resurrection Archives - Held By His Pierced Hands

Easter Passion

October 15, 2005 was one of the worst days of my life.¹ If you’re a Notre Dame fan, you know exactly what I mean. Three years in a row we’d lost to USC² by 31 points. 31 points each time–how humiliating. But in 2005, after three pathetic years, it was over. We came out in green³ and played our guts out and as time expired, we were in the lead!

My friends, I was literally in the process of rushing the field when the announcers shouted that if we didn’t return to the stands, Notre Dame would be penalized. “Penalized?” I crowed. “How are you going to penalize us? WE WON!!”

No, as it turns out. We hadn’t. Matt “Ballroom Dancing” Leinart had fumbled the ball out of bounds, stopping the clock with seven seconds left.⁴ USC would get one more play. And with that play, the game. Reggie Bush shoved Leinart into the endzone⁵ for the win. And there we were, having climbed back into the stands, shocked and miserable.

My roommate was so upset that she just went to bed. At 7pm on a Saturday night. She said she didn’t want to be conscious any more.

It was the only time in my life I’ve ever wanted to drown my sorrows.⁶

For weeks, every person I met who heard I went to Notre Dame responded, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” I’m not even kidding.

I know it’s pathetic and that football shouldn’t affect me that much, but Bush Push 2005 drove me to despair. And so I think I know a little bit what the Apostles were feeling.

They thought they had this one. On Palm Sunday, Jesus walked into the city amid shouts of Hosanna and they thought that after years of eating leftover loaves and fish and sleeping in a leaky boat they had finally arrived. They were so ready for their victory, so ready for Jesus to take control.

And then suddenly the Hosannas were replaced by angry cries of “Crucify him!” and he was snatched from their midst and stripped and beaten and before they knew it, he was lying in a tomb and what was left for them? That Holy Saturday, there was a feeling that nothing would ever be good again. That no matter what happened, nothing would ever fill the ache of emptiness that Friday had left in their hearts. Maybe they lost themselves in wine or sleep or anything to dull the pain.

But then…

It’s like we were standing in that stadium, stunned and defeated and empty, and the refs called out “Please reset the game clock” one more time. It’s like we looked out onto the field and it wasn’t just Brady and Samardzija and Zbikowski. It was all 7 ND Heisman winners. It was all 11 National Championship teams. It was Rudy and the Gipper and the 4 Horsemen and every man ever to put on blue and gold. It’s like they lined up on one side of the line of scrimmage and looked across at Reggie Bush and Matt Leinart, alone and shaking in mesh shorts and flip flops. And then the whistle blew and they pounded it in over and over again. It’s not just like we won that game but ran up the score on every game, erased every embarrassing loss. It’s like eternal victory was snatched from the jaws of crushing defeat and nothing would ever hurt that way again.

Call me strange, but that’s how I see Easter. It’s not just glowing Jesus walking out of a tomb, it’s Rambo Jesus ripping the gates off of hell. It’s demons cowering in the corner as Adam bows before his son and savior. It’s earthquakes and the dead walking out of their tombs and all creation turned on its head.

Easter isn’t bunnies and lilies and butterflies–it’s a wild victory where there was no hope. It’s absolute power in the hands of a God who went to hell and back for you. It’s unending joy wrested from the bitter grasp of him who came to kill, steal and destroy.

That’s what we celebrate today, friends, and for the next 50 days: a love story that puts all romance to shame, the story of a man who gladly gave his life for his beloved and came back for her all the same. It’s an adventure so fantastic that you’d never believe it if it weren’t so clearly true. It’s drama that rips your heart out and somehow restores it new and whole like never before. It’s passion so great it takes your breath away.

When I meditate on the emptiness of Holy Saturday, the pain feels familiar. It feels like October 15, 2005 and it feels like every day of my life before I knew the Lord. But now I know what happens on the other side. Now I know that the darkness serves to amplify the light. Now I know the the emptiness and the futility are an illusion, that the only battle that matters has already been won and all I have to do is share in the spoils.

There is nothing sweet about this story, nothing nice, nothing dull. This Easter, forget everything you know about the Resurrection and read the story with fresh eyes. Read the anguish of Friday and the desolation of Saturday but don’t stop there. Read the confusion of Sunday morning, the urgency of Mary’s sprint to the upper room, of Peter and John’s sprint back. Read the infinite tenderness of the word “Mary,” the shock of his appearance in the upper room, the shame elicited by, “Simon, do you love me?” But above all, keep reading. Read the power of Peter’s Pentecost message that brought 3,000 more into the fold. Read the confidence of “In the name of Jesus Christ, rise and walk” and the jubilation of the walking and leaping and praising God. Read the fearlessness of the cowardly apostles and the abandon of the community that held everything in common.

Then tell me: does your life shine with Easter joy? Do you radiate triumph like you’ve just witnessed a come-from-behind victory? Do you live in a hope that is stronger than your circumstances, a peace that passes understanding? Do you stare into the eyes of defeat and taunt with St. Paul, “Where, oh death, is your victory? Where, oh death, is your sting??” We are an Easter people, my friends, and alleluia is our song. How is your life going to witness to that truth this Easter season?

It seems the Lord doesn’t think much of me if this is the height of the suffering I’ve endured. [↩]
Some Notre Dame students call USC the University of Spoiled Children. I find this terribly ironic. [↩]
Never a good idea. [↩]
Bear with me, non-football fans. I’m going somewhere with this. [↩]
Which is illegal, but anyone would do the same thing. [↩]
I didn’t. I went to the library to read a commentary on the Code of Canon Law instead. Shut up. [↩]

It’s Okay to Laugh at the Apostles, Right?

Have you ever noticed what fools the Apostles are? I mean, they’re kind of the comic relief of the Gospels. Check them out:

multiplication-of-loaves-and-fish — “Loaves, fish, we get it! Can we maybe get some pizza?”

Jesus: *feeds 5000 people with 5 loaves and 2 fish*
Apostles: Oh, no! Now there are 4000 hungry people? What are we going to do??? (Mt 14-15)

Jesus: Beware the leaven of the Pharisees.
Apostles: Aw, shoot, he’s mad because we forgot to bring snacks!
Jesus: Seriously? Snacks? Remember yesterday when I fed the 4000? Seriously? Nobody gets what I’m going for here? (Mk 8)

Jesus: I’m going to die and rise again.
Peter: Nuh-uh, Jesus, no you’re not! (Mt 16–yes, right after Jesus made him pope.)

Jesus: I’m going to die and rise again.
Apostles: Okay, but really, who do you think is the best? Me, or him? Because I think it’s me, but he thinks it’s him and…. (Mk 9)

Jesus: I’m going to die and rise again.
James and John: Yeah, cool, can we ride shotgun? Like, can we sit next to you? (Mk 10)

Jesus: One of you will betray me.
Apostles: I would never do that because I’m the best. No, I’m the best! No, I’m the best!
Jesus: Oh, let’s just go so I can be handed over.
Apostles: No, Jesus, it’s okay. See, we have two swords here!
Jesus: Oh my goodness I am SO DONE with you people!! (Lk 22)

Jesus: BAM! I totally rose from the dead!
Apostles: (once they’re done being terrified) Cool. We’re going fishing. (Jn 21)

Okay, so I’m paraphrasing here. But taken all together, this is some pretty damning evidence against their eligibility for Mensa. They’re not very bright, they’re not very holy, and they’re not very brave. Remember how 10 of the 11 (we’ll leave Judas out of all this) ran away when Jesus was taken? And remember how they kept hiding after he died? And remember how they were still hiding in the upper room 50 days after he rose? They weren’t exactly written as heroes.

But aside from the fact that ordinary Apostles teach us that God can use any one of us, flawed as we are, I think comparing the Apostles before Pentecost to the Apostles after Pentecost teaches us something dramatic.

The transformation of the apostles and the spread of Christianity throughout the known world not by violence but by preaching was impossible without the Holy Spirit.

The Apostles are uneducated, mostly fishermen, not philosophers and public speakers. Acts 4:13 makes this clear: “Observing the boldness of Peter and John and perceiving them to be uneducated and ordinary men, they were amazed and they recognized them as the companions of Jesus.”

There was nothing charismatic about these guys. They weren’t clever or persuasive or attractive. They were “ordinary and uneducated men.” They had no business changing the world.

And even if they had been little cult leaders in the making, they were too cowardly to do anything as risky as preaching Christ crucified. Before the resurrection, they were so scared, Peter ran from a serving woman. But on Pentecost, he preaches to thousands. What changed? If Jesus didn’t rise, what made these inept cowards into brave evangelists? How did men who could barely follow a conversation convert the brightest minds of the ancient world?

That’s yesterday’s Saint, Bartholomew, holding the flesh that was flayed from his body. Awesome.

Remember, if you will, that 10 of the 11 Apostles who walked with Christ and touched his resurrected body–risen with the wounds of his crucifixion–died to tell the story. And poor John didn’t survive to old age for lack of his enemies’ trying–they boiled him and poisoned him, he just wouldn’t die. The Apostles knew for sure and for certain that Jesus had risen from the dead and they gave their lives to spread the news.

They were convincing in ways they’d never been convincing, passionate and courageous and brilliant where before they’d been…well…ordinary at best. And what did they get out of it?

Well, first, they made themselves look like morons. Then they established insanely difficult standards of behavior. Finally, they were tortured and executed in excruciating ways–joyfully embracing shameful deaths for love of the Risen Christ.

Peter Kreeft exposes how ridiculous it is to credit anything but the resurrection with their transformation:

If the miracle of the Resurrection did not really happen, then an even more incredible miracle happened: twelve Jewish fishermen invented the world’s biggest lie for no reason at all and died for it with joy, as did millions of others. This myth, this lie, this elaborate practical joke transformed lives, gave despairing souls a reason to live and selfish souls a reason to die, gave cynics joy and libertines conscience, put martyrs in the hymns and hymns in the martyrs—all for no reason. A fantastic con job, a myth, a joke. (Fundamentals of the Faith)

Sure.

See, there’s just no other explanation I can come up with for the peaceable spreading of Christianity throughout its first three centuries. Say what you want about Christendom and the Crusades, that first century, when people still remembered having known Jesus of Nazareth, that was some serious Holy Spirit action.

Otherwise, you’re telling me that incompetent, timid, ill-educated Jews transformed the world so that they could make themselves look dumb and get tortured in new and exciting ways? That all eleven of them were so committed to this lie that not one broke despite ridicule and sleepless nights and failure and fear?

If the coming into existence of the Nazarenes, a phenomenon undeniably attested by the New Testament, rips a great hole in history, a hole the size and shape of the Resurrection, what does the secular historian propose to stop it up with? (C.F.D. Moule)

It just doesn’t make sense to me.

And look at the fact that the Roman Catholic Church, a bureaucracy as inept as any the world has ever seen, has lasted longer than the greatest empires of earth—if Jesus didn’t rise from the dead, why do we still exist? If he didn’t rise, who inspired and strengthened the Apostles? If the resurrection isn’t true, why on earth did they all throw their lives away to say it is?

Shoot, friends, there’s just too much happy coincidence in this if there isn’t grace. I know I’m presupposing that the Gospels are fairly historically accurate (a post for another day), but I just can’t get past the Apostles. This is what made me a Christian all those years ago: the eyewitness testimony of eleven weak men with nothing to gain and everything to lose. I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s got to be something there.

So go ahead, laugh at the Apostles. I think God chose the foolish of this world to shame the wise for the very reason that their weakness and simplicity and lowliness makes his power that much more evident. Choosing Peter as the first pope may seem foolish, but the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom. Thank the Lord for our weak, scared, foolish Apostles and the way their poverty testifies to God’s power. Thank him, too, that our flaws frame his beauty just as theirs did.

I’ve got all this on my mind because of the Office of Readings from yesterday, the feast of St. Bartholomew. As usual, the Doctors of the Church say it better than I.

From a homily on the first letter to the Corinthians by Saint John Chrysostom

Paul had this in mind when he said: The weakness of God is stronger than men. That the preaching of these men was indeed divine is brought home to us in the same way. For how otherwise could twelve uneducated men, who lived on lakes and rivers and wastelands, get the idea for such an immense enterprise? How could men who perhaps had never been in a city or a public square think of setting out to do battle with the whole world? That they were fearful, timid men, the evangelist makes clear; he did not reject the fact or try to hide their weaknesses. Indeed he turned these into a proof of the truth. What did he say of them? That when Christ was arrested, the others fled, despite all the miracles they had seen, while he who was leader of the others denied him!

How then account for the fact that these men, who in Christ’s lifetime did not stand up to the attacks by the Jews, set forth to do battle with the whole world once Christ was dead—if, as you claim, Christ did not rise and speak to them and rouse their courage? Did they perhaps say to themselves: “What is this? He could not save himself but he will protect us? He did not help himself when he was alive, but now that he is dead he will extend a helping hand to us? In his lifetime he brought no nation under his banner, but by uttering his name we will win over the whole world?” Would it not be wholly irrational even to think such thoughts, much less to act upon them?

It is evident, then, that if they had not seen him risen and had proof of his power, they would not have risked so much.

Touching His Pierced Hands

One of the coolest churches I went to in Europe was this itty bitty (by Roman standards), dark thing covered with scaffolding. A few blocks from St. John Lateran, Santa Croce is a monument to the work of St. Helena, mother of Constantine and patron Saint of archaeologists. She actually carted back a few shiploads of dirt from her time in the Holy Land so that this church could be built on holy ground.

The interior is rather lackluster, but around a corner and through to the back is a display of relics unlike anything I’ve seen elsewhere–including the Holy Land itself.¹ There’s marble from Bethlehem, Calvary, and the tomb; the cross beam of the good thief’s cross; a nail; a thorn from the crown of thorns; pretty awesome, all.

But the clincher for me was this: St. Thomas’ finger.

EW!

Okay, yeah, but if you’ve been Catholic in Europe for any time at all, you’ve gotten used to the veneration (never worship) of shriveled body parts. This isn’t just a finger, though. This is “put your finger in the holes in my hands.” This is the finger that probed the wounds of the risen Christ, the finger that proved the Resurrection.

Or maybe it’s just some old nasty finger. The point here isn’t the authenticity of the relic but the truth of the Gospel.

Because prophecies and miracles and centuries of conversions aside, it really all comes down to this: the pierced hands. The pierced hands tell us that this man was truly crucified. And the living flesh that surrounds the holes declares that he rose again.

If Jesus claimed to be God² and he rose from the dead, he’s God. The resurrection is the ultimate proof of Christianity, as Jesus himself told us (Mt 12:38-42). So when Thomas touches the holes in Jesus’ hands and side, he knows with certainty that Jesus rose from the dead. And if he rose from the dead, he can’t just be some great moral teacher, as C.S. Lewis so brilliantly explains in Mere Christianity:

“I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept his claim to be God. That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic — on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.” ((Among my favorite things ever written, if you’re keeping track.))

So when Thomas sticks his hands in the side of Christ, he doesn’t just know that this man was crucified and verified dead. He doesn’t just know that this crucified man is walking around happily 2 days later, teleporting between Jerusalem and Emmaus and walking through doors. (And I’m not talking alohomora throught the door, I’m talking Casper the Friendly Ghost through the door.) No, Thomas doesn’t just know that this Jesus guy is something special. In that moment, with that intimate gesture of love and proof, Thomas knows that Jesus is God. Creator of the universe, ground of all being, our origin and destination. No big deal.

Whatever they may not have understood before the Passion, the Apostles knew at this point that Jesus’ claims were radical, so radical they were revolutionary, for good or for ill. There was no going back to regular everyday Judaism if this Jesus was for real, and he was. This was no ghost, no impressive con artist “Walking” on “water” and “healing” the “blind.” This guy was d-e-a-d dead. And now he’s fine. There’s was no going back to life as they knew it.

Not that they didn’t try. Thomas doubts so seriously that he needs physical proof. I’ve met more than one Thomas in my day, claiming that he’ll believe in God if God shows himself. “Blessed are those who have not seen but have believed.”

Peter believes, he just doesn’t know what to do about it. So after the Resurrection, Peter goes fishing. Jesus rose from the dead, but for Peter it’s just another day at the office. How many of us have been there, moved by the Spirit one moment and then back to gossiping and lying the minute the retreat is over?

Both of these men are called out, Thomas by being reprimanded for his unbelief, Peter by being reminded that his mission is far greater than fishing. But there’s something so sweet about their correction. Jesus could easily have ignored Thomas, saying that if he wasn’t ready to believe, that was his problem. He could have let Peter be a mess and chosen the much holier John instead. But God doesn’t cut his losses when it comes to souls. He does whatever it takes.

Doubting Thomas — Caravaggio–dude knew his stuff.

I’ve often wondered if Thomas wasn’t the whole reason Jesus rose with holes. His glorified body was healed of the signs of his scourging, but the holes in his hands and side remained. What if the God of the universe chose to spend eternity in a “damaged” body simply because that’s what Thomas needed? What if that line in the Gospel is really there only for you? What if the Holy Spirit inspired that composer centuries ago just so that you’d hear that song today? What if God created lilacs just so the smell of them would remind you of his love? It’s not impossible.

See, we serve an infinite God who manages to dwell in the human heart. Somehow, he’s able to be for everyone and for each one all at the same time. For Peter, he built a charcoal fire.³ For Thomas, he rose with holes. What are the pierced hands he holds out to you to prove his love? I’d love to hear about them in the comments.

As an aside, some people have been asking where to find my official facebook page. It should be in the top right corner of your screen, but if you’re having trouble finding it, click here. Follow me on Pinterest and Twitter, too!

For those who aren’t familiar with the concept, a relic is an item associated with Christ or a Saint–a body part, more famously, or a prayer book or item of clothing. They’re not magic, but God often uses them as means to help us identify with a Saint and grow in holiness. He sometimes even uses them as channels of miraculous grace. This is Biblical: see Acts 19:12. [↩]
While he never said the words outright, it’s hard to read Jn 8:58, Jn 14:6, or Jn 17:5–among many others–any other way. [↩]
A charcoal fire only shows up twice in the Gospel: Jn 19:15-18 and Jn 21. Peter’s denial and his reconciliation. Coincidence? HA! [↩]