Every year, poor “doubting Thomas” gets a bad rap. And every year, I try to undo the damage of all those “just trust!” “Just believe!” “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe” sermons in my own small way. I love Thomas. I love that he’s out there in the world, and not hiding in some house cowering and licking his wounds like the rest of the disciples. I like that he needs to see Jesus in a real, visceral, physical, bodily way. And I like how he needs empirical evidence. He needs verifiable data. He needs peer reviewed articles and repeatable experiments and consistent data before he puts his trust into anything as crazy as the resurrection. It warms the cockles of my post-Enlightenment, post-scientific revolution, postmodernist heart. Thomas and I, we are buds. Best buds. We are tight. We like the same foods, have the same taste in music and can finish each other’s sentences.
Give me the bodies. Give me the flesh. Let me put my hand where they’ve hurt you and let us find some peace in our pain. I’ll be here to defend you, Thomas, from all of those accusations of doubt and disbelief brought up by all those terrified, cowardly disciples who put their heads in the sand and locked themselves up in fear. At least Thomas was out there, wherever, out in the world, still relating to the world, still trying to get back to normal. Maybe he woke up that morning after the Sabbath and thought, well, I guess we go back to work now, and he put on his fishing gloves, grabbed his net, and walked out the door, squinting in the harsh sunlight.
Yup. When tragedy strikes, you pick yourself up by your bootstraps, you grin and bear it, you fake it til you make it, everything happens for a reason, God has a plan, all’s well that ends well, when the goin’ gets tough, the tough get goin’, if at first you don’t succeed, dig deep, because "things may come to those who wait, but only those things left by those who hustle.” Like Dory the fish in Finding Nemo, “just keep swimming, just keep swimming” because we can do hard things, no pain no gain, and when I get knocked down, I get up again, you’re never gonna keep me down, because when God closes a door he opens a window.
Thomas went out there, he faced the music, he braved the wild, he risked imprisonment. If anyone earned the opportunity to experience his risen Lord, it was Thomas.
Thomas and I are thick as thieves, two peas in a pod, cut from the same cloth.
Push through the pain, because that’s how you get stronger. Laugh with them when they’re laughing at you. Don’t let them see you sweat. Just keep moving, and you won’t have to face the horrors of two days before. Just go back to work, back to routine, and you can pretend the trauma didn’t happen. Thomas and I, we don’t need those days in the dark. We’re gonna show them that we are made of stronger stuff. We’re going back out there. Back in the ring. We’re getting back on the horse, back in the game, put us in, coach, ’tis but a flesh wound.
Because if we stop. If we stop, we might find darkness all around us. If we stop, we might find that our savior has left us, all alone. If we stop, we might discover that all the hope we ever had was crucified up there on that cross. If we stop, we might have to admit that we’d given our whole selves to a lie. That Jesus wasn’t who he said he was, that he wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. That all that hope we’d invested in him came up twos and sevens. No full house, no royal flush, not even a pair of deuces. We put in all our chips, but of course, we should have known, the house always wins.
If we stop and think about it, we’d fall apart. If we took a deep breath, we might cry, or get angry, or need to throw something. If we stop to breathe, we might feel that sharp pain as it pierces our ribs.
So keep rowing. Keep swimming. Keep pushing the buttons and cranking the cranks. Keep punching the time cards and putting your best foot forward. Take it on the chin. Bills still have to be paid. Mouths still need to be fed. We don’t have the luxury of falling apart. Carry that sadness like a badge of honor, show everyone else out there that you can handle it, that you’ve got it under control, that if the wave of despair and horror knocks you over, you’ll just get right back up again. Put up your dukes. Put ‘em up. C’mon. Let’s go another round.
But it’s weird, though. Real life is happening out there and yet Thomas and I, we come back home to all these others who say, “We have seen the Lord!” While they were hiding in their basements, indulging in a good cry, taking a minute to mourn, wallowing in self-pity, and getting in touch with their emotions, Jesus showed up. Jesus revealed himself in the darkness. Full of sweaty bodies and snot drenched handkerchiefs and tear stained sleeves. Jesus came in the midst of their fear and devastation and as they threw up their hands and moaned, “oh, what are we going to do now?” Jesus came in the darkness.
And we missed it.
It happened, and we were out there, doing stuff, moving around, rearranging the deck chairs, keeping busy. Keeping that pain at arm’s length and with a stiff upper lip.
They were crowded inside, cowering in the dark, and Jesus doesn’t even open the doors to let a little light in first. He just shows up. Right there. Right in the midst of all that embarrassing and messy and vulnerable out of control emotion and despair.
Thomas and I come in with pizza and beer and some VHS reruns of “I Love Lucy” to distract us through another sad night, and we’re told that we’ve missed it. Jesus came back. He showed up in the dark. He showed them his hands and his side and he offered them his peace. They were floored. “We have seen the Lord!”
Like all those who came before them and who will come after them and say, “God spoke to me.” “God is telling me…” “Trust God.” “Just have faith,” “Let go and let God,” “God has a plan,” “It’s all in God’s time,” “I had a vision from the Lord,” “Just believe.” Why do they get to have such an easy faith? Why do they get to hear so clearly? They aren’t out there, throwing out the nets, sweating in hot sun, asking all the questions, doubting all the doubts, trying to forget and keep moving and not let them see your weakness. They’re just here, inside, with all this stale air, all these tears, the sobs, the crying headaches, all this humid, recycled breath.
Funny, how we can go an entire day without breathing.
I mean, sure, we’re breathing, that’s how we survived through the day. But we weren’t really breathing. We weren’t really aware, really mindful, really paying attention to that thing that gives us life. Deep breathing stimulates the vagus nerve, which runs from the brain to the abdomen and is in charge of turning off our “fight or flight” reflex. When we breathe deeply, we activate the relaxation response in our parasympathetic nervous system, and we calm down. When we breathe deeply, our heart rate slows down, our blood pressure steadies.
When we stop to take a few deep breaths, we have to deal with what is, with what is right in front of us, we are pulled into the present moment. And sometimes, that present moment is really, really hard. Sometimes, in that present moment, we are confronted with truths that we have been trying to ignore and overcome with our shallow breathing and our constant moving. Like a mother in labor, when we breathe deep, we stop fighting the pain, and we start to roll with it, we start to ride it where it takes us. We let go of control. And somehow, when we stop fighting it, it becomes just a little bit more manageable. Somehow, when we let go of control, the pain stops controlling us. And it all starts with the breath.
So when Jesus barges in there, his evidence that he is alive is his pierced hands and feet, the gash in his side, and his breath. In the midst of their sorrow and pain and darkness and fear, Jesus doesn’t come in and remove it all, he doesn’t fix anything, he actually shows them evidence of all the suffering that has happened. See. Look. My hands. My side. Still open. Still wounded. Still aching and sore. But as you look upon this suffering, as you remember this struggle, as you sit here in the dark and another sob forces its way through the deepest parts of your body, here’s some breath. Breathe. Stay. My peace be with you.
Jesus meets the disciples in the dark and he gives them breath.
That’s resurrection.
Like the spirit-breath-wind hovering over the waters, like the breath that gives life to the dust, life, resurrection, is in the breath.
Breathe that in.
But you know what else is resurrection?
When Thomas misses it. When I miss it. When we doubt and ask questions and fail to believe. When a week goes by and you’re surrounded by all these people who have had this profound life changing experience, and they don’t kick you out. They don’t shun the nonbeliever. That’s resurrection, too. They keep coming back to the house. They keep coming back to the dark. And they keep inviting Thomas to join them. And he feels free enough, comfortable enough, not judged enough, home enough, that even though he doesn’t share their beliefs, or have their same experience, even though he is actively and vocally clear about his disbelief, a week later he is with them, back in that locked room, back in the dark. He felt safe and loved enough to keep coming back.
Holding each other in the dark, no matter what we believe, no matter where we are on our faith journey, no matter what level of denial or grief we’re occupying, that’s a kind of resurrection, too.
Because Jesus comes again. And keeps coming.
Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Jesus showed Thomas his hands and his side. Jesus meets Thomas there, in the dark, in the community that still embraced him amidst his doubt and his busyness and his refusal to deal with the hard stuff head on. Jesus shows up there, in the dark. And Thomas answers, “My Lord and my God,” as if he’s taken his first deep breath in a long long time. The fight or flight response calms down, he activates the parasympathetic nerve, he is here, right now, in this moment. It’s not easy. It still hurts. He’s still in the dark, and Jesus’s wounds are still gaping. He stops fighting the pain. Instead, he breathes in to it. But it’s here, in that deep breath, amidst the pain, in the middle of that crowded, paranoid, sloppy dna-filled room that the risen Christ reveals himself. “My Lord and My God,” Thomas cries.
Is this the first sob he’s allowed himself since they hung his Lord on that cross and heard him cry out “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me”? Is it the first time he’s let the breath fill his lungs and pierce his heart?
Blessed are those who sit in the dark. Blessed are those who have not seen, yet still believe. Blessed are those who breathe deep, even though it hurts. Blessed are those who hold us in the dark, even when we don’t believe.
Breathe.
Receive the Holy Spirit.
Thanks be to God.
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