A reflection on trauma-informed ministry, truth-telling, and the sacred path to healing
There’s a moment in John’s Gospel that has always stayed with me.
After the resurrection, Jesus appears to Thomas. And he doesn’t offer him proof in the form of parables or power. He simply says:
“Put your finger here. See my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side.” (John 20:27)
He shows him his scars.
He doesn’t hide them.
He doesn’t explain them away.
He doesn’t cover them with resurrection robes.
He offers them.
And in doing so, he gives us a model—not just for personal faith, but for the Church.
Because the Church, too, is the Body of Christ. And the truth is—this Body carries wounds.
Some of these wounds are centuries old. Others are raw and recent. All of them deserve to be acknowledged.
Reading Tanya Talaga’s Seven Fallen Feathers made this painfully clear again. The stories of the Indigenous youth who died while attending high school in Thunder Bay are not just a tragic footnote—they are a call to collective truth-telling. The Church’s complicity in the colonial project, its silence in the face of systemic racism, and its theological misuse to justify violence—these are scars that still shape lives.
And like Thomas, our communities are asking to see the wounds.
Not for spectacle.
But for healing.
For truth.
For reconciliation that isn’t just performative, but real.
Reading Ally is a Verb by Dr. Amber Johnson gave me another lens—a practical and spiritual one. Allyship, they remind us, is not an identity we can claim. It’s a verb. It’s lived out in relationship. It involves disruption, humility, and deep listening.
What if the Church practiced allyship like that?
Not as a statement on a banner, but as an active reorientation of power.
Not as a committee, but as a posture.
Not as a token gesture, but as a sacrament of presence.
Trauma-informed ministry doesn’t stop with kindness.
It moves toward repair.
It confesses. It learns.
It creates room for others to lead.
It shows its scars—not to center itself, but to say:
“We know we’ve been part of the pain. And we are committed to being part of the healing.”
When the Church dares to show its wounds,
people realize they aren’t alone.
When the Church stops hiding behind dogma,
and begins living out the Gospel with trembling love—
people begin to believe again.
Because if the Church can survive its scars,
maybe they can survive theirs too.
This is the Church I long to see.
Not a flawless Church—
but a faithful one.
Not one that hides its past—
but one that offers it as sacred ground
for reconciliation, renewal, and justice.