“That’ll Leave a Mark”

They were startled and frightened, thinking they saw a ghost. He said to them, "Why are you troubled, and why do doubts rise in your minds? Look at my hands and my feet. It is I myself! Touch me and see; a ghost does not have flesh and bones as you see I have" [Luke 24:37-39, New International Version].

During my childhood and adolescent years at Olney Presbyterian in Gastonia, I was taught by elders in both a Presbyterian and familial sense that, at the time of the resurrection, our “resurrected bodies” would not be plagued with the sorts of pains, wounds, scars, and imperfections found in our former earthly bodies. Instead, they’d be “brand spanking new.” Two friends who left limbs behind in Vietnam would, therefore, have restored bodies in the resurrection.

But then, we run into the several “appearance” stories found in the Gospels. Things become much more nuanced. In Luke 24, the resurrected Jesus appears to “two of them” [24:13] as they walk to Emmaus, a village located some seven miles from Jerusalem. They don’t recognize Jesus—actually, the text indicates that they were “kept from recognizing him” [24:16]. It is only when He is at table with them, when he takes bread, gives thanks, breaks it, and gives it to them that their eyes are opened and they recognize him [24:31. Yet no sooner as they do so, He disappears. It’s as if they’ve seen a ghost.

The two hurry back to Jerusalem to tell the 11 what they’ve seen [the original twelve minus Judas; notice that there’s no mention of Thomas’ absence here, see 24:33]. They relate their conversation along the road. They tell the others how they recognized Jesus during the Eucharistic moment in Emmaus. While everyone is standing around talking, Jesus suddenly appears before them, stands in their midst, and offers them Peace [24:36].

It is at that point that the Gospel lesson appointed for this Sunday, the Third Sunday of Easter [Luke 24:36b-48, RCL, Year B], picks up the story. Having just heard from the two travelers of Jesus’ sudden appearance and disappearance, and now, seeing Jesus suddenly reappear before them, they conclude the obvious: they’re seeing a ghost [24:37]. But Jesus offers them reassurance in a peculiar way. He’s no ghost. He is the risen Christ. To prove it to them, He shows them the wounds on his hands and his feet.

Had I been there, I wonder if my psyche would have been soothed by his marks of suffering? Or might I have been even more bewildered? If our “resurrected bodies” will be flawless, if indeed, “the dead will be raised imperishable [1 Corinthians 15:52], why were the marks of the Crucifixion visible to those standing nearby?

That question has been studied and pondered for almost two millennia. Addressing that question and indeed, a similar issue related to those who had been horribly mangled by wild animals during their own executions, Augustine (354-430), beautifully wrote:

Perhaps in that kingdom we shall see on the bodies of the Martyrs the traces of the wounds which they bore for Christ’s name: because it will not be a deformity, but a dignity in them, and a certain kind of beauty will shine in them, in the body, though not of the body [De civitate Dei (The City of God) xxii].

St. Thomas Aquinas (1225-1274), contemplating the appearance of Jesus to the disciples and the exposure to them of his Crucifixion wounds, allowed that:

He kept His scars not from inability to heal them, but to wear them as an everlasting trophy of His victory [Summa Theologica, Article 4].

And so, why were the marks of the Crucifixion visible to those standing nearby? They were visible, I think, because His wounds tell a powerful, vivid story. It’s a story of a man borne of woman who steadfastly held to the Kingdom of God, a Kingdom where love reigns and hatred falters, a Kingdom where might is never right, where cheeks are turned—and kissed—never struck, a Kingdom where masters serve servants, where sins are forgiven, where the lame are allowed and empowered to walk, where those who struggle with sight are brought forward into the light of Christ, a Kingdom where the haughty are brought down, and the lowly are exalted.

Why were the marks of the Crucifixion still visible? For a world whose teaching is that scars are merely souvenirs of some failed mission, Jesus bears them as trophies of His triumphant Victory. On the Cross, Jesus determined not to transmit His pain and misery, but rather to transform it. I have an unattributed, beautiful passage in my old study notes—I think the lecturer was the late Reverend Dr. Moody Smith:

On Easter morning, the Resurrection is not an overturning of the Cross, as though the Crucifixion was somehow a moment of defeat and His Resurrection a contradiction of that loss. No, the Cross and the Resurrection were part of one love and mission. They are both part of one Redemption.

That’s why the marks of the Crucifixion were still visible.

I’m pretty sure that I speak for you when I say that we all have wounds and scars. Some of our wounds and scars are more obvious than others. Unlike the wounds that our Lord showed His disciples that night, virtually all my wounds and scars have not come nobly. They haven’t been earned through seeking God’s Glory. Most of mine are self-inflicted. Thank Goodness that you and I follow a forgiving Lord, a Lord who breaks down doors, forces Himself through any barrier in order that He might reach out to those like us who don’t deserve Him.

Why are His marks so visible? Kate Bowler, a current professor at Duke Divinity School, has put it beautifully:

We bear all the ruins of the lives we’ve lived and the loves we’ve endured. What a gift to have a Savior who does the same [Everything Happens for a Reason: And Other Lies I’ve Loved [Random House, 2018].

After Pilate had released Barabbas, after he had turned Jesus—whom Pilate had mockingly given the title, “King of the Jews” [John 19:14]—over to the others for the actual crucifixion, I suspect that he smirked to himself and, thinking about the grueling hours that lay before Jesus, thinking that he had skillfully rid himself of a pesky problem, called out to our Lord as the latter was being led away, “The cross—that’ll leave a mark!”

Amen, Pilate. Amen.