The Gospel of the Wounded Church

The wild Messiah

is not done walking.

But now

he limps in the Body.

Here is the Church—

the Body of Christ,

broken.

She is the Bride—

covenanted,

called,

blessed to be a blessing,

light of the world,

a city on a hill.

But this Bride

has scars.

Some wounds are holy—

from washing feet,

bearing burdens,

serving the unseen,

kneeling where no king kneels.

But not all wounds are holy.

Some are self-inflicted—

scars from crusades,

stains from scandals,

the sword grasped

when the cross was forgotten.

And sometimes—

these seasons of

faithfulness and failure

happen at the same time.

She breathes in mercy

and inhales empire.

She touches the untouchable

and yet turns away.

A complicated Bride.

A Bride in need of healing.

Yet even now,

this broken Body

is still His Body.

Christ is not ashamed

to wear her wounds.

Even the scandalous scars

are gathered into grace.

For this is the wounded Church

sent into a wounded world—

a world unravelled by greed,

choked by climate breakdown,

teetering on the edge of collapse.

She is cross-cultural,

multi-lingual,

a global mosaic of mercy.

Here is a village chapel—

wooden benches,

a fragile choir

singing with hearts on fire.

Here is a grand cathedral—

stone arches,

candles lit,

ancient prayers

echoing in stained glass light.

Here is a corrugated iron hut—

the Spirit moves

as hands are laid

on the sick and the suffering.

Here is a city storefront—

where addicts and artists

gather to sing psalms

that break in unexpected hallelujahs.

Here is a protest march—

banners raised,

tears in the streets,

as songs of justice

rise into the tear-gas air.

Here is a quiet home—

an elder’s hands

cradling scripture,

as grandchildren

learn the stories

that shape the soul.

One Body,

many wounds.

One Gospel,

many accents.

The Church’s fractures

may yet become

the cracks

through which light gets in.

At her best,

she weeps with those who weep,

names the silenced,

stands interruptible in the crowd,

interrupting the machinery of death.

At her worst,

she forgets the Wild Messiah,

and the blessing becomes a blight.

But still—

the Spirit broods over the waters.

Still—

mercy rises from the margins.

Still—

the Lamb who was slain

leads her home.

Let the Church be like this—

honest about her fractures,

humble in her witness,

wild in her mercy.

Not a museum of saints,

but a field hospital of grace.

Not a fortress of certainty,

but a covenant people,

wounded yet sent.

The Gospel was never clean.

It still smells of sweat and sorrow,

rupture and resurrection.

It will not be televised.

It will be whispered

at the edges.

It will be sung

by the ones who stayed.

Let the Church be like this—

wounded,

wild,

and faithful.

Amen.

And amen again.

- Rev’d Jon Swales, from the Gospel of the Wild Messiah collection.