"Touch the Wounds" Excerpt

Touch the Wounds

ON SUFFERING, TRUST, AND TRANSFORMATION

TOMÁŠ HALÍK

University of Notre Dame Press Notre Dame, Indiana 46556 undpress.nd.edu

Copyright © 2022 by Tomáš Halík

All Rights Reserved Published in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number:

The disbelief of Thomas has done more for our faith than the faith of the other disciples.

—St. Gregory the Great

By his wounds we have been healed.

—Isaiah 53:5

Two prisoners whose cells adjoin communicate with each other by knocking on the wall. The wall is the thing which separates them but is also their means of communication. It is the same with us and God. Every separation is a link.

—Simone Weil

Preface to the English-Language Edition

1 The Gate of the Wounded

2 Without Distance

3

Cordis

4 A Torn Veil

5

Dancing God

6 Worshipping the Lamb

7 Stigmata and Forgiveness

8 Knocking on the Wall

Bodies

10 A Little Place for Truth

11 Veronica and the Imprint of the Face 105

Wounds Transformed

Last Beatitude

PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH-LANGUAGE EDITION

The central message of this book can be summed up in a few sen tences. The painful wounds of our world are Christ’s wounds. If we ignore pain, poverty, and suffering in our world, if we turn a blind eye to them out of indifference or cowardice, if we are unwilling to acknowledge the injuries we inflict (including the injuries inflicted in our churches), and conceal them from others and ourselves with masks, cosmetics, or tranquilizing drugs, then we have no right to say to Christ, like Thomas the apostle when he touched Jesus’s wounds: “My Lord and my God.”

In the Gospels, the resurrected Jesus identifies himself with his wounds. They are the proof of his identity. The wounded Christ is the real, living Christ. He shows us his wounds and gives us the courage not to conceal our own: we are permitted our own wounds. Our faith may also be wounded by doubts. Wounded faith is more Christian, not less.

I am writing the preface to the English translation of my book at a time when the pandemic of a destructive disease is coming to a head on our planet. Every morning I have to reassure myself that I really am awake, that I haven’t moved from one dream to another or wandered into some sci-fi horror movie.

We’re part of a world full of wounds. For many people, the dark cloud of pain conceals the certainty of faith; the face of a benevo lent God is hidden in the darkness that we are passing through together. But the Easter scene that inspired this book can speak to us with enormous urgency precisely at such a time. It is through Jesus’s wounds that the apostle Thomas sees God.

Let us not seek God in the storms and earthquakes. A God en throned somewhere beyond the world, sending upon his children cruel punishments, the like of which would rightly land any parent in court, truly does not exist, thankfully. Atheists rightly maintain that such a god is simply a projection of our fears and desires. The vengeful god used by preachers, who trade on the world’s misfor tunes to arouse fear and exploit it for their religious ends, is simply a product and servant of their own vindictiveness: they use it as a stick to beat people that they hate, and as a curse and punishment for what they themselves reject or fear. Their god of vengeance is simply a fictitious extension of their own malice and vindictiveness. When they brandish a God who punishes us with wars, natural di sasters, and disease, they commit the sin of invoking God’s name in vain. They are replacing the father of Jesus with a bloodthirsty pagan idol that thrives on the blood of human sacrifice.

Like the prophet Elijah on Mount Horeb, we are more likely to find God in a quiet breeze—in the unaffected expressions of love and solidarity, and in everyday heroism generated in the dark hours of calamities. It is in those expressions of love and service, which restore our hope and the courage to live and not give up, that true holiness manifests itself. That is where God happens.

We can observe the wounds of this world in the way that Pilate observed the scourged Jesus: Ecce homo! Behold the man! Is this man covered in wounds, “without dignity, without beauty,” really a man still? The mob to which Pilate shows Christ, covered in wounds, is like a wild beast, incensed even more by the smell of blood: Cru cify him!

But on the way to the Crucifixion Veronica emerges from the crowd. Jesus imprints the image of his face forever on the veil of compassion. Whoever wipes the sweat and blood from the wounds of our world may see and preserve the face of Christ. And whoever, like “doubting Thomas,” gazes from the gloom of doubts at the wounds on the body of our world and in the hearts of our neigh bors may—precisely through that wounded humanity, through that image of the humanity that the Son of God took upon himself—see God. “I and the Father are one,” said the one who bore our wounds. Scripture expresses the unity of the Father and the Son not in dogmatic definitions but in a dramatic story. That drama includes

the moments of painful abandonment, as witness Jesus’s cry on the cross. Sometimes the time between the darkness of the cross and the dawn of Sunday morning is long and arduous. The present book seeks also to address those who are enduring such moments—and it is not intended to offer them “religious opium,” sweet-sounding clichés of tawdry pious reassurance.

Let us not expect faith to provide the answers to every ques tion. Instead we should derive from it the courage to step into the cloud of mystery and bear life’s many open questions and para doxes. St. Paul tells us that here on earth we see only in part, as in a mirror, as in a riddle. Faith mustn’t stop seeking and questioning; it must not petrify into an ideology. It must not abandon its open ness to an eschatological future.

As I write these lines I vividly recall the Easter of this tragic year: Easter with empty and often-locked churches, Easter without public religious services. But this Easter in particular made a pro found impression on me.

For one thing it reminded me strikingly of those eleven years when I served “clandestinely” as a secretly ordained priest at the time of communist persecution. In those days also I celebrated Eas ter in private homes in a circle of my closest associates, at an ordi nary table with no chasuble or golden chalice, no organ or incense.

And for another, I experienced it as a sort of prophetic vision of warning: unless the church (and not only our “Roman Church”) does not undergo the profound reform called for by Pope Francis— not only a structural reform but above all a turning to the depths, to the very heart of the gospel—then empty and locked churches will not be the exception but rather the rule. This is already happen ing in many European countries, not only in countries of eastern and central Europe (such as my own country, the Czech Republic), which underwent “hard secularization” at the time of the commu nist regimes (and where the anticipated great religious revival after for the fall of the communist regimes hasn’t happened), but also in western and now also southern Europe, where “soft secularization” is under way. Even traditionally Catholic countries like Ireland, Spain, and Italy are undergoing rapid secularization. And now it looks as if Poland, too, is in line. Likewise, the assertion of many sociolo gists that the weakening of traditional church religiosity is only a

European problem and does not affect North and South America turns out to be illusory. Maybe the word secularization is too “played out” to capture the full breadth and depth of this process, but the “wounding,” weakening, and malaise of a certain type of traditional religion—however we describe the situation—cannot be denied.

The crisis of ecclesial Christianity is not due primarily to some dangerous forces from outside—“the tsunami of secularism, con sumerism, and materialism,” as we sometimes hear from the pulpit.

For that reason also the crisis cannot be halted either by the present “retro-Catholicism,” that fatuous attempt to return to a premodern world that is now gone, or by some hollow and superficial “mod ernization” in the sense of conformity to “the spirit of the age.”

The “spirit of the age” (Zeitgeist, fashion) is certainly not the Holy Spirit; it is the language of this world to which Christians should not conform, as St. Paul wrote. Instead Christians should listen to the “signs of the times” and properly understand them. These are the language of God in historical events of which we are a part and that we help to create through our understanding. If we are not to project our own fears and desires too hastily onto the events we experience (i.e., if we are to free ourselves from the religion that Freud and many others have rightly criticized), we need to foster a culture of “spiritual discernment.”

This is because it is not easy within the changes of cultural mentality that occasionally occur—as in the Renaissance, the En lightenment, and the cultural revolutions of the 1960s and the present day—to discern what is “human, all too human,” superfi cial, external, and ephemeral, and the “opportune moment” (kairos), which we must accept and fulfill as God’s challenge to our faith and our life’s praxis.

I believe that one of the fateful misapprehensions on the part of the church hierarchy was its reaction to the “ethics of authen ticity” (to borrow a phrase from Charles Taylor) that emerged from the “second Enlightenment” of the 1960s. The “sexual revolu tion,” which was part of the younger generation’s rebellion against tradition and authority, particularly aroused fear and panic in a church represented by men living in celibacy. Instead of respond ing by developing a theology of love and sexuality drawing on the

deep wellsprings of Christian mysticism, the church tended to re gress to a religion of injunctions and proscriptions. In the church’s documents, in its preaching and prescriptions, the entire sexuality agenda—particularly the attempt to discipline sexuality as strictly as possible—came to the fore to such a degree that it seemed that the sextum (the Sixth Commandment) had become the first—and possibly sole—commandment. Catholics started to be perceived as the ones who never stopped talking about condoms, abortion, and same-sex unions—until Pope Francis had the courage to aptly de scribe this shift of priorities as a “neurotic obsession” and to point out what really constitutes the heart of Christianity, which we had often forgotten: mercy, compassionate and solidary love toward all, particularly the marginalized, and toward our mother Earth.

The secular world’s natural reaction to fiery sermons against the laxity of sexual morality was: Look to your own ranks! There followed a worldwide wave of revelations of long-concealed and de nied crimes of sexual abuse by the clergy, particularly the abuse of children and young people. I think almost everyone knew or sus pected in some way something of these and similar matters, but clearly few could have imagined the depth and extent of this pain ful wound. It also transpired that many of those who inveighed most vociferously against homosexuality were doing so to suppress their own private problems in this regard and that they often led a Jekyll and Hyde existence, or—in the words of Jesus—were like whitewashed tombs, beautiful on the outside but full of putrefac tion on the inside.

When Pope Francis started to speak openly about the real cause of this situation, and when, in his encyclical Amoris laetitia, he sought to revise the religion of the Christian Pharisees and scribes by offering an ethic of love, mercy, and understanding for people in difficult situations and by encouraging trust in the voice of con science, he aroused rabid hatred in the spiritual heirs of Jesus’s ene mies: the Pharisees and scribes of our day.

As Pope Francis pointed out, the chief root of these phenomena within the church was the abuse of power—clericalism. In his mem orable opening speech at the summit of presidents of worldwide

bishops’ conferences in February 2019, Cardinal Tagle, one of the pope’s closest colleagues, cited key sentences from this present book. He spoke about these painful phenomena as the wounds of Christ, which those who affirm the divinity of Christ must not ignore.

Two conflicting narratives have emerged: one downplays the evil of abuse in the church and shifts responsibility for it onto ex ternal influences, onto the “spirit of liberalism” that penetrated even the church in the 1960s and loosened its discipline; the other, the view of Pope Francis, states that those who have not come to terms with the church’s loss of power in modern society started to exercise that power even more and misuse it within the church itself, par ticularly toward those who were the least, the weakest, and the most vulnerable. The first of these narratives is demonstrably untrue: the greatest number of cases of abuse occurred, not in the period of the church’s “liberalization” after the Second Vatican Council but pre cisely in the period of attempts to impose the most rigid discipline, the kind of Catholicism that the Council tried to free the church from. As Cardinal Schönborn pointed out, sexual crimes were most often committed by leading figures from the conservative “church movements” (movimenti ); precisely the closed and elitist sectarian mentality and the unhealthy links with “spiritual teachers” that prevailed in those closed groups created a favorable climate for those forms of abuse of power, authority, and trust.

The period during which these concealed and therefore festering wounds started to come to light worldwide—the last years of Bene dict XVI’s pontificate and the entire pontificate of Pope Francis—is also a period of another “sign of the times”: a radical awakening of awareness of woman’s dignity in society and the church. Just as the church lost its influence on the working class through its tardy re action to the social problems of the industrial revolution, and just as it alienated a large proportion of educated members of society because of its inappropriate reaction to the turbulent developments in science and philosophy at the turn of the twentieth century (the unfortunate “antimodernist crusade”), so now, if it ignores these present changes in women’s self-awareness, it risks losing many of the women who have traditionally been pillars of the church.

The disquiet and tension in the church caused by these phe nomena have been concealed at the present time by the global pan demic. At this moment we can only speculate what kind of world awaits us when the dust dies down, when the proverbial grass starts to grow over the graves of the countless victims of the viral infec tion. How is humanity processing this experience that took us all unawares? What will be the church’s response? The world will cer tainly change—will the church?

During this strange Easter, I once more opened a slim pamphlet by the Czech seventeenth-century thinker Jan Amos Komenský (Co menius), entitled The Legacy of a Dying Mother, the Unity of the Brethren.

As the last bishop of this small, persecuted Protestant church, he wrote in exile this remarkable “theology of the death of the church.” I was alerted to the work many years ago by one of my teachers of faith, Oto Mádr, for many years a prisoner of communism, in his essay “Modus moriendi ecclesiae” (How a church dies). “The death of the church” is once more a topical issue. Yes, I do believe that one form of the church, one form of Christianity, is truly dying. But isn’t the core of Christianity the message of the death that must precede resurrection?

Yet resurrection is not “resuscitation,” the return to a previous state. The Gospels tell us that Jesus was transformed beyond rec ognition by his experience of death. Not even his nearest and dear est could recognize him at first. He had to prove his identity by his wounds. In this book I confess that I am incapable of believ ing in a God without wounds, a church without wounds, or a faith without wounds. Our faith too is constantly wounded by what we experience—in the world and also in the church itself. But aren’t its wounds—maybe more than a lot of other things—a sign of its au thenticity? Can a faith that bears no stigmata, a faith that cautiously avoids the Golgothas of our time, help to heal a wounded world?

I would like to present my readers with witness to a faith that lives even when it is sometimes painful and bleeds.

The Gate of the Wounded

But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

20:24–29

After reading this Gospel I left the pulpit and returned to my seat. It was early morning in Madras Cathedral, gray, silent, and almost empty. India lay before me like a brightly colored carpet interwo ven with a multitude of holy places. I was heading for Bodh Gaya, where Buddha had attained enlightenment; to Sarnat, where the Awakened One first addressed his disciples; to Varanasi, on the banks of the Ganges, the holiest of sites for Hindus; to Mathura, the birthplace of Krishna; but here in Madras, at the heart of Indian Christianity, where the tomb of Thomas the apostle, the

patron saint of India, has been venerated since ancient times, I felt for a moment truly at home, thanks in part to the words of that deeply familiar text.

At that moment I still perceived that passage of John’s Gospel as I always had and as it is generally interpreted, namely that by his appearance Jesus dispelled his skeptical apostle’s lingering doubts about the truth of his resurrection, that “doubting Thomas” im mediately became a believer. I did not suspect that before the day was out, this gospel text would address me afresh—differently and more profoundly—and that it would even reveal to me in a new light the greatest mystery of Christian faith: the resurrection of Jesus and his divine nature. Moreover, this new perception would gradually draw me onto a certain path of spirituality of which I yet knew nothing. It showed me “the gate for doubting Thomases,” the gate of the wounded.

Christian faith is a constant penetration of our lives by the gos pel, the courage to “enter the story,” to reveal the meaning of the Bible stories afresh and more profoundly through our own life ex perience but also to allow the powerful images of the gospel to have an impact so that they may gradually illuminate, interpret, and transform the flow of our own lives.

Events, experiences, ideas, and sudden insights very often need time to mature within us and bring forth fruit. Twelve years have passed since my Indian pilgrimage. I sit here once again in the si lence and solitude of my summer hermitage in the Rhineland. After last night’s storm the hilltops are shrouded in a thick mist that the first rays of morning are only just beginning to slowly penetrate. All around, the valley is covered in low-lying clouds. So it is within a cloud that I start to write this book, another attempt to have my answer ready for people who ask me the reason for “the hope that I have.”1

H “God is dead. . . . We have killed him—you and I.” I have pre viously quoted this fateful verdict of Nietzsche’s from his book The Gay Science, in which the Madman (the only one who is permitted

to state unpleasant truths with impunity) announces his diagnosis of the world to those who do not believe in God. He tells the world that it has lost the very foundations of its previous metaphysical and moral certainties.2 On the other hand, one can find in another of Nietzsche’s books a less familiar and less quoted passage, namely, where the death of the old deities is described: when the god of the Jews declared himself to be the only God, all the other deities are said to have burst into such derisive laughter that they laughed themselves to death.3

“Religion is on its way back” is the chorus from every corner of the globe. Opinions differ only about whether it is a good thing or a bad thing—and also, perhaps, about who or what is coming back, and from where. Is it the One God that is returning, “the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Jesus” that Jews, Christians, and Muslims all believe in, or the “god of the philosophers,” the Supreme Being—invented by the Enlightenment—who adorns po litical proclamations and the preambles to various constitutions? Is it the God who quietly responds to thirsting human hearts and heals their wounds, or the God of war and vengeance that hands out wounds? Or are we to look forward to the return of the old snigger ing sarcastic deities?

It is said of St. Martin that Satan himself appeared to him in the guise of Christ. The saint was not deceived, however. “Where are your wounds?” he asked.

My spiritual openness does not mean that I espouse an ingra tiating “boundless tolerance,” which is more an expression of in difference and spiritual indolence if it shirks the task of carefully “distinguishing spirits.” It is, after all, naive and dangerous to ignore the fact that there are destructive “images of God” and that even in the worthiest of traditions there slumber symbols, statements, and stories that can be beaten into weapons instead of plowshares. However, like everything in life that has grandeur and substance, religions comprise pitfalls and dangers. And so, with the apostle Thomas and St. Martin, I demand of all those who seek to occupy the throne vacated by the collapse of the sardonic deities, “Show me first your wounds!” For I do not believe in “faiths without wounds.”

H It is true that for years now I have endeavored, with respect and willingness, to study a multitude of religious paths. I’ve trav eled a good part of the globe, and nothing of what I’ve seen and come to know permits me to confine myself to the logic of “either/ or” (if two people say two different things, at least one of them must be wrong). I know that if someone thinks or says something different from me it may simply be because they look at things from a different standpoint, from another angle, because their tra ditions and experience are different, because they express them selves in a different “language”—in other words, that the difference between their viewpoint and statements and mine need not in any way deny either my or their right to the truth, or call into question their or my sincerity or integrity. I also know that this awareness need not lead to cozily complaisant relativism (“Everyone is right in their own way”); rather, it can lead to an endeavor to share the experience of one’s own naturally limited horizon and broaden it through mutual dialogue in which we get to know others and our selves better.

I have learned to respect the many different paths that people take to attain life’s final mystery. I believe that the “ultimate mys tery” infinitely surpasses all the notions and names that we people associate with it. Yes, I believe in one God, the Father of all people, and I believe that no person or “religious institution” or their pro fessionals has a “monopoly” on God. I am confident that God is the final estuary of even the most meandering of rivers: irrespec tive of frontiers, different religious systems, and different cultures, the paths of all those who revere the ultimate mystery of life and who seek honestly, by the light of their traditions, their yearning for truth, their conscience, and their knowledge, will eventually lead toward God.

I am neither All-knowing nor All-seeing, and so I cannot pro nounce final and infallible judgments about others and their per sonal beliefs because I cannot see into their hearts or catch a glimpse of the final end and goal of their journey. No one can rid me of the hope that “the God of the others” is, in the final analysis “my God,”

because the God I believe in is also the God of those who do not know the name by which I call God.

But in the same breath I add and declare: for me there is no other path or other gate to God than that which is opened by a wounded hand and pierced heart. I am unable to exclaim, “My Lord and my God” until I see the wound that pierced the heart. If credere is derived from “cor dare” (giving one’s heart), then my heart and my faith belong only to the God that has wounds to show.

My faith is at one with my love, and no one can rid me of my love for the Crucified, which is my response to his love for me: Can anything cut me off from the love of Christ?4 Can anything cut me off from that love whose proof of identity is its wounds?5 I am in capable of uttering the words “my God” unless I see the wounds! However radiant a religious vision might be, if it lacks the “scars left by the nails” I would be hard pressed, in spite of my goodwill, to rid myself of my misgivings that it might be an illusion, or a projection of my own desires, or even the Antichrist. My God is a wounded God.

Should anyone sense in what I have just declared certain con tradictions, I must add that I am equally aware of them: it is a real tension of my faith. I relate in hope and trust to a God who gener ously accepts the diversity of his children and whose arms are open so wide that we find it hard to understand. But that does not mean that I also cannot be “certain” where the limits of that embrace are, and I cannot naively assume that it enfolds quite simply “every thing.” I must maintain my respect for others and for the honesty and sincerity of their act of faith, but if I am to “put my heart” into something, I have to ask after its fruits.6 In religion, just as in all other important areas of life, there are values that are fundamental and of irreplaceable worth, and there are others that only feign to be such—and they include weeds and poisonous plants. And it is not the case, as many used to think and maybe still do, that there are fields here (our own) that yield only good harvests, and others about which we can say in advance that nothing good will grow in them. The Bible both exhorts us to test “the spirits” that are prof fered us7 and warns that it is extremely hard to tell the “the darnel”

from “the wheat”—indeed, that it is essentially a task impossible for us to fulfill in this world and beyond our powers of judgment.8

So what can I do? Make my faith and everything that I am re quired to believe undergo “St. Martin’s test.” I don’t believe in gods and faiths that skip through the world unaffected by its pain and suffering—without scars, stripes, or burns—in order to make a smooth-tongued presentation of their glittering charms—and noth ing else—in today’s religious marketplace.

The point is that my faith is able to shake off the burden of doubts and feel inner certainty and the peace of home only if it climbs the steep “path of the cross,” when it has its sights set on God through the narrow gate of Christ’s wounds—the gate of the poor and the wounded, through which the rich, the sated, and the self-confident, the knowing and “sighted,” “the healthy,” “the just,” “the wise and cautious” will not pass, just as the camel will not pass through the eye of the needle.9

H Was the apostle Thomas truly freed from his doubts once and for all when he set eyes on the resurrected Christ—or had Jesus instead shown him through his wounds the one and only place where seekers and doubters can truly touch God? That was the thought that came to me that day in Madras.

On the hot afternoon of that day, my Indian colleague, a Catholic priest and professor of religious studies at the University of Madras, took me first to the place where, according to legend, the apostle Thomas was martyred, and then to a Catholic orphan age close by.10

During my travels to Asia, Africa, and South America, both before and since, I had looked poverty in the face, and I am familiar with moral wretchedness from my clinical practice and my experi ence as a confessor—the hidden torments of people’s hearts and the dark recesses of human destinies. I have visited the “Golgothas of our times,” the sites of Nazi and communist concentration camps, as well as Hiroshima and Ground Zero in Manhattan, places that powerfully emanate the still-vivid memories of the criminal vi

olence perpetrated there—but even after all that, I will never forget that orphanage in Madras.

In cots that were more like poultry pens lay small, abandoned children, their stomachs swollen with hunger, tiny skeletons cov ered in black, often inflamed, skin. In the seemingly endless corri dors their feverish eyes stared out at me from everywhere, and they stretched their pink-palmed hands out to me. In the unbreathable air, with all that stench and weeping, I felt a mental, physical, and moral nausea. I had the suffocating sense of helplessness and bitter shame that one feels when confronted with the poor and wretched, shame at having healthy skin, a full stomach, and a roof over my head. I wanted cowardly to run away as fast I could from there (and not just from there), to close my eyes and heart and forget; I re called once more the words of Ivan Karamazov, who wanted to “give God back the entrance ticket” to a world in which children suffer.

But at that very moment a sentence came back to me from somewhere deep inside: “Touch the wounds!” And again: “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. . . . ”

Suddenly there opened up for me once more the story of the apostle Thomas that I had read from John’s Gospel at that morn ing’s mass above the tomb of the “patron saint of doubters.” Jesus identified with all who are small and suffering. In other words, all painful wounds and all the human misery in the world are “Christ’s wounds.”

I can only believe in Christ and have the right to exclaim, “My Lord and my God!” if I touch his wounds, of which our world is still full. Otherwise I say, “Lord, Lord!” simply in vain and to no effect.11 Naturally none of us can regard ourselves as a messiah capable of healing all the world’s wounds. Besides, not even he achieved that during his earthly mission (nor did he attempt to). We must even avoid the temptation (one that often lures to the magic of revolu tionary activity) “to turn stones into loaves.”12 Even when we hon estly try to do everything that is within our power and capacity, we can only row a short distance against the surging waves of the ocean of poverty that is carving out a larger and larger slice of our continent. Nevertheless, we must not run away from the world’s wounds nor turn our backs on them; we have to see them at least,

touch them and let them involve us. If I remain indifferent to them, uninvolved, unwounded—how can I declare my faith and love for God, whom I have not seen?13 Because at that moment I really do not see God!

Yes, it suddenly became obvious to me there in Madras: I have no right to proclaim belief in God unless I take seriously my neigh bor’s pain. A faith that would close its eyes to people’s suffering is simply an illusion or an opium; both Freud and Marx would be right in criticizing that kind of faith!

But there is also another very important aspect of this: our awareness of suffering in the world must not be restricted solely to “social problems,” although that kind of suffering rightly cries out to the conscience of the world and of each of us, and its voice must not be ignored. Nevertheless, we must not for one moment imag ine that we have “sorted out” that problem by sending a donation to some charitable operation in Africa or giving alms to a beggar, or voting for political programs with a social emphasis, although these actions are all important. But even that is not enough. There is still much hidden suffering of a different kind inside the people around us. And let us not ignore the unhealed wounds within ourselves—acknowledging and healing them also helps “heal the world”; indeed, it is often a vital prerequisite if we are to be sensi tive to the suffering of others and able to help them.

H Something else struck me that afternoon in Madras: maybe the doubts of the apostle Thomas were of a different order from the sort that assail us—grandchildren of the age of scientism and positivism—and that we rashly project onto the story. Perhaps the apostle was not simply a maladroit “materialist” incapable of open ing himself up to a mystery that he couldn’t “touch.”

Thomas was a man determined to follow his Master right to the bitter death. Remember how he reacted when Jesus said they had to visit Lazarus: “Let’s go and die with him!” He took the cross seriously—and the news of the Resurrection could have seemed to him a meretricious happy end to the Easter story. Maybe that ex

plains why he was reluctant to join in the other apostles’ rejoicing and wanted to see Jesus’s wounds. He wanted to see for himself that “Resurrection” did not empty the cross of its meaning14 before he could say his “I believe.” Did “doubting Thomas” actually understand the meaning of Easter more profoundly than the others?

“The disbelief of Thomas has done more for our faith than the faith of the other disciples,” Pope St. Gregory the Great wrote in a homily on this gospel passage.15

HJesus comes to Thomas and shows him his wounds: see, no suffering (of any kind) is wiped away and forgotten just like that! Wounds remain wounds. But the one who “bore the ills of us all” passed faithfully through the gates of hell and death; and he con tinues to be here with us, however hard that is to grasp. He demon strated that love bears all;16 “love no flood can quench, no torrents drown,” “for love is strong as death,”17 yea, mightier than death. In the light of that event, love is a value that we must not place at the mercy of sentimentality. It represents a force, the only force that survives death itself and overturns its gates with pierced hands.

So the Resurrection is not a “happy end” but an invitation and a challenge: we ought not, indeed must not, capitulate to the fire of suffering, even though we are unable to quench it here and now. In the presence of evil we must not behave as if it should have the last word. Let us not be afraid to “believe in love,”18 even where it is the loser by the standards of the world. Let us have courage to take our chances with the folly of the cross in the face of the “wisdom of this world”!19

Maybe by resurrecting Thomas’s faith through letting him touch the wounds, Jesus was telling him precisely what revealed itself in a flash to me at that Madras orphanage: “It is where you touch human suffering, and maybe only there, that you will realize that I am alive, that ‘it’s me.’ You will meet me wherever people suf fer. Do not shy away from me in any of those meetings. Don’t be afraid. Do not be unbelieving, but believe!”

OF

The Lord of the Old Covenant appeared to Moses in a burning bush.20 His only begotten Son, our Lord and our God, appears in the fire of suffering, in the cross—and we make sense of his voice only insofar as we bear our cross and are prepared to bear the loads of others, only insofar as the wounds of the world—his wounds— become a challenge to us.