![]() ![]() I can envision the joy that came with the realization that when wounds persist, as they did for Christ in his resurrection, they do not have to be a final word, a mark of failure they can become a place of meeting, a portal, a passage.Īs we enter into this Easter season, how will we allow the wounds of the risen Christ to meet our own wounds? How will we let him breathe into us anew? Where will we let this lead us?įor this second Sunday of Easter, I’ve gathered together a collection of reflections I’ve written on this passage from John’s Gospel across the past decade. I can easily conceive the elation that came with the return of breath-the breath of the beloved, the breath in one’s own chest. The disciples rejoiced, John tells us in his account of this evening. Then suddenly, John’s Gospel tells us, Jesus was standing among them, showing his brokenhearted friends his own wounds, breathing the Spirit into their ache. They did not yet understand the resurrection that had come to meet them in their grief. So I can just imagine the disciples on the evening of Jesus’ resurrection, gathered together in their bewilderment and sorrow, their own hearts shattered, the breath knocked from them. ![]() It seemed no small miracle that I could keep doing this when my heart was shattered. The wounds of the risen Christ are not a prison Īfter Gary died, when people would ask me how I was doing, I would often say, I’m still breathing. Reading from the Gospels, Easter 2: John 20.19-31 ![]()
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