It’s Sunday. They are huddled together in a room, where they usually gather. That event which seemed like ages ago is still in their memories. But something is wrong. This motley assortment of disciples should be glad. They should be gathering out of thanks, for a life so generously sacrificed for their salvation, for a startling new truth that they still struggle to grasp, for the eternal promise that has been made to them.
But they don’t look glad. They all seem drawn into themselves. There’s a nervous energy in the room. They are forlorn. They are lonely. They are beginning to wonder if God has abandoned them, even though they have shown up to be together with one another, as is their custom. The doors are not only shut; they are locked. The tension and anxiety are so thick in the room that you can cut through the resulting cloud with a knife. Above all, these disciples are afraid. They are scared out of their minds.
A handful of disciples in need of one another’s company, gathering according to their custom, shut behind doors, so very afraid. Is the year 30 A.D. or 2023? Is this gathering comprised of Jesus’s disciples, who were still in shock in the evening of the Day of Resurrection, or is it the modern Church gathering to break bread and share a cup on a Sunday so many years later? Is the man nervously pacing across the room impetuous Peter who is still feeling guilty for his three denials, or is it the parishioner who’s worried about the heating bill and the recent liturgical change?
Right now, on the first day of the week, countless other Christians—although undoubtedly fewer than in ages past—are gathering across the world, just as we are. Usually, the doors are shut and hopefully not locked, although in some corners of the world, perhaps they are. Prayers are said. Bread and wine are present. Thanks is given to God for them. The bread is broken, and the wine is poured. They are shared.
In many places, as in this place, people seem glad to be here. The peace is exchanged. Worries and troubles are brought with the contemporary disciples who come, even though most of these remain hidden inside our hearts. All that we bring is placed on the altar, with ourselves and the bread and the wine. Sins are forgiven. Fellowship is shared. Christ’s Body and Blood are received.
But do you detect any tension? Do you sense any anxiety? Are you afraid, and if so, of what are you afraid? Is it what’s on the other side of the doors of this church? Is it the safety of your family when you’re not with them? Is it the health of a parent who is struggling with a sobering new diagnosis? Is it the mental health of your child? Is it about paying the bills?
Or are you afraid of a world full of shifting mores and values? Or of the judgment of your friends who want nothing to do with church and think you’re out of your mind for being here? Or of the people who look and think differently from you? Are you afraid of any of these things?
Let’s face it. The fear that Jesus’s disciples had in that upper room over two thousand years ago manifests itself in similar ways in our own day. The fear that St. John describes in his Gospel was used to scapegoat others: one group of Jewish people who followed Jesus demonized another group who didn’t.
But the Church still recapitulates such fear in other ways. She fears “the world” outside our doors, even if they aren’t locked. She fears a culture that has decreasing respect for the Church and that schedules ballgames and dance practice on Sunday. She fears a pandemic that has thinned out the pews. She fears even the fear of those outside the Church who have been wounded by reckless spiritual leaders. She fears those within the Church who weaponize Scripture and the sacraments. She fears talking about sin too much lest she offend, or in some corners, she fears talking about love lest she become too generous. Her members even fear their fellow Christians because they can be so unforgiving. There is so much to fear, it seems.
At least, that’s what the prevailing narratives suggest. One narrative, which many in the Church have bought hook, line, and sinker, is that the Church is in perpetual decline. The Church will need to reinvent herself completely, or she will simply die out. The clock is ticking. Haven’t you heard this? Are you afraid of it? And if so, what are you going to do about it?
And in walks Thomas. If there’s anyone in Scripture we should feel sorry for, it’s Thomas. But we shouldn’t feel sorry for him because he doubts. The Greek text never says he doubts. Jesus tells him to be believing, not unbelieving. And the last thing we should fear is our doubts. We should feel sorry for Thomas because he is often so misunderstood. Thomas should be our role model. Thomas demands something that we all need to see. Thomas wants to see Jesus’s wounds.
Thomas is going for something deep. Perhaps it’s not so much that he wants proof before he can believe. Perhaps he wants to make sure that the person the disciples have claimed to see is truly the Risen Christ. When Satan is known to masquerade as an angel of light, Thomas is sensible to ask for proof. And the Risen Christ who never deceives isn’t someone who mysteriously appears and offers facile peace with oppression or with the status quo. The Risen Christ, whom we worship and adore, is the One who appears with the scars still in his hands and his side, because this Savior has been to darker places than we can imagine. He offers the peace that passes all understanding and a new creation that transforms the old. This Risen Christ still comes to us in our valleys of despair. So, put your hands into his side and see the print of the nails in his hands, and what do you see?
In those scars is a Church that gathered week after week on the first day of the week, even when it was a crime. In those scars is a Church that produced martyrs whose blood became the seed for a growing crop of disciples. In those scars is a Church that grew and grew even when others mocked it and when authorities persecuted it. In those scars is a body of disciples who stayed together despite heresy and schism, and corrupt bishops. In those scars are the internal divisions that threatened to destroy the Church forever, but which didn’t. In those scars, are the sins of the Crusades and anti-Jewish pogroms and oppressive colonization. In those scars are the wounds of those abused by Church leaders and those who were excluded by the Church.
It’s all there, and Thomas wants to see it. Ask to see the wounds, he says, because only a Savior who is risen from the dead and still bears such wounds is our true Savior. His wounds are proof that the worst crimes and heinous acts and even death itself cannot destroy what God has built. The Risen Christ, who offers his peace and Holy Spirit to us, will not erase our wounds. He heals them.
And here is the Risen Christ with us today, in our midst. He has come to us, despite the closed doors. He has come to us despite our fear. He has an invitation and a message for us.
As he did with Thomas, he invites us to see the wounds in his hands and to touch his side. He asks us to be not unbelieving but believing. He encourages us not to believe a message of despair about our own future and the Church’s future. His wounds remind us that although we may think the world has never been so bad, it has been in trouble before, and it survived. The Church survived. And Jesus says, you and the Church will survive. For he doesn’t forsake his own, and his message is no lie.
That is his invitation to believe. And then he does one final thing: he gives us a charge. Go and unlock the doors, he says. Your fear has already been unable to keep him out. Unlock the doors to all. Do not fear what is outside. Do not fear the unknown. Believe that what you haven’t yet seen will be good news. Believe that no matter what anyone else tells you, this isn’t the end. There is a future prepared for you, and that’s the best part yet.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Second Sunday of Easter
April 16, 2023