In the movie “Shrek”, an ogre (Shrek) and his donkey companion are tasked by Lord Farquaad to rescue a princess from captivity in the highest room of the tallest tower. Though they don’t know it, the princess had been enchanted by a witch - during the day, she is a beautiful, human princess, but at night she changes into the gruesome form of an ogre. Only true love’s first kiss will release the enchantment and allow her to take love’s true form.
Following the rescue and the journey home, she is to be married to Lord Farquaad. On the day of the wedding, Shrek rushes in to the church to object to their union. His arrival stalls the ceremony long enough that the sun sets and the enchantment is revealed - Princess Fiona is an ogre. In the midst of gasps and outrage, Shrek and Fiona share true love’s first kiss and the enchantment is released. Only, as it turns out, “love’s true form” is that of an ogre, that seemingly ugly, terrible, undesirable form, and not the form of a human like Fiona had anticipated and hoped for. And yet, it is the form of an ogre that connects her most to the one she loves - the form that they share.
J. Kirk Richards, “Thomas Who Doubted,” 2008. Oil on panel, 26 x 12.25 in.
It is not unimportant that the resurrected body of Jesus bears the scars of his suffering and death. It’s not unimportant, but it’s certainly surprising. After all, it’s bad enough to have a God that dies, let alone one that doesn’t manage to be all shiny and perfect even in the miraculous circumstances of resurrection. It certainly seems that “love’s true form” as it relates to God ought to be a little more perfect, strong, “other” and a little less, well, damaged. Wounded. Human.
Scars, and blemishes, and imperfections - both physical and otherwise - are offensive to us. We are encouraged to hide them, especially the ones that don’t heal nicely, the ones that are jagged and lumpy and too big, the ones that make others uncomfortable. We are sold products that cover them up, smooth and fade them. Our sharing about them is often met with awkward silences or twisted expressions. Stories about our brokenness, about our experiences of abuse, or mental illness, or disability, or grief, or deficit are deemed “not for polite conversation”.
And yet, the resurrected body of Jesus bears the scars of his suffering and death. Tender, calloused brown flesh, hung on a cross by nails, pierced by a spear. And it is these scars - in his hands and side - that he shows to his disciples on Easter evening, and to Thomas a week later. It is these scars that lead them to rejoice in his presence and declare that they had seen the Lord.
How is it that love’s true form is not some far-off, glory-filled, supreme and unrecognizable being, but rather the scarred, human body of a crucified and resurrected God? How is it that the form God uses to meet us is that of our very own fragile, vulnerable, beautiful, worn, scarred flesh?
If resurrection is anything, it is embodied. We are not translucent, fluttering souls trapped and encumbered by failing, feeble, scarred flesh. No. We are whole people, made in the image of God, marked by scars, visible and invisible, that tell holy stories of pain, difficulty, suffering, and joy. We don’t simply inhabit our bodies, we are our bodies.
What does this mean? It means that our body is just as important as our mind and soul. It means that we really mean it when we confess in the creeds that we believe in the resurrection of the body.
It means that there is no hierarchy of bodies - no higher status or increased value for bodies that are white, young, thin, healthy, or able. No disgust or disdain for bodies that are black, old, fat, sick, or disabled. Society tells us otherwise and we spend a lot of time and a lot of money hating ourselves and others and wishing to inhabit the world differently.
But it is this body - the one you’re in right now, the one that seems to betray or fail you, the one is other than you wish it to be - it is this body, this person, that God loves, just as you are. It is your body, you that is cherished and redeemed by God. It is your body, you, that shares Jesus’ humanity, and his death, and his resurrection.
It is tempting to say that religion belongs in the realm of the ethereal - belief, thoughts, philosophy, transcendence - all those things that allow us to rise above the frailty and limits of our bodies. But as writer Debie Thomas puts it, “Maybe Christianity’s best appeal is in its willingness to embrace real bodies, real scars, real pain.”
A God who has never suffered, a God without scars means nothing when we are in the trenches of anguish, suffering, pain, and grief. Our comfort comes not because we can imagine some better place far from here, but because of the assurance that God is with us even here, right in the midst of it.
Even behind locked doors, even cowering in fear, even when it seems like we are abandoned and alone - God comes to us. God comes to us marked by suffering and scars and shows us resurrection and life. This is love’s true form - a God who put on flesh to dwell with us, who created us with bodies of all kinds and called us good, a God who shares our suffering so that we might share in resurrection.
This is my body, Jesus says, holding out nail-scarred hands and the torn flesh of his side.
This is my body, Jesus says, this bread that is broken and given for you.
This is my body, Jesus says, this wounded, scarred, precious community we call the Church.
This is my body. Amen.
Following the rescue and the journey home, she is to be married to Lord Farquaad. On the day of the wedding, Shrek rushes in to the church to object to their union. His arrival stalls the ceremony long enough that the sun sets and the enchantment is revealed - Princess Fiona is an ogre. In the midst of gasps and outrage, Shrek and Fiona share true love’s first kiss and the enchantment is released. Only, as it turns out, “love’s true form” is that of an ogre, that seemingly ugly, terrible, undesirable form, and not the form of a human like Fiona had anticipated and hoped for. And yet, it is the form of an ogre that connects her most to the one she loves - the form that they share.
It is not unimportant that the resurrected body of Jesus bears the scars of his suffering and death. It’s not unimportant, but it’s certainly surprising. After all, it’s bad enough to have a God that dies, let alone one that doesn’t manage to be all shiny and perfect even in the miraculous circumstances of resurrection. It certainly seems that “love’s true form” as it relates to God ought to be a little more perfect, strong, “other” and a little less, well, damaged. Wounded. Human.
Scars, and blemishes, and imperfections - both physical and otherwise - are offensive to us. We are encouraged to hide them, especially the ones that don’t heal nicely, the ones that are jagged and lumpy and too big, the ones that make others uncomfortable. We are sold products that cover them up, smooth and fade them. Our sharing about them is often met with awkward silences or twisted expressions. Stories about our brokenness, about our experiences of abuse, or mental illness, or disability, or grief, or deficit are deemed “not for polite conversation”.
And yet, the resurrected body of Jesus bears the scars of his suffering and death. Tender, calloused brown flesh, hung on a cross by nails, pierced by a spear. And it is these scars - in his hands and side - that he shows to his disciples on Easter evening, and to Thomas a week later. It is these scars that lead them to rejoice in his presence and declare that they had seen the Lord.
How is it that love’s true form is not some far-off, glory-filled, supreme and unrecognizable being, but rather the scarred, human body of a crucified and resurrected God? How is it that the form God uses to meet us is that of our very own fragile, vulnerable, beautiful, worn, scarred flesh?
If resurrection is anything, it is embodied. We are not translucent, fluttering souls trapped and encumbered by failing, feeble, scarred flesh. No. We are whole people, made in the image of God, marked by scars, visible and invisible, that tell holy stories of pain, difficulty, suffering, and joy. We don’t simply inhabit our bodies, we are our bodies.
What does this mean? It means that our body is just as important as our mind and soul. It means that we really mean it when we confess in the creeds that we believe in the resurrection of the body.
It means that there is no hierarchy of bodies - no higher status or increased value for bodies that are white, young, thin, healthy, or able. No disgust or disdain for bodies that are black, old, fat, sick, or disabled. Society tells us otherwise and we spend a lot of time and a lot of money hating ourselves and others and wishing to inhabit the world differently.
But it is this body - the one you’re in right now, the one that seems to betray or fail you, the one is other than you wish it to be - it is this body, this person, that God loves, just as you are. It is your body, you that is cherished and redeemed by God. It is your body, you, that shares Jesus’ humanity, and his death, and his resurrection.
It is tempting to say that religion belongs in the realm of the ethereal - belief, thoughts, philosophy, transcendence - all those things that allow us to rise above the frailty and limits of our bodies. But as writer Debie Thomas puts it, “Maybe Christianity’s best appeal is in its willingness to embrace real bodies, real scars, real pain.”
A God who has never suffered, a God without scars means nothing when we are in the trenches of anguish, suffering, pain, and grief. Our comfort comes not because we can imagine some better place far from here, but because of the assurance that God is with us even here, right in the midst of it.
Even behind locked doors, even cowering in fear, even when it seems like we are abandoned and alone - God comes to us. God comes to us marked by suffering and scars and shows us resurrection and life. This is love’s true form - a God who put on flesh to dwell with us, who created us with bodies of all kinds and called us good, a God who shares our suffering so that we might share in resurrection.
This is my body, Jesus says, holding out nail-scarred hands and the torn flesh of his side.
This is my body, Jesus says, this bread that is broken and given for you.
This is my body, Jesus says, this wounded, scarred, precious community we call the Church.
This is my body. Amen.
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