Painting by Caravaggio
So there is something about touching the wounded that shows us the very face of the divine. --Rev. Dr. C. DiNovo
Once, I remember a pious woman frowning and pronouncing someone a "Doubting Thomas." I don't think she was talking about me, though I can remember how her accusation flew like a dart into my chest, and I cringed at the thought that anyone would think so terribly of me as to cast me as a "Doubting Thomas." I also remember a sermon about "Doubting Thomas" (at a fundamentalist church I once attended) and the message was the same: Thomas lacked faith; you don't want to be like him.
As with most things, as you grow, hopefully, you learn to look at life in a more complex way -- a teaching story like the one about Thomas, who wanted to touch Christ's wounds, can have more than one meaning.
At a lecture I attended last night, the speaker showed Caravaggio's painting of Thomas, and I was reminded of my own epiphany concerning Thomas, a realization I had about him when I was an art student in the 70's. I was at that time struck by Caravaggio's painting, at Thomas's willingness -- eagerness -- to touch that which most humans would find repugnant.
In some ways, I'm now reminded of loving caregivers, some people in the medical field, and of saintly human beings like Mother Teresa.
As my ideas about my writing have continued to be shaped, I have come to the realization that the stories I enjoy reading most are those of anguish and pain, of psychological wounds, which may or may not be symbolized by actual physical wounds. The stories I write are the same.
I don't have the physical or mental stamina of a medical caregiver or the moral courage of Mother Teresa . Still, I have a need to "touch" humanity's wounds -- I've discovered this is my way of touching the divine.
I am Thomas.
14 comments:
Theresa,
So interesting. Writing is so amazing in that it allows us to give expression to our universal experiences; that universality resonates deep within our souls and strengthens the bonds we share. So powerful.
dave
http://journals.aol.com/ibspiccoli4life/RandomThoughtsfromaProgressiveMi
I think you do yourself a disservice, Theresa. You have more stamina than anyone I have ever encountered.
As for your stories, yes, they speak of pain and anguish. But your love for your characters peeks through, and elicits the reader's compassion, understanding, and acceptance. By bringing their pain to us, and by demonstrating how much you care about them, you are bringing to us, your readers, a touch of the divine in your writing. And no, I am not indulging in hyperbole.
As for the kind of literature you prefer, I think I am the same way. My son brought home some movies yesterday - Bridget Jones II, When Harry Met Sally, the original Alfie, and Vera Drake. I have seen all but the first one, and of all of them, I do so want to watch Vera Drake again. Experiencing pain described by others, reading about it, seeing it played out, puts us in touch with the divine within us that allows us to reach out to our fellows, don't you think?
Love, Vicky xx
http://www.livejournal.com/users/vxv789/
Beautifully expressed.
I am Thomas too...but not because of a need to touch humanity's wounds. I question. I seek. I doubt. But yet I have faith. I have studied and discarded the religious teachings of my youth and found my own path and answers. I'm am still on that journey to ultimate enlightenment, but I know I am on the right path. :-)
This truly is an epiphany, and I love this perspective of looking at Thomas. I've never understood how one of the apostles was held up as an example of not having enough faith when he was one of Jesus' chosen disciples. Why Thomas for wanting to see the wounds? Why not Peter's lack of faith for his denial of following Jesus' when times were darkest? With my belief that God knows the full nature of a person, it seemed to me that Jesus knew the contributions this demanding of impirical information could contribute. I've long held a fascination for scars and what they tell about a person. I think that it's in a person's pain and how they react to it that their real story and character are shown.
This is a wonderful entry.
Thomas has always been my favorite. I've always felt that his story was included as a beacon to those of us who always question, are never satisfied, and must somehow find the convergence of evidence and mystery. I'm just sorry he wasn't a woman so I could wholly identify with him. Mary Magdalene and the woman at the well don't quite do it for me, although the latter is close.
I'm not familiar with that Caravaggio but I'm going to look it up. I love the physicality of it, and also that, while Thomas is the doubter, the other two are right behind him. I'm guessing the bald one is Peter? I also love Jesus' stance and expression -- doesn't he look just like everyone you know who shows his friends what has happened to him?
Beautiful, Theresa. At my Confirmation, I chose Thomas as my Confirmation name in the Church. {Love the Caravaggio}
V
Interesting entry. I believe we all have a bit of Thomas in us. I love Caraggio's works. Thanks for visiting my journal and for leaving such a nice comment. Dawn
Touching humanity's wounds...moving in their shoes gives me understanding...empathy. And I learn...
Dear Theresa:
I appreciate the time you took to read my journal. And I truly enjoyed reading yours. Your insights are fabulous. I very much understand your reference to Doubting Thomas, and I think most writers are the ones who want to stick their fingers into Jesus's wounds, and then later describe just how sticky the pus was, what color was it, what it smelled like and if Jesus pushed away at the pressure of our fingers.
I wanted to comment about your description of numbness. I understand that even more. An artist feels a fire burning deep inside. He/she feels the need to describe that fire, to plot its actions, and to speak of it. Numbness is mediocrity. Right now I know the numbness. I'm hoping journalling will rekindle that spark. I will be looking forward to more of your entries in the future. Thanks again.
Jude
http://journals.aol.com/jmorancoyle/MyWay
There's a wonderful thought in Tolstoy's _Anna Karenina_ that I've been looking for and been unable to find. It's in an older translation, not the Pevear and Volokhonsky. The character Lenin is thinking, after the birth of his child, that great grief and great joy are windows to the sublime.
I loved this entry, Theresa.
--B.
this is beautiful, an epiphany. I understand this more than you may know. judi
Isn't it an incredible feeling when you examine a masterwork, and find insight into your own life? It's like being Auden when he saw "Icarus" by Breughel.
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