Sermon by Chrys M Tremththanmor
Bible Texts:
Acts 10: 34-43; John 20: 1-18
When I was a young teenager I
tried to rebel. My weapon of choice was a tattoo—I wanted to get a tattoo.
Compared to what many teenagers do to their bodies these days I think my mother
was getting off lightly! But my mother put her foot down. No daughter of hers
was going to do anything so vulgar.
I was barely out of teenage years when I got married, and my husband had the same opinion as my mother. They didn’t share many things in common, so this was rather unique. But he too felt a tattoo was beyond the pale, not to be permitted on the fair skin of his wife.
Husband and I separated in February 2001, and in May 2001 I went to a tattoo parlour and the deed was done. My mother still didn’t approve, of course. ‘I just hope it’s not going to be obvious,’ she told me. ‘Oh, I plan to have “kiss me quick” tattooed on my forehead,’ I told her. Actually, as you’ve all worked out, the tattoo isn’t obvious. It’s high up on my left arm, so you can only see it if I wear sleeveless shirts.
However, that tattoo has proven to be an effective pastoral device. In my previous parish there was a homeless man, George, who slept rough in the churchyard. He was allowed to use the loos in the church hall and the parish administrator would get food for him. Finally the parish administrator convinced George to go to a hostel in London which would take him in and, it was hoped, help George to kick his addiction to alcohol.
I happened to be in the parish office whilst this was being arranged. George needed to catch a train to London, and someone needed to walk him to the train station. I was free, I was willing, I was able. But George protested. He was overawed by my dog collar and seemed to think that I would judge him, that I disapproved of him.
Out came my secret pastoral device. George had a number of tattoos in honour of his favourite football club, Manchester United. As it was a nice warm day I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, so I was able to pull up the sleeve so George could see my tattoo. He decided that a priest with a tattoo was ‘cool’ and since we shared something in common he accepted my company to the train station.
Getting a tattoo hurts like hell. Let no one try to convince you otherwise. You are deliberately wounding the skin. For the rest of your life the tattooed skin will burn quicker in the sun, for the rest of your life that skin will react first to any allergies. A person who gets a tattoo has deliberately decided to wound herself. So it does create a sort of bond between those of us who have tattoos. It created a bond between George and I, and through that bond he was able to trust me.
Jesus suffered a long, torturous death which left marks on his hands, his feet, his side. What I find interesting about the post-resurrection appearances of Christ is that he bears the wounds of the crucifixion. Remember, in the Gospel of John, Jesus tells Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.’ Why did Christ not heal himself? Why did he decide to bear the signs of his crucifixion?
A friend of mine, in a recently published article, wrote, ‘I am, I suppose, disabled.’ His disability is physical, left by childhood polio. His disability manifests itself in the way he walks and stands. Other physical disabilities are equally obvious. The outward signs are crutches or glasses, hearing aids or casts on arms or legs.
But we are all disabled. I’ll repeat that statement. We are all disabled. George was disabled. The outward sign was his alcoholism. But that is only a symptom of a deeper disease. Like many of us, he doubts his value. He was fearful of me, a person wearing a dog collar, because he felt unworthy to be in my presence. It was my tattoo, remember, which reassured him, which made a bridge between us.
That is the reason for Christ’s wounds. What happened to Jesus mattered. His resurrection did not magically take away the extreme pain, both physical and psychological, of being tortured to death. His wounds reassured Thomas. Today Christ’s wounds still tell us, ‘It is I, do not be afraid.’ Jesus chose to become disabled because of his love for us, because of his desire to make that bridge between us and God.
As it says in Isaiah, ‘He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.’ Or as St Paul wrote to the Corinthians, ‘For you know the generous act of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich.’
Christ’s wounds are our promise that God knows what it’s like to be disabled. God knows our weaknesses, our physical infirmities, our fears, our battles with worry and worthlessness. He took that sin, our sin, upon himself, so that we can know that there is no barrier between us and God’s love. Those marks on Christ’s hands and feet are a reminder of a love that turns no one away, of a love which values each one of us. Christ’s wounds are that bridge, the bridge between God and humans, which promise us that we can trust God.
As we heard Peter say, Jesus is the judge of the living and the dead. But he is a judge who for the love of us went to the cross, and who for the love of us was raised from the dead, and who for the love of us still carries the marks of his crucifixion. In Jesus there is no condemnation, only welcome. ‘It is I, do not be afraid.’ That is the message that Jesus gives us today and every day. Amen.