John 20:19-31
1.
Traditionally, as Orthodox Christians in Jerusalem approach Easter as they did last weekend, their particular celebrations begin the day before, on Holy Saturday. And on Holy Saturday they converge upon the old, old, old Church of the Holy Sepulcher. And you’ll see pictures of some of this on the back page of your bulletin this morning.
And as this good news crackles through the crowd, so too the holy fire! Passed now from one brightly lit face to another. Spread within and then beyond the old church, torch to torch to torch, sister to sister to brother to brother. Throughout the old city and into the world of wonders and woes. “Al Masih Cam!” Christ is risen! “Al Masih Cam!” Christ is risen!
As it happens, Lareen describing all this to me still grieves for a beloved aunt, a beloved Palestinian journalist who was shot and killed by soldiers in the West Bank several years ago. And every year, she says, she goes to that Church on Holy Saturday, lights her torch from a thousand others, and then makes her own purposeful pilgrimage—through the old stone streets of the city up a hillside to her aunt’s grave. And she waves her torch across that grave. The Holy Fire, a blessing and a promise! “Al Masih Cam!” Christ is risen!
It’s her way, she tells me, not only of remembering her aunt and her sacrifice, but of claiming the resurrection for her people and the whole world, God’s holy and defiant “yes” in the face of cruelty and despair. “Yes” to the Christ who speaks truth to power and dismantles empires with love. “Yes” to the community that treasures its culture and history and seeks the common good. “Yes” to kindness and compassion and inclusion and justice.
Did you catch those last wonderful lines of Bruce Sanguin’s prayer: “As fire kindles brushwood / and causes water to boil, / so we await to be set on fire / with hope and gospel passion.” “Yes” to brushwood. “Yes” to fire. “Yes” to you and me set afire with hope and gospel passion.
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2.
Even so, our faith is necessarily tested by uncertainty; and even Easter joy contends with doubt and disbelief. The genius of that Holy Fire ceremony in Jerusalem is its recognition of light in the midst of darkness, and its kindling of hope and community in a fragmented and traumatized world.
In our story this morning, then, Thomas is called the Twin; and many have wondered if this nickname is indeed to indicate the relentless pairing of doubt and belief in Christian practice. And I like to think this is exactly right. Thomas is something of an archetype. Familiar to us all. The point of the story isn’t to shame Thomas’ skepticism or overwhelm his doubt with incontrovertible evidence. Instead, this wild story reminds you and me of the coupling of doubt and belief in our own lives, in our own community, and the dynamic journey of faith which entertains it all in daily life, in weekly worship, and in our costly discipleship among the world’s broken hearts.
Like so many of us, Thomas is so traumatized by what he’s seen, so distressed by what’s happened within the community he loved; Thomas is so frightened by the unraveling of his people’s hopes and dreams—that he hears his friends’ good news as a cheap and happy fantasy. “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my hand in his side,” he says, “I will not believe.”
I attended a poetry reading on Friday where an Iraqi woman bared her soul out loud in a series of poems lamenting the terrible cost of war in her homeland, and grieving the seemingly endless cycle of greed and violence that pierces the hearts of so many: Iraq and Afghanistan then, Gaza and Iran now. And in her poetry I heard the same bewildering mix we find in our story this morning: defiant faith perhaps, but overwhelming despair; an aching for mercy, but a fearful heart as if maybe mercy isn’t enough. And I really can’t blame her, right? Or Thomas. If I’m honest, I lie awake so many nights, restless with the same brew in my belly: faith and doubt, belief and disbelief. “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands,” Thomas says. “I will not believe.” Sounds right to me.
What’s unsaid in the story is that his friends—those other disciples—will not shame Thomas for his disbelief. And this seems to me very important and urgently so in the church. They will not mock Thomas or even tease him for the doubting in his heart. For his own despair and restlessness. Instead, they seem to simply give Thomas (and Jesus and the whole resurrection story) the time and space it deserves. So that when another week goes by, and when Jesus returns to stand among them in the house where they’re staying, Thomas is brave enough and honest enough and open enough to touch Jesus’ wounded side and take Jesus’ battered hands into his own. “My Lord,” he says. “My Lord and my God!”
3.
I am beyond blessed in the privileges I’m afforded in doing ministry among you all, and in our own United Church of Christ. Which breaks down so many walls that divide us from one another and builds instead a beloved community of mutual care and celebration. You know what I mean.
And last Sunday turned out to be one of the most extraordinary moments, and really one of the most humbling, in my 37 years doing this kind of thing. Downstairs at the Table, with many of you, I had the great honor of facilitating a ritual of blessing for a first-year UNH student who asked us, our church, to hear his new name and welcome his new name and honor his precious transition in worship. A transition, by the way, that has God’s fingerprints all over it. That’s my hot take.
One of you took a picture—during that conga line of kindness—and I’ll keep it as a screensaver on my laptop for months to come. It’s a picture of Van being swallowed up in a great, big hug—with oil rippling down his nose, and tears down his cheeks, and he is on fire with love and delight. Ask me and I’ll show you. He is on fire with love and delight. Everything we want church to be. And I just dare some right-winger to come to my office, look at that picture, and tell me it’s an abomination. I just dare them to do it.
It’s a smile that says: “Yes.” It’s a smile that says: “I am loved.” It’s a smile that says: “I found my people!” And, my friends, my Easter friends, my Christian friends, it’s a smile that says, “Christ is risen!” Our own little Holy Fire ceremony. That’s what it was last week. Our own little Holy Fire ceremony. And the light leapt from heart to heart, from hand to hand, from us to Van and back again.
When we make space for doubt, you see, even in the midst of our deepest convictions and hopes; when we honor the unanswerable questions, you see, even when we trust God’s good news with all our hearts; when we resist every temptation to mock Thomas for his skepticism and despair…we sometimes awaken to find Jesus standing right in front of us. In the bewildering mix of doubt and despair, in the befuddling jumble of belief and disbelief. And in Jesus’ human hands we find grace. And in his familiar wounds we know mercy. And by his breath we are made new and whole again.
And that’s just a little bit of what happened downstairs last week. Jesus showing up at a table, dabbing oil on the forehead of a beloved child, using old and scarred hands to do it, young and nimble hands, and the gnarled hands of working people, and the paint-stained hands of artists, using our hands to claim the kind of Love that will not ever, ever, ever let Van (or any one of us) go.
So Easter’s not just a theory, my friends, it’s a practice. Our practice. A practice we learn together, and imagine together, and work at together. Week by week. Day by day. A beloved community.
4.
We miss the point of Jesus’ gospel, I fear, if we receive the resurrection story as a kind of “get out of jail free” card, as if God’s only intention is to raise us from the grave and get us as far as possible away from this earthly mess. But no, no, that kind of theology misses the whole point of God’s creation and the message and passion of Jesus’ life. And that kind of theology is, in fact, blasphemous in the face of God’s deep and holy commitment to creation. All of creation.
If you look at that old icon—that old Orthodox icon—of “The Resurrection” on the inside back cover of your bulletin, you see Jesus taking Adam and Eve by the arms; and he’s purposeful and deliberate and even powerful in what he’s doing. Taking them by the arms and raising them up. Adam and Eve, of course, representing all of us. Every last one of us.
This is a Jesus whose love shatters the grip of fear, whose hand reaches out for Van’s and yours and mine. This is a Jesus whose body is in motion again, whose energy is purposeful again, whose friends are enlisted in a project of blessing and repair and healing and justice. An Easter people. A beloved community.
And to that community we bring our hopes for creation, our dreams for our families and friends; and yes, we bring our doubts and our despair, and sometimes the pain and trauma of injustice and disappointment. Like Thomas, we can be honest and free in naming our skepticism. Like Thomas, we can wait with friends for deeper wisdom and even clarity, but not have to rush it. Like Thomas, we can watch for the One whose fire is gathering even now, in a thousand pitch-black caves, in a thousand darkened tombs, in a thousand war-torn villages. For this Jesus is alive again, and this Jesus is shattering the power of fear itself, and this Jesus is coming to take your hand.
Coming to raise you up.
Amen and Ashe.
