The Fellowship of The Wounded

“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.’” — John 20:27

“Our wounds are often the openings into the best and most beautiful part of us.” — David Richo

When I began the journey toward becoming a pastor, I was told by more than a few people that it was definitely what I was supposed to do with my life.  I didn't believe them, but I stepped onto the path anyway. 

For years, I felt unqualified and that I was on a fool's errand.  I never expressed it to anyone, and you wouldn't have known it by the way I presented myself, but deep inside, there was always this voice telling me I was a fraud.  

I constantly looked back on my life and all of the things I'd done, the people I'd hurt, the mistakes I'd made, and the very real doubts I had about God, and thought, "If all these people around me knew who I really was, they'd discount me straight away."  

Then I read the following line from Henri Nouwen's book The Wounded Healer, and something inside of me changed: 

“The great illusion of leadership is to think that [people] can be led out of the desert by someone who has never been there.”

I began to realize that I wasn't being called to ministry despite my brokenness, but because of it. 

When Jesus rose from the dead, He carried His scars with Him, which is a curious thing.  The holes in His hands were not erased; they were redeemed. That detail tells us something profound about the nature of resurrection — it doesn’t undo pain, it transfigures it.

Thomas wasn’t shamed by Jesus for needing proof. Jesus met him where his doubt lived and invited him to touch the scars left by his suffering. In that gesture, Christ revealed the truth we spend our lives resisting: healing is communal. We don’t find wholeness in isolation, but in the gentle presence of those who are willing to see us, scars and all.

A fractured world teaches us to hide our wounds — to curate strength, to filter vulnerability. But the Church, when it is faithful, becomes a fellowship of the wounded: people who refuse to pretend, who learn that empathy is more potent than appearance. We belong not because we are unbroken, but because grace binds us together where we have cracked.

Paul called this “the ministry of comfort” — the holy circulation of mercy among those who have suffered. The one who has been consoled becomes a consoler. The one who has been lifted learns to lift others. This is resurrection life: scarred, shared, and shining.

Our wounds don’t disqualify us from ministry; they become the very places where God’s love flows through.

Prayer:
Risen Christ,
thank You for meeting us where we are wounded.
Teach us to stop hiding the places that hurt,
and to see in one another the beauty of Your healing.
Make our community a fellowship of mercy,
where every scar becomes a sign of grace.
Amen.

Reflection Questions:

1. How have your own wounds shaped the way you understand compassion?

2. Who has walked beside you in a season of pain and helped you heal?

3. How might your story of healing become hope for someone else?