Luke 24:36b-48
Jesus himself came and stood among them and said to them, “Peace be with you.” They were startled and terrified, and thought that they were seeing a ghost. He said to them, “Why are you frightened, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? Look at my hands and my feet; see that it is I myself. Touch me and see; for a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.”
And when he had said this, he showed them his hands and his feet. While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering, he said to them, “Have you anything here to eat?” They gave him a piece of broiled fish, and he took it and ate in their presence.
Then he said to them, “These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you – that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.” Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures, and said to them, “Thus it is written, that the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and that repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things.”
It’s been awhile, but I’ve had stitches three times in my life. Every incident and accident happened by the time I was in 3rd grade. The first was right smack-dab in the middle of my forehead. I think I was three or four years old, and jumping on the bed with the neighbor kids, when I bounced off and cracked my head on the corner of the desk in my room. The second time was in the driveway of the church parsonage sometime after that. Alan Heinz, who was older than me by a few years, pushed me, I slipped on the ice, and split my chin open. The third time was on a road trip with my grandmother, without my parents, when I fell down the steps on some rickety, rusty old metal swing-set. I sliced the skin near my eye enough that they had to sew me up.
As a kid those stories were fun to tell, once the healing had come. After the doctor visits and the stitches and the healing and what not, the scars were little badges of honor, I guess, with funny stories behind them. They don’t amount to much now – the scars or the stories – but at the time, there weren’t many 3rd graders who’d been stitched so prolifically as far as I knew. And my friends, my brother, my parents, my grandmother, and Alan Heinz, were all witnesses to my wounds.
Jesus was big on showing off his wounds, too. “Look at my hands and my feet.” “See that it is I, myself.”
And he said, “…the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations, beginning from Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things.”
“You are witnesses of these things.”
Ugh. “Witnesses.” Haven’t we heard enough from and about “witnesses” these days. “Witnesses” in that courtroom. “Witnesses” in the streets. “Witnesses” inside that school in Knoxville, or near that alley in Chicago, or outside in the parking lot, or inside of that FedEx building, right here in Indianapolis – eye-witnesses, expert witnesses, character witnesses to all sorts of sadness and struggle and death and despair.
So, even though this world does its best to make it so hard, I want to wonder with all of you, with whatever of Easter’s joy we can still muster, what it means that Jesus would call us to be witnesses on this side of his empty tomb: witnesses to a Messiah that suffered and was raised from the dead on the third day: witnesses to the fact that Jesus got up from the grave, showed up for his friends – ate some broiled fish in their presence, just to prove it was true – and reminded them about their call to be “witnesses.”
What does that mean, exactly? To be “witnesses?”
Those first disciples sure had a lot to tell – not unlike some of the “witnesses” I just referred to. The disciples had witnessed a murder. A friend had died. A son had been executed. An injustice had been done. So much pain and fear and frustration and anger and despair were a part of all they had seen, heard, shared, and “witnessed.” So they had a story to tell, for sure.
And I think it’s so meaningful and deliberate that Jesus starts with his hands and his feet. Jesus uses the wounds from his crucified body – following the resurrection – differently than I did as a kid. I don’t get the impression he was proud of them or wore them as a badge of honor, I mean. Or that he enjoyed the story they told, necessarily.
But, remember last week, when he showed up for most of the disciples and then to Thomas? The holes in his hands and the wounds on his sides were evidence of his identity. Today, the same is true, for the disciples who saw him – the holes in his hands and the ones in his feet were proof that he was, indeed, Jesus – their friend, their rabbi, their Messiah, who had been crucified, had died, and had been buried. And who now ate some broiled fish just to prove he wasn’t a ghost.
But I got to thinking that Jesus’ wounds were more than just evidence of his identity or proof of life, even.
I think, in showing his wounds – in revealing where he had been hurt and suffered and struggled so mightily – Jesus was showing his disciples – and us – what it means to be witnesses, ourselves.
“…the Messiah is to suffer and to rise from the dead on the third day, and repentance and forgiveness of sins is to be proclaimed in his name to all nations … You are witnesses of these things.”
See, we are witnesses, you and I, not just to the resurrection and the forgiveness, the good news and the joy of it all. But we are witnesses to the suffering and the hard work of repentance and the struggle of it all, just the same. And I wonder if being a witness like Jesus invites us to be means showing off our own scars, revealing our own wounds, and not hiding the broken pieces of ourselves from each other or from the world.
And that’s hard. And terrifying. And takes courage and vulnerability and faith. And I don’t know that means for you. I’m not always sure what it means for myself – because the wounds that hurt now are deeper and harder to show off than the stitches that scarred me when I was a kid. Broken bones are like sticks and stones, as they say, compared to the broken hearts that burden us these days, don’t you think?
Our grief is a wound that is hard to lay bare.
The fears that keep us up at night are not always something we want to give voice to.
The sins we confess and long to have forgiven are not easily proclaimed.
The scars of whatever shame we carry are not readily revealed.
But I think that might be precisely why Jesus leads with his wounds. I think maybe Jesus leads with his wounds – boldly, bravely, and by example, so that we might, too, as we try to bear witness to just what God is up to in our lives and for the sake of the world.
I pray those families still reeling from what was lost at FedEx on Thursday will settle into some measure of hope when any of the thousands of families in this country who know their pain reach out to them with their own broken hearts.
I’ve seen how the family of Daunte Wright has already been buoyed by the broken, but common ground they share with the family of George Floyd.
Parents who’ve survived the loss of a child are a beacon for those who are new to that grief.
Those who’ve endured a divorce and loved well again are a light for those stumbling down that road.
When someone comes out of the closet, finds their self, and thrives – someone still hiding is encouraged that maybe they can do the same.
Those who have been hurt by the Church or doubted their faith to the point of desperation, but have managed to keep it, have a gift to offer others in that same boat.
We have – each of us – suffered or are suffering. We have been frightened or are afraid, now. We have grieved mightily, many of us, or are grieving, still, in ways that someone out there in the world would be blessed to know about.
“See these wounds?” “You are witnesses to these things.” “I’ll show you mine,” Jesus seems to say, “so that you might show someone yours.” Because, Jesus knew what he wants us to share: that God does God’s best work with the wounded, broken, hurting, fearful, desperate parts of our lives in this world.
God takes all of that and redeems it. God takes all of that and forgives it. God takes all of it and breathes new life into it. God takes all of it and heals, comforts and loves it all into wholeness and justice and hope and peace.
And so he calls us to be witnesses, you and me – brave and bold and faithful and persistent, like Jesus. Witnesses – leading with our own wounds to show that what is broken, can be made whole; bearing witness to what is hurting but that can be comforted; bearing witness to what is sinful, but will be forgiven; bearing witness to what is dead, even, but will be raised to new life in his name.
Amen
