Second Sunday of Easter Reflection
READING: John 20: 18-end
My Lord and my God.
There is something strikingly unresolved at the heart of this Gospel.
Thomas says, very clearly, what he needs: “Unless I see… unless I touch… I will not believe.” It is a deeply human request. Not scepticism for its own sake, but a longing for truth that has passed through the body. He does not want a story handed on by others. He wants encounter.
And then, a week later, Jesus appears. He stands among them, speaks peace, and turns directly to Thomas: “Put your finger here… reach out your hand…”
But here is the quiet detail we often miss: the text never actually says that Thomas touches him.
There is no description of fingers placed in wounds, no moment narrated of contact. Instead, Thomas responds immediately: “My Lord and my God.”
It is as if the invitation itself is enough.
Which raises a searching question for us:
What does it mean to be invited to touch the wounds—and yet perhaps not to do so?
To touch a wound is not a simple act.
We know this instinctively. When someone is physically injured, we hesitate. We draw close, but not too close. We ask permission. We fear causing further pain. There is a kind of reverence around a wound—something exposed, vulnerable, unfinished.
And the same is true of the deeper wounds people carry.
Grief. Trauma. Shame. Loss.
These are not things we can handle casually.
So perhaps Thomas’ hesitation is not doubt at all. Perhaps it is recognition.
He is being invited into the most intimate place—the place where violence has left its mark. And to step into that space requires more than curiosity. It requires courage. It requires tenderness. It requires a willingness to be changed.
And that is often what holds us back.
What prevents us from touching the wounds of others?
Sometimes it is fear.
We fear saying the wrong thing.
We fear being overwhelmed.
We fear that if we come too close to another’s pain, it will expose something in us that we would rather keep hidden.
Sometimes it is discomfort.
We prefer a world that is tidy, manageable, resolved. Wounds are none of these things. They are messy. They resist quick answers. They do not follow a neat timeline of healing.
And sometimes, if we are honest, it is avoidance.
We learn, quietly, to look away.
To change the subject.
To offer reassurance instead of presence.
Because to truly come close to another person’s suffering asks something of us. It asks time. It asks attention. It asks that we loosen our grip on control.
And yet, at the centre of the Christian story stands the risen Christ—still bearing wounds.
Not erased. Not hidden. Not healed over into invisibility.
But visible. Offered. Held within the life of God.
At the Easter service many churches use a large Easter Candle, the Paschal candle, and mark it with the sign of the cross. And traditionally, five grains of incense are pressed into the wax, recalling the five wounds of Christ. As this is done, words are spoken:
“By his holy and glorious wounds, may Christ our Lord guard us and keep us.”
The incense grains are a reminder to pray for the pain of the world
This year however, some people drove nails into the pristine white special candle rather than grains of incense – the very act carried a symbol that was even more stark. Metal where flesh was pierced. The nails, the instruments of suffering were now embedded in the very sign of resurrection light….that special Easter Candle
It was a powerful act and image.
The candle burns. The light shines.
But the wounds inflicted by the nails are not removed.
They are gathered into the light.
This is the paradox Thomas encounters.
He is not asked to believe in a resurrection that bypasses suffering. He is invited into a resurrection that includes it
The wounds are not a problem to be solved.
They are the place where recognition happens.
And perhaps that is why the Gospel does not tell us whether Thomas actually touches them. Because the deeper movement is not about physical contact, but about recognition.
Thomas sees—and knows.
“My Lord and my God.”
So what might it mean for us to “touch the wounds” in our own lives and communities?
It may not always mean direct action. It may not always mean fixing or solving or even fully understanding.
But it does mean drawing near.
It means:
listening without rushing to respond, allowing another person’s pain to remain real, without minimising it, resisting the temptation to turn away too quickly, offering presence that is gentle, attentive, and patient
It also means recognising our limits. Not every wound is ours to touch. Not every story is ours to enter. There is a humility required—a sense of consent, of carefulness, of knowing when to step forward and when to stand back.
And perhaps, like Thomas, there are moments when we find that the invitation itself changes us.
We come close. We see more clearly.
And something in us shifts.
The Easter candle stands among us as a quiet teacher.
It does not deny the darkness of Good Friday.
It does not pretend that suffering has not taken place.
Instead, it holds both together.
Light and wound.
Life and scar.
Joy and pain.
The flame does not erase the nails.
It shines through them.
And so perhaps the question this Gospel leaves us with is not simply whether we would touch the wounds of Christ.
But whether we are willing to come close enough to recognise them—in the lives of others, and perhaps in ourselves.
To come close enough to be changed.
To come close enough to say, not as an answer but as a response:
My Lord and my God.
Image: The Incredulity of St. Thomas by Peter Paul Rubens (detail)
