Wounds and Wonder: The Gritty Faith of St Thomas

We are looking at a strangely disturbing painting called 'The Incredulity of St. Thomas' by Caravaggio.

I think that’s the only time I’ve ever typed the word “incredulity” in my life!

Although he is better known as Caravaggio, his real name was Michelangelo Merisi. He was an artist who worked in Italy from the late sixteenth to the early seventeenth centuries.

While he may have created exquisite art that points us toward heaven, his life was a catalogue of human frailties. Caravaggio led a profoundly turbulent and violent existence, much of which he appeared to have instigated himself. 

He was hot-headed, jealous, angry, and impulsive. His crimes ranged from the not particularly serious offence of throwing hot artichokes at a waiter to the somewhat more serious — and frequent — street brawls, and he fled Rome after a particularly unpleasant episode involving unpaid debts.

Caravaggio died as chaotically as he lived — on the run, feverish, and likely clutching both a sword and a grudge. The volatile genius behind some of the most violent, luminous paintings of the Baroque era collapsed in 1610 on a baking hot beach in Porto Ercole, Italy, just as word was arriving that the Pope might actually pardon him for the murder that had kept him in exile. 

He didn’t live to hear it. Whether he died of malaria, lead poisoning, or a good old-fashioned vendetta remains a mystery. It’s almost as if Caravaggio went out the same way his saints often did: dramatically, violently, and bathed in shadow.

Amidst all this undeniable human failing and shame, the irony remains that he offered some of the most insightful artistic interpretations of Christ’s life. 

Perhaps his continual exploration of the delicate edges of human behaviour — the risky facets of human existence — allowed him to portray human emotion and passion in a manner distinct from that of his predecessors and contemporaries during his brief 36 years.

Today, we are focusing on his 1602 painting, “The Incredulity of St. Thomas,” which tells us a lot about the relationship between Christ and Thomas.

Examining the Context

On Easter evening, Thomas was absent when Jesus appeared in the locked room. When the disciples informed him that they had seen the Lord alive, Thomas firmly replied, 

“Unless I see the nail marks in his hands, put my finger into the marks of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe” (John 20:25).

A week later, Jesus appears in the room once more. This time, Thomas is present. Jesus takes Thomas’s hand and places it at His side, saying to him, 

“Put your finger here and look at my hands. Take your hand and place it into my side. Do not continue to doubt, but believe” (John 20:27).

Earlier, Thomas had questioned the disciples’ proclamation because he allowed his feelings to overshadow his faith and the truths of the resurrection.

When the religious leaders demanded a sign from Jesus to prove He was the Messiah, Thomas heard Him respond, 

“An evil and adulterous generation seeks a sign, but no sign will be given to it except the sign of Jonah the prophet. For just as Jonah was in the belly of the great fish for three days and three nights, so the Son of Man will be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth” (Matthew 12:38–40).

On their way to Jerusalem for the final time, Thomas was present when Jesus informed all the disciples, 

“Look, we are going up to Jerusalem, and the Son of Man will be betrayed to the chief priests and the experts in the law. They will condemn Him to death and hand Him over to the Gentiles. They will mock Him, spit on Him, and kill Him. On the third day, He will rise again” (Mark 10:33–34).

Thomas heard all of this. He witnessed everything. He had all the facts.

Yet, his sorrow over his Master’s death, his fear of being arrested and crucified, and his guilt for fleeing crushed him.

Caravaggio was an innovator who rejected the notions of ‘ideal beauty’ and was decidedly unconventional. He aimed to represent life as he perceived and experienced it, using ordinary individuals from the streets, including prostitutes and beggars, as his models.

He was regarded as deliberately shocking and displayed a blatant disregard for tradition. He faced criticism for ‘telling it how it was’ instead of employing the traditional, stylised approach.

If his portrayal of the doubting Thomas scene seems quite bold and even somewhat surgical to us, it must have seemed even more so to his original audience. People were accustomed then, as they still are today, to seeing the Apostles as decorous and venerable gentlemen in expensive robes with an elevated level of piety in their expressions.

Caravaggio depicts three elderly labourers with weathered, wrinkled, and weary faces, formed by the sun, wind, and arduous work. They are clad in their working attire.

Look again! Thomas is literally coming apart at the seams…

Thomas has a wise face; perhaps this is at odds with our perception of him. The lesson we are taught from an early age about Thomas is not to be like him, suggesting that he lacks wisdom. However, in his quest for hard empirical data, “I’ll believe it when I see it” isn’t any more unreasonable than how we might react.

Also, he has a face etched with years of experience and perhaps a touch of cynicism born from who knows what adversities. While it might not justify his lack of faith in the resurrection without seeing it, it does endow Thomas with a humanity we all share and the all-too-real doubts we face. He is a figure with whom we can all surely identify.

What of the other Apostles?

Our Gospel reading does not inform us of their reactions to Thomas. One might easily presume that the others have no difficulty accepting the risen Lord’s physical presence.

However, that is not Caravaggio’s implication.

Why else would he portray the two others as deeply engaged in Thomas’s “incredulity”, just as Thomas himself is? They are witnessing it for themselves as well. They are being human about the situation.

They do not distance themselves from Thomas’ perspective; rather, they support him: after all, they have had the advantage of an earlier resurrection appearance, unlike Thomas, and perhaps they are considering that they might well have reacted as Thomas did had they been in his position.

And what of Christ himself? 

He remains more in shadow than the others. Perhaps this suggests that there is more to learn about Christ.

Perhaps it is because he may, in some respects, be unknowable. Perhaps it serves to enhance the sense of awe and mystery? What we see in Jesus’ face appears to be pain, perhaps Caravaggio is suggesting, for a good reason, after all, that digging a finger into a gaping, barely-healed wound is bound to hurt.

Perhaps he seeks to emphasise the reality of the resurrection and all that physicality implies.

Telling it as it is. Caravaggio depicts Jesus taking hold of Thomas’ hand and guiding it to his wounded side. Thomas seems to be looking slightly to one side.

Is it excessive to think that Thomas, having stated that he wished to verify the resurrection by placing his hand into Jesus’ side, then experiences some of the reluctance we might feel when confronted with such a situation?

This is an intensely human story, told by Caravaggio in an intensely human way.

That’s why it is such an enduring depiction: We can see ourselves in this scenario. 

Perhaps our empathy for “doubting Thomas " is because of our own daily doubting. It emphasises that, despite all our human frailties, God’s grace nevertheless blesses us and that God uses us, frail and faulty as we are, as His hands and feet on this earth.

This is an intensely human story, told by Caravaggio in an intensely human way. Perhaps that’s why it has endured — not just as great art, but as a mirror. 

We can see ourselves here: our doubts, our desire for proof, our longing to touch something real in a world full of illusions. Thomas isn’t just a cautionary tale; he’s a kind of everyman—wounded by disappointment, slow to hope again, but bold enough to ask for what he really needs. 

And in response, Jesus doesn’t rebuke or retreat — he offers his own wounded body, inviting Thomas (and us) into faith through flesh, not fantasy.

Caravaggio dares us to stop pretending faith is always clean and untroubled. He throws doubt under the same light as grace, showing us that Jesus meets us even in the mess of our questions. Maybe especially there.

So the question isn’t just “Would you believe if you saw?”

The question is: “Where is Jesus still inviting you to touch what you’d rather avoid?”

What wound, what doubt, what shadowed corner of our life might become holy — if only we would reach out?