One Station Further?
So the other disciples told [Thomas], “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
John 20:25
I did not want to write about Easter. I find it easier to stay at the cross, not because it is more comfortable, but because it is more believable. We see people suffer and die every day. How often do we see a resurrection?
Sometimes the way that the Easter story is told seems like a poorly written drama in which we find out that the hero did not really die after all. His body was not found in the fiery crash, the fall from the cliff did not kill her, it was just a dream sequence.
How can we tell the story? Entering the gospel narrative, we find that the women have gone to the tomb and come back to say that Jesus is not there. One of them has seen Jesus alive. The disciples do not believe the women. Two disciples leave Jerusalem and travel to Emmaus. No reason to stay. The rest of the disciples huddle in fear. What next?
The risen Jesus begins to show up. He meets the disciples on the road to Emmaus and shares a meal. He appears to the disciples who denied and abandoned him, and he bids them peace. But Thomas is not with them when Jesus appears and Thomas, like me, is skeptical about happy endings. In a way, I think that Thomas is the one who really gets it. Jesus has suffered and died and for what? If there is a resurrection, I want to know that the evidence of the wounds is still there. This is what I ask of Easter, to know that in Christ the wounds are transformed by light and love and not wasted.
We join Thomas at the end of Denise Levertov’s poem, St. Thomas Didymus.
But when my hand
led by His hand’s firm clasp
entered the unhealed wound,
my fingers encountering
rib-bone and pulsing heat,
what I felt was not
scalding pain, shame for my
obstinate need,
but light, light streaming
into me, over me,
filling the room
as if I had lived till then
in a cold cave, and now
coming forth for the first time,
the knot that bound me unravelling,
I witnessed all things
quicken to color, to form,
my question
not answered but given
its part
in a vast unfolding design lit
by a risen sun
Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you!” Peace.
What a beautiful poem. Do I feel the sun today rising in me? Perhaps, not. Perhaps I am full of doubt, afraid to venture out, in search of the empty tomb. In search of some proof that what I believe is valid, and more importantly, that I am not alone. What if I travel inward and find nothing there? What if I gaze upon my loved ones, and still do not find comfort? For me, Easter is the walking stick that I lean on as I stumble in the kitchen to make a cup of tea. It is the smile that I produce when someone does not wait for me as I make my journey towards her. Faith is exercise. It is fixing my eyes on the sun, whether present before me or hidden by cloud cover. It is a walk into the unknown, looking for the stranger who will show me his hands. He will take mine in his, and note how they are dry and cracked from all the washing and re-washing. And then he will guide me with a gentle nudge, as he sets me on the road again to smile and stumble. His faithful light shining through me, more radiant than anything imagined. Even my hands are resurrected through the One who made me. May I serve the Creator with mark of humaness I own.
Kailyne,
I have been grateful for your engagement with these Stations posts. Your vivid images and heartfelt questions inspire me to dig deeper.
Cari
Thank you for your kind words. I believe our collective energy will lift us from this darkness into the light and promise of our beloved Creator. Peace to you.