Photo by Iqbal Osman

By Diana Gee

Surely he took up our pain
and bore our suffering,
yet we considered him punished by God,
stricken by him, and afflicted.
But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on him,
and by his wounds we are healed.
Isaiah 53:4-5

I know a lot about wounds. When I was a child, I used to ride my bicycle all around the neighbourhood, going in and out of alleyways and side roads. One time I followed a friend down a steep path through the woods, at the end of which the path turned onto a wooden pedestrian bridge. I didn’t turn with the path. Instead I scrapped along the wooden rails and fell promptly on my side. I remember the bleeding from torn skin and the extraction of multiple slivers in the days to come. My legs and arm became a pallet of bluish-purple bruises.

I also recall the time I called out to a friend who I saw was playing near the fence that separated our elementary schools. She went to the Catholic school, I was in the public one. We were in the same public kindergarten class but the following year she switched schools. When I excitedly called to her and said, “Remember me? Diana?” She said, “Diana who? Diana burger?” I’m sure six-year-old insults are much more creative and colorful these days. But that was my first direct encounter of name-calling and mocking. My first experience of betrayal.

I also remember the time I found out that the only reason that my senior pastor discouraged me from going to seminary was because I was a woman. To one male friend going to seminary, he gave his blessing. In my case, he said, “It would be too difficult for her.” But he didn’t say that to me. He said, “You don’t need to study at a seminary. All you need to do is read the bible yourself.” He later retracted, after being in trouble with the elder board, and offered a full scholarship to seminary as long as I returned to work for him. I declined and left that meeting feeling like my trust in authority had been shredded.

The list can go on, the ways I’ve been wounded. By family, friends, relationships, and (surprise, surprise) fellow Christians. Sometimes I feel that I’ve been wounded by God when encountering one disappointment after another. Sometimes I wonder if 29-year-old-me would still choose to answer the call to Church ministry knowing the wounds to come. But I can’t say that this has all been a surprise. I knew there would be suffering; I just didn’t (or couldn’t) anticipate the ways suffering and pain would come.

Gorden T. Smith, in his brilliant and thoughtful book, Courage and Calling: Embracing Your God-Given Potential, talks about accepting pain that is inevitably inherent in our vocation and life. Following the way of Christ means following the way to the cross and embracing the cross. “Consequently, it is reasonable to conclude that in some form or another the cross (or a cross) will mark every vocation; there will be some way that the pain of a broken world intersects our call.”

The cross is also the means by which God “enables us to know the joy through the calling and work that he gives us” and “the very place where we are grace and life to others.” But for that to happen the cross has to be accepted with grace – not with self-pity or naiveté. This is what it means to live on earth and to engage God’s kingdom. Of course people will hurt you. Of course you won’t always get what you want. Of course there is death. But there is also resurrection.

Accepting the cross means we can also rise, and we rise because of the cross. By His wounds we are healed; we become capable of responding to wounding with gratitude and hope. Smith calls this “emotional resilience.” Others might simply call it spiritual maturity. I have found, that with each nasty scrape in life the pain is less acute, the healing comes more quickly, and older wounds are less vulnerable to re-opening. I am no less incensed with injustice or horrified at trauma; I am simply more convinced that I need the power and presence of Christ to respond with hope rather than fear or despair. Yet what do I do with these wounds, particularly when healing has not arrived yet? What do I do with the gaping holes in my heart that seem to widen further with each reminder in life that I am still terribly broken?

The icon of The Doubting Thomas shows a remarkable scene of the resurrected Christ standing among his disciples. Thomas had publically demanded proof of the risen Christ and now Jesus is before him, revealing His afflicted and glorified body. Thomas is bent over with arm extended and finger poking at the side of Christ. Did Jesus still feel the pain of broken skin? Did the nerve-endings of his open, gaping, wound scream when touched? Thomas isn’t even looking at Jesus’s face. His attention is on the place where spear pierced and entered divine flesh. The same place where Thomas now puts his own finger of doubt and examination. The only reaction we’re given is that of Thomas’ who simply says to the Jesus, “My Lord and my God.”

For much of my life I have been protecting my wounds, for fear of appearing weak and damaged. For fear of what others may think of me. Yet here is Jesus offering his wounds to a faithless disciple. And in that moment of encounter, a moment of intimacy that rivals that of pregnancy and sex, Thomas believes.  The figure of the doubting disciple touching our risen Saviour is a reminder that wounds are not just markers of shame or sorrow; they are places of healing too.

It’s not to say that my wounds will be healed when I offer them to others. But something does happen when deep calls to deep. The posturing and pretense are gone. The veil between what’s known and unknown is pulled aside. There is recognition. There is communion. And only then can there be hope for what is possible.

Diana Gee is the Associate Pastor of Faith Community Christian Church in Vancouver, Canada. Diana is a second-generation, Chinese Canadian, born and raised in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. She is trained as a structural engineer (B.Sc. in Civil Engineering, University of Alberta) and has worked in consulting for six years. She completed her master’s degree at Regent College (M.Div.) in 2011.