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A Congregation Of The "Never place a period where God has placed a comma." - Gracie Allen |
From April 15, 2007 Unless John 20: 19-29 The disciples huddle behind locked doors, afraid that Jesus' fate might soon be theirs. Speaking in hushed tones, each time they hear a voice in the stairwell or a suspicious sound in the street below, everything stops: conversation, breathing, even hearts. A bolt on the door eases their fears. But it doesn't eliminate them. Partly because their fears stretch further than concern about authorities and the possibility of arrest. The disciples are also afraid of what they remember. Not about Jesus' crucifixion but what they remember about themselves. Not one of them is innocent. Each man in his own way has failed the Lord in his time of greatest need. As much as they fear the authorities and the contents of their own consciences, perhaps the disciples also fear God. Not even a fortress can safeguard cowards and fickle friends. So as daylight fades, fears swell. The night will surely be a long and difficult one. From out of nowhere Jesus appears. "Peace be with you," he says, standing before them as Mary said he had done that morning at the tomb. Just hearing his voice is enough. This is their recently crucified Lord. And what a Lord he is. He immediately bids them peace, not fear. Peace, not judgment. Peace, not punishment. Peace. Jesus does more than bid peace, of course. He IS peace. Jesus patiently waits for his peace to envelope and saturate the disciples, waits for it to calm their minds and soothe their spirits. Then he gently turns his palms toward them revealing his raw wounds. Next he touches his side to show the jagged tear in his flesh. Evidence of violence. Evidence of death. And yet Jesus is not dead, not violated. He is filled with life, whole, and spilling over with peace. It is too much to believe. Here Jesus is, alive once more. Here is their Jesus, the Light of the World, seeking them out as night creeps into their room. Here is Jesus, bidding peace and then blowing upon their skin the warm, affirming breath of the Spirit. Breath meant to transform their cowering into confidence, their hiding into bold engagement with the world. Everything is perfect about this moment except one thing. Thomas isn't here. And so he misses seeing with his own eyes Jesus' broken-open hands. He misses hearing that wonderfully familiar voice and feeling on his own weary, teary face the enlivening Spirit Jesus breathes upon his friends. And so I say, Thomas lacks the advantage the others have. Jesus has come to everyone else and has paid them the respect of revealing himself. He has paid them the greater respect of trusting them, through the Spirit, to continue and extend his ministry. But arriving too late, Thomas only gets the leftovers, the story of their encounter with Christ. Poor Thomas. He's forever fixed in our minds as Doubting Thomas, the one whose faith is sorely lacking. He's the inferior one, the flawed one. The one who is reluctant to believe. We forget that Thomas was no spiritual weakling, no wishy washy, tag-along disciple. Earlier, when Jesus was called by Mary and Martha to attend to Lazarus, Thomas was prepared to confront the threat of death. Thomas is more than we suppose. Put yourself in Thomas' shoes. Wouldn't you wonder just a bit, too? Reunited with your close-knit friends after a profound tragedy, instead of appropriate displays of grief you find them near delirious with joy, reporting that Jesus is alive again. Yeah, right. No doubt you would doubt too if you were Thomas. "We have seen the Lord," Thomas' disciple friends insist. And yet Thomas is not convinced. He knows grief does peculiar things to people. If Thomas knows this, he knows something else, too. And that is this: if he is going to believe what his friends say, then he has a need they cannot meet, a condition they cannot satisfy. "Unless I see the mark of the nail in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe." Rather than call this a sign of impaired discipleship, rather than label it a flaw in his faith, Thomas' assertion should command our respect. Because it is an honest response, a human one. Only his own experience will suffice; hearing about someone else's just isn't good enough. With his need for a direct encounter with the Risen Christ, Thomas might serve nicely as the patron saint for a whole generation of seekers. He might also be the disciple that most ably represents the spirit of the United Church of Christ, this denomination that firmly insists God still speaks... and directly, not merely through chosen others who then report to us what's on God's mind. Those who study cultural shifts and how these shifts come to bear on faith tell us that times have changed. Repeating creeds and memorizing catechisms no longer satisfy as they did in decades past. More than ever people crave direct experience. Unlike those who have gone before us, as a whole this generation is not particularly nourished by reading aloud the church's statements of faith. Instead folks of this post-modern culture are hungering for ways to encounter these creedal truths. They want to touch and be touched by God, by grace, by holy love. They also want and need and deserve to question. To question the claims of the institution of the church. Its claims and even its aims. They want and need and deserve to investigate their faith and what it means to accept the call to discipleship. One of the things I most appreciate about the United Church of Christ is the freedom you and I are given to question, to seek after truth in a way that honors who we are and what we need. Thinking back to my years in the pews, I cannot remember even one sermon in which I felt that the pastor was insisting that I agree with him, with her. And reflecting on my own preaching, my own message-bringing, never have I stepped into the pulpit with the expectation that anyone agree. Even as I speak with conviction borne of study and prayer, even as I share from my experience of God both within and beyond the church, I never expect - or want - anyone to walk away saying "If the pastor says so, that's good enough for me." As your pastor I want, expect even, that you will prayerfully reflect on your own experience of God in light of whatever I may have shared. I want, expect, you to encounter God and God's truth yourself. Unless. Unless. Thomas says that unless he is able to touch and see for himself, he will not believe. Someone else's word just isn't convincing, isn't adequate. What a gift Thomas gives by being honest, forthright. What an example he provides for us, we who are called to authentic faith. Thomas teaches us to claim our birthright--spiritual integrity. By being true to himself and his needs, Thomas opens the door to a living faith. So many Christians are locked inside rooms of fear: fear of asking questions about the Risen Christ, fear of asking questions about what it means to be a disciple, fear of trusting that God not only invites but blesses our question-asking and need-naming. Thomas' example gives us permission to be who we are, right where we are. He gives us the courage to ask to be satisfied with respect to our faith. Now, if you have any doubt about whether to be Thomas-like is acceptable to God, then take a good, long look at how Jesus responds. A week later, Jesus circles back. Circles back to seek Thomas out and give Thomas what he has lacked. "Peace be with you," Jesus says before anything else. Away with all fear. Away with all anxiety. Away with shame or dread or anything else that can get in the way of relationship, of understanding what is happening, of comprehending what it means to be in the presence of this newly-risen Savior. "Go ahead," Jesus gently, firmly insists to Thomas. "Touch away. Put your finger here. Take a good look. Put your hand right here, right in my torn-open side. Do whatever you need to do to satisfy your hunger to know the truth. Here I am. I'm all yours." And guess what, just that is enough. Just that grace, that compassion, that freedom, that invitation is enough. Just that is enough to have Thomas know for himself what the others have already discovered. "My Lord and my God!" Thomas exclaims from the depths of his soul. Faith is not really ours, not really real unless, like Thomas, we claim our hesitancies and hold out for Christ's touch. Christ wants more for us than a hear-say faith, more than a they-said-it-so-I-must-believe-it faith. Christ wants to come to us, to listen to us. He wants us to know he honors our uncertainties and doubts. And he wants to show us, each of us, that there is nothing we can ask of him that is off limits. But unless we ask, we'll never know this. We'll never know how glad and grateful Christ is when we dare to speak up. We'll never know how fully Christ intends to honor our need for own experience of and relationship with him - unless, until, we ask. Amen. © 2007 Rev. Karen Winkel United Church of Paducah (UCC) |
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