Second Sunday of Easter (C) | 7-Apr-13
Acts 5.27-32 | Revelation 1.4-8 | John
20.19-31
What will be
left when I’ve drawn my last breath,
besides the
folks I’ve met and the folks who’ve known me?
Will I
discover a soul-saving love,
or just the
dirt above and below me?
I’m a doubting Thomas:
I took a promise,
but I do not feel safe.
Oh me of little faith.
I took a promise,
but I do not feel safe.
Oh me of little faith.
Sometimes I
pray for a slap in the face,
then I beg
to be spared ‘cause I’m a coward.
If there’s a
master of death, I bet he’s holding his breath
as I show
the blind and tell the deaf about his power.
I’m a doubting Thomas:
I can’t keep my promises
‘cause I don’t know what’s safe.
Oh me of little faith.
Can I be
used to help others find truth
when I’m
scared I’ll find proof that it’s a lie?
Can I be led
down a trail dropping bread crumbs
that prove
I’m not ready to die?
Please give
me time to decipher the signs;
please
forgive me for time that I’ve wasted.
I’m a doubting Thomas:
I’ll take your promise,
though I know nothing’s safe.
Oh me of little faith;
oh me of little faith.
Those are some powerful lyrics, aren’t they? In them we hear clearly the movement, of the
one who sings, from tumult to trust: “I took a promise, but I do not feel safe”
to “I can’t keep my promises, ‘cause I don’t know what’s safe,” and ending with
“I’ll take your promise, though I know nothing’s safe.”[1]
St. Thomas, about whom we read in the gospel text for
today, has long fascinated me and been one of my favorite biblical
characters. And I suppose this is at
least partly because his inner conflict’s so real. He wants to believe, but has a hard time
doing so. He desires to be
faithful. And at times he is, so
convinced of who Christ is that he says he’s willing to die for him; at other
times, though, he just can’t wrap his mind around what he’s heard. In this, his name (Didymus) is quite
fitting—for he does display something of a twin, or dual, nature. Have we ever known such struggle?
One such piece of Thomas’ story, found only in St.
John’s telling, is typically shared on the second Sunday of Easter every year. On the day of Jesus’ resurrection, in the
evening, his disciples are gathered together.
And suddenly, Jesus appears—speaking words of peace, and showing his
wounds. Conspicuous by his absence,
however, is Thomas. We don’t know where
he was. Perhaps he was out gathering
supplies for the group. Perhaps he
didn’t get the memo that it was Bingo night.
Regardless, he’s nowhere to be found.
And so he misses out on seeing Jesus.
The other disciples, fortunately, are more than eager to fill him in:
“We have seen the Lord,”[2]
they say. But Thomas is hesitant. Indeed, he refuses to believe until he sees
for himself. (It might be worth noting
that he doesn’t exactly say he won’t
believe that Christ is resurrected; he only says he won’t believe the
disciples’ claim that they’d seen
him.)
Anyway, about a week passes. And the disciples are gathered once more—and
once more Jesus shows up. But this time,
Thomas is present. Jesus, approaching
him, reveals his nail-scarred wrists and spear-pierced side. Can you imagine what he must’ve felt? What he must’ve been thinking? Scripture doesn’t say so, but I picture
Thomas dropping to his knees or bowing his face to the ground as he exclaims,
“My Lord and my God!”[3]
But it’s for what transpired prior to that
exclamation—for that singular lapse of certainty—that Thomas is often
castigated. To be sure, it’s branded him
for centuries as “Doubting Thomas”—a misnomer if ever there was one. Because, as previously stated, Thomas at
times showed exemplary faith. At times
he displayed wholehearted willingness to follow Christ to whatever end,
standing as firm as St. Peter who says he “must obey God rather than any human
authority.”[4] This story from John’s gospel simply
illustrates that Thomas wasn’t entirely consistent. But who among Jesus’ followers was? From my perspective, none of them appear
faultless or without mistake. And, more
to the point of this morning’s gospel lesson, none of them appear to be
unwavering in their belief; none of them appear to “get it” one hundred percent
of the time.
And this is particularly evident in the
post-resurrection accounts. Most of the
disciples wrestled with moments of disbelief or unbelief, many of them not even
knowing the risen Christ as he stood before them. Consider Mary Magdalene, one of Jesus’
closest companions. She’s present over
and over in the gospel narratives of Jesus’ ministry, even staying by the cross
in his final moments. Moreover, she’s
the first witness (or among the first witnesses, depending on which evangelist
one reads) to the resurrection. But she
doesn’t recognize the risen Jesus, even as he speaks to her. The way John tells the story, she believes
him to be the gardener and asks where the body has been taken. It isn’t until Jesus calls her by name that
she sees him for who he is.
I’m reminded as well of the disciples on the road to
Emmaus. St. Luke shares this story, one
wherein Jesus joins a pair who are walking along and begins to converse with
them about current events (specifically, about his own death and
resurrection). They, too, fail to
recognize Jesus—even though he seems to possess an uncanny knowledge not only
of what’s transpired but also of the prophetic bases for it. As they near their destination, Jesus seems
intent on leaving these disciples. But
they ask him to stay for dinner, which he does.
And in the instant he blesses and breaks the bread, they see him for who
he is.
And the gospel text before us, if we read it closely,
indicates that it wasn’t only Thomas who needed convincing. Jesus appears to the disciples. And they exclaim their belief, right? Well, not exactly. He stands among them. And they shout their praise! Not yet.
He speaks: “Peace be with you.”[5] Are they on board now? Nope.
John says it isn’t until Jesus shows them “his hands and his side”[6]—the
very same wounds that Thomas asserts he needs to see—that the disciples
rejoice. “Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord”[7]—which,
in the Greek, reads as if they don’t recognize him until that moment. As a consequence of beholding the marks of
his suffering, they see him for who he is.
Thomas, then, really isn’t asking for anything that
wasn’t necessary for the other disciples.
The difference, in my view (and what makes us so uncomfortable), is that
he’s actually transparent enough to admit
he needs to see. And maybe this is what prompts
us to wag our fingers at him. Because,
in reality, we don’t normally value those sorts of admissions of frailty; we
don’t usually value those sorts of acknowledgements of weakness. Especially in American culture and society,
we tend to make every effort to avoid any sign of limitation or
incompleteness. Particularly as it
pertains to spiritual things, we don’t like to confess that we don’t have every
answer or that our knowledge is somehow imperfect. And so we criticize Thomas and those like him
because, deep down, we know we’re the same way.
Deep down, we know we too can be faithful one moment and faithless the
next. Deep down, we know we need
convincing. Deep down, we know we often
require some voice, some sign, some experience that’ll guide us toward God’s
truth.
And that’s okay.
Because the point of Thomas’ story, I think, is that we all experience
moments wherein we struggle to believe, wherein we struggle to comprehend,
wherein we struggle to see Jesus for who he is.
Christ’s first disciples did, and we do too. But the good news, as scripture illustrates
for us time and again, is that he continues to come to us: meeting us where we
are, and revealing himself to us in ways that—if our hearts and minds are open—we
can understand. Some embrace him when
they’re called by name. Some sense him near
when they look upon his bruises. Some
know him most intimately in the graciousness of his invitation to come and
dine. Regardless, we’re told
that—eventually—“every eye will see him.”[8] And, as the lyrics we heard earlier remind
us, his abiding presence is promised. Thanks
be to God who, in Christ, reaches out to us all—offering each of us means by
which we can see, and come to believe.
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