room when I am sharing my woundedness with a brother or sister, and when they are sharing their woundedness, their brokenness, with me. For me, I am most aware of the Risen Lord when I can say, “That hurt,” or, “I feel terrible about that,” or, “I really messed that up.” And I most see the Risen Lord in others when they say to me, “I realize now that I’m an addict,” or, “I’m full of shame,” or, “I have such anger,” or, “I’m depressed,” or “I am sick,” or, “I’m afraid.”

When we share with one another that we are not intact, not perfect, not unmarked, somehow Christ is there in the room. And it’s a funny thing; it’s not morbid or depressing. Instead, it opens the way to healing and forgiveness and support, and it allows us to share our joys and triumphs in a new and more meaningful way. They become joys and triumphs of people who share the most human of traits — woundedness, brokenness.

This is why the dramatic highlight of the Communion service is the breaking of the bread. It is the only place where silence is required. We cannot share our faith without sharing brokenness.

So, we weren’t there with Thomas. But our wounded healer is here with us when we share that we too are wounded. And he says to us who were not in that room with the disciples, “Blessed are those who have not seen and have come to believe.”

And I, who have been in so many rooms with people who so honored me by sharing their wounds and loving me through mine, can only say, “My Lord and my God!”