Oil on the Wound

On the Anointing of the Sick and the mercy we forget until we need it

“Is any among you sick? Let him call for the presbyters of the Church…”

— James 5:14

There is something humbling about walking into a room where sickness has stripped everything away.

No titles.

No achievements.

No arguments about theology.

No carefully managed image.

Just frailty.

A body that does not obey.

A mind clouded or frightened.

A family standing helpless at the edge of the bed.

The quiet hum of machines.

Or the even quieter sound of someone trying not to groan.

And into that room, the Church brings oil.

Not advice.

Not slogans.

Not explanations.

Oil.

The Anointing of the Sick is not sentimental. It is not a ritual of denial. It does not pretend the body is not failing. It does not pretend death is not near. It does something far more radical.

It places the suffering body directly into the pierced hands of Christ.

The oil is warm. It glistens briefly on the forehead and hands. It smells faintly of the Church: of chrism, of prayer, of centuries of whispered psalms. And in that moment, the sick person is not abandoned to biology or fate.

He is claimed.

She is sealed.

The body that trembles or wastes away is named as a temple still, even now. Especially now.

There is power in this sacrament that we often overlook because it is quiet power. It does not always reverse diagnoses. It does not always remove pain. Sometimes the body still dies.

But something else happens.

Fear loosens its grip.

Guilt that has lingered unspoken begins to dissolve. Tears come: not only of sorrow, but of relief. The weight of unfinished repentance, half-confessed shame, old wounds carried for decades — these are brought into the open before God.

And Christ does not recoil.

The anointing says, without words: Your suffering is not meaningless. Your weakness is not a scandal. Your failing body is not outside redemption.

In a world that worships strength and productivity, sickness feels like exile. The elderly are hidden. The chronically ill feel like burdens. The dying are managed.

But in this sacrament, the Church kneels beside the bed and says: You are not useless. You are not forgotten. You are not alone.

The priest does not come as a technician. He comes as witness. He comes bearing the Cross.

When the oil touches the skin, it is as though Gethsemane enters the room. Christ who sweat blood stands beside the one whose body is breaking. Christ who cried out on the Cross stands beside the one who cannot find words for his pain.

The anointing is not magic.

It is communion in suffering.

And sometimes, sometimes, it is healing. Real healing. Strength returning unexpectedly. Peace that steadies the body. A clarity that was not there before. A lifting.

But even when the illness remains, the isolation is shattered.

The sick person becomes once more visibly part of the Body of Christ. Their bed becomes an altar of hidden offering. Their labored breathing becomes intercession. Their helplessness becomes participation in the Passion.

We wait too long to call for this sacrament.

We treat it as a last rite instead of a living encounter. We hesitate. We fear what it implies. We avoid speaking of it because it forces us to face mortality.

But the anointing is not surrender to death.

It is defiance of despair.

It is the Church saying to the powers of decay: This body belongs to Christ.

It is oil pressed into failing flesh as a sign that even here, especially here, grace is at work.

And perhaps the most piercing truth of all: the one who is anointed often ministers to the rest of us. In their weakness, our illusions fall. In their suffering, our theology becomes real or it collapses. In their surrender, we glimpse what faith looks like when everything else has been taken.

The anointing of the sick is not about dying well.

It is about belonging to Christ in the valley.

It is about knowing that when strength is gone and words fail and the body falters, the Church will still come.

With oil.

With prayer.

With Christ Himself.