The Instructor had no Scars

I don’t dream much. I don’t sleep much. So when I had a dream that I remembered with precision clarity, I took note.

I was sitting in a room with tables, a large meeting room with a zoomed in focus on three people, myself, a teacher, and one other person. I thought how unusual for me to be sitting as a student. I had been teaching and leading classes for 18 years. I wasn’t uncomfortable as a student, it was just different.

The teacher asked who in the class didn’t believe in the Resurrection. I don’t believe he was anticipating a response – it was presented more as a rhetorical question with a slight challenge to it, almost incredulous on his part that anyone could not believe.

I said that I did not. Silence. The instructor said nothing, I don’t believe I was in his lesson plan.  A voice came to my defense from the other side of the room. She tried to explain away my negative response.  She went on to say that I had been through so much, that our son had been killed and that the instructor should not think poorly of me.

I remember smiling at her. I needed no one to speak for me and I cared little for what the instructor thought, he asked a question – I gave an answer. I was ready for his arguments. I said nothing though, just waited for the instructor to speak. I had not initiated this train of discussion and if he was not prepared, then he should not have asked question. I still said nothing, just waited…and he would not or could not engage.

The last thing I remember from my dream is that the instructor had no scars.

I had this dream two months ago and it is still startling clear, it has not faded in intensity, it has multiplied in complexity. No scars…his hands were clean, his suit was tailored, all pressed and starched to perfection. Perhaps that is our perception of a teacher or a leader, perfect suit, perfect life, clean and spotless to the tip of their shoes. Exceptional credentials, photographs well, really well actually because there are no scars. And yet, he could say nothing, he had no scars to speak for him.

I thought to myself I had to find the scarred one. I would not find the one who would engage in a clean, well-lit room. I would have to search for those who were not afraid or intimidated by my unbelief. Those who are not scandalized, or quickly say that they would never lose their faith. I had to find those who would not say “how could you not believe?”

I sat with the Gospel of John and visited with Thomas and Jesus. I pushed out of my brain all the “learned” lessons, all the admonitions of “don’t be a doubting Thomas.”  In my meditation, I breathe the air of that house, feel their new grief, their shock…hear the sounds of life outside the house. I wonder where Thomas was the first week that Jesus appeared. I get the sense that he was securing food, checking on family, seeing what price had been put on their heads.  And while he is busy serving others, he misses a visit with Jesus and has to listen to the rest of them tell him about what he missed.  Then Thomas speaks those words “Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and place my finger in the mark of the nails, and place my hand in his side, I will not believe.”  This is a tired, practical man speaking, he is grief worn, and physically exhausted. I detect no rancor or evil in his voice or words.

Eight days later, Jesus shows up again and Thomas is present. The first thing Jesus says is “Peace be with you.” Not “Thomas you idiot,” not “Peace to everyone except Thomas.  We read,  “Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side; do not be faithless, but believing.”  I close my eyes and imagine Thomas and Jesus, standing so close, Jesus telling him to put out his hand. I don’t believe that Jesus was angry, or harsh with Thomas – this is a love story.  Jesus knows Thomas is tired and worn…this is an intimate moment.  Jesus is trusting Thomas with knowledge of His scars. Thomas’ heart is won over by that intimacy, the affection in Jesus’ eyes for him -he  hits his knees and is privileged to declare the supreme confession of faith, “My Lord and My God!”   Jesus smooths Thomas’ hair, hair ragged and sweaty. He offers His scarred hand to Thomas to lift him up – they are brothers, intimates…bound by the language of scars.

I picture Jesus still holding onto Thomas,  Jesus says “You have believed because you have seen me. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.” Jesus does not say that Thomas is not blessed. Thomas was chosen to play an important role, he is remembered as one unworthy, a doubter – but he was God’s instrument to show us that we may touch the wounds of Jesus, that the best place to be when we doubt and despair is touching Jesus’ wounds.

There must be a reason Jesus still bears the scars on his resurrected body, God is purposeful in what He does, He allows the scars to remain, to be seen. So too our scars must not be in vain but have purpose.

I don’t really like my scars and I wish that I didn’t have this gaping wound in my heart that has Justin’s name on it…I hate it. If people think Thomas is to be censured, what do they think of me?  I scream at God that He doesn’t exist at the same moment wanting to run to Him and cry until I can’t cry anymore and beat my fists against His chest until I am exhausted. An interesting form of prayer I grant you, but it is prayer.

And when I am exhausted at His feet, He smooths my sweaty and dirty hair…holds out a scarred hand and says “get up.”  I look at His scarred hand and ask Him about my unbelief…“bring that too” He says.  He throws His arm around and me and starts to tease about what a mess I am, I am startled, but smile…not startled that I am a mess, but at the Divine humor, the playfulness.

I am up, my hair is still a mess. Dried salt tracks on my face tell me that I have cried in my sleep, but I am up. I found my scarred one who would engage.  I still have unbelief, but it is enough to know that I can reach out and touch His wounds and to recognize my own hidden there, for He already knew them and took them unto His own heart.

 “The Sacred Heart was full of most tender love: there was no bitterness in it; no cruelty and injustice that he received moved it to feelings other than those of compassion and affection.”
St. Claude de la Colombiere