John 20:19-20, 24-29:
When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord.
Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.’
But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, ‘We have seen the Lord.’ But he said to them, ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.’
A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.’ Thomas answered him, ‘My Lord and my God!’ Jesus said to him, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.’
My name is Thomas. I am an apostle of Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. The Friday Jesus died was the worst day of my life. I was stunned when Jesus was arrested, and I could not bear to see his torture and execution. I was overcome with shame and guilt because I had done nothing to stop Jesus from being taken away to such a cruel death! Jesus was an exceptional man, destined for great things. By following him I was hooking my wagon to a shooting star. Now he was dead.
Don’t get the wrong idea. My discipleship was genuine, not something I thought would put me in a better class of people. Spending only a week with Jesus would have quickly disillusioned anyone of that idea. Jesus ate meals with thieves such as tax collectors. That’s how Matthew met him. Jesus spoke to prostitutes and all kinds of sinners. He actually touched lepers and sick people. Following Jesus meant being with the kind of people my parents had taught me to avoid. By the standards of the day, we hung out with the wrong crowd.
Yet there was a strange magnetism about Jesus. He attracted not just us twelve, but also some of the well-to-do and powerful folks – Lazarus and his sisters, Mary and Martha, for example. Lazarus was well off financially. Then there was Nicodemus, a highly respected member of the Jewish high council. Jesus spent a lot of time with some of the Pharisees, who were highly respected. Even after Jesus died, a rich man named Joseph of Arimathea donated a tomb. Jesus appealed to people across the whole social spectrum. Few people who knew him or knew about him were neutral about him. He evoked strong feelings.
And that meant that almost as many people hated him as loved him. While some Pharisees listened to him, most scorned him. Jesus gave many people great aid and comfort. He healed them, he taught them, he preached, and he loved them. But he also gave haughty, self-righteous people a lot of grief. He was not above calling names, and the names he called some people, right out in public, were pretty stiff ones. So, he angered a lot of people, and they finally decided that Jesus had to go. And a lot of ordinary people got mad at him, too, over religious issues.
I should have seen his condemnation coming. Maybe I did, really, but just wouldn’t face it. Once we were in Jerusalem and Jesus was being pestered by some people who wanted him to answer plainly whether he was the Christ. Finally, Jesus said, “I and the Father are one.” That put some of them over the edge! They picked up stones to stone him to death, right there on a Jerusalem street! Let me tell you, I was plenty worried and frightened, because once a mob’s blood lust is up, it’s hard to stop. Somehow, Jesus talked them out of it. They calmed down, but Jesus wouldn’t quit while he was ahead. He then told them that he was the son of God, and for that we all literally had to run for our lives, Jesus included, clear out of town. We went all the way across the Jordan River, where the people had known John the Baptist well and were kindly disposed towards Jesus. There we rested, and many people believed in Jesus. And there we got word that Lazarus was deathly sick.
In fact, Lazarus had died before we heard he was ill. Jesus seemed to know it, though. He took two days to decide whether to go to Lazarus’ town of Bethany – back across the Jordan into what we disciples had concluded was enemy territory. When he said, “Let’s go,” we started arguing among ourselves about whether to go with him. We tried to talk Jesus out of going – in vain, of course, because Jesus always listened to our advice, but he never took it, not one time. When it became clear that Jesus was going to see Mary and Martha most of the disciples still were reluctant to accompany him.
Finally, I told them, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.”
By that time in my walk with Jesus, I had become personally devoted to him. Oh, his cause was wonderful, his message was holy, and his mission was pure, but that wasn’t what drew me too his side any longer. Those things were still important, but I said I would go and die with him because, quite simply, if Jesus was going to Bethany where there was a real risk of being stoned to death, I couldn’t bear the thought of him taking that risk without me there also. If Jesus were to die there without me, I wouldn’t be able to stand it. I choked down my fear because I loved him. It was as simple as that.
Nothing bad happened. Jesus called Lazarus forth from his tomb, the most astonishing thing I ever saw. Later, I found out that the raising of Lazarus was what made the high council finally decide that Jesus had to die.
Somehow, between that day in Bethany and the night Jesus was arrested, I became a coward. Yes, a coward! When we went together to Bethany, I would have stood beside Jesus if the people had tried to stone him. I would have shielded him with my own body until they beat me down, bleeding and unconscious. But when we were in the garden and an armed cohort of soldiers came up, I just panicked. They arrested Jesus and let me tell you, I knew what was coming. The cross, no doubt about it!
Only Peter had the guts to stand and fight, but Jesus stopped him. Then we all fled, but I think I ran hardest of all. I, who would once have sacrificed myself to save Jesus, I just turned tail. When Jesus died, he died alone. I wasn’t there to save him.
After Jesus was buried, I was so ashamed. I was hurt, I was angry, and I was remorseful beyond description. I wished that I had taken a sword as Peter did. Not even Jesus could have made me put it down. Yes, I told myself all day Saturday, if I had just taken a sword, I would have saved the day, and even if not, I would have died with Jesus.
But Jesus died, and I lived. I hated myself for my cowardice, for my faithlessness. And now I had no aim in life. I had followed Jesus, and Jesus was gone. I was completely adrift. If God could allow Jesus to die, then faith was pointless.
I wasn’t there when Jesus appeared to Mary Magdalene and the other women. I wasn’t there when Jesus appeared to Peter and John and the other disciples. So, when the other disciples told me, “We have seen the Lord,” my response was skeptical, to say the least. “No, really!” they insisted, “We have seen him, in person, right here. He blew the Spirit of peace onto us!”
Now I had heard some whoppers before, but that one took the cake. These poor men and women were hurt as much as I was, but at least I wasn’t seeing ghosts. I thought about telling them the obvious fact that crucifixion was permanent. Hadn’t the women themselves laid Jesus in the tomb? Their Jesus “sightings” were just grief-induced delusions. But grief was grief. They were dealing with theirs by imagining they saw Jesus again, and I was dealing with mine by lapsing into total apathy.
So, I just said that no vision of Jesus would convince me unless I could touch his wounds. “Well,” Peter answered, “aren’t you just a doubting Thomas!” The name stuck. Perhaps you have heard it on occasion.
For all the next week some of the other disciples kept telling me they had seen Jesus. Mary Magdalene was the most insistent. She told me of discovering the empty tomb and Jesus’ grave clothes lying there. I found myself thinking that I could almost believe it. It sounded too good to be true, but there was such a new spirit among my friends, a radiant confidence and quiet joy. They didn’t seem to be in mourning for a dead man.
After a few days I asked Matthew, “If you have seen the Lord, what is next? I mean, the must be more to this resurrection of Jesus you are so convinced of than him just showing up and announcing, ‘I'm back!’”
“We’re waiting,” Matthew replied.
“For what?” I asked.
“For you,” he said.
I began thinking. Matthew had always seemed a sensible type. He had always analyzed situations with an accountant’s mind if you get my drift. If Matthew said these sightings added up, perhaps there was literally more to them than met the eye.
I wanted to believe. I really did! More than anything, I wanted Jesus to be alive, so I could beg his forgiveness for running away in the garden. Oh, just to see his face, to hear his voice again! Sometimes during that week, I would be out, and I would see him, talking to someone across the street. My heart would leap! But then he would turn around and I would see it was not Jesus, just someone whose robe was like his. Or I would hear his footsteps on the stair, but they wouldn’t belong to him after all, just some stranger. And at night, after a day of forlornly hoping Jesus would appear to me, I would weep on my bed because I knew Jesus really was gone.
So, I couldn’t believe my friends. Their sightings were just fleshed out more than mine, but no more real, that was all. For my faith to be reborn, I needed to see his wounds and feel them. But Jesus didn’t come to me, except in my heart’s longing.
Until that day at the end of the week when Jesus did come.
We were all in the house and I looked up and there he was! He was standing right there, right in front of me! I couldn’t speak. I think my heart must have stopped. I lost my breath. Was he real? Was this vision really him, or just delusion? And how did he get in here? The doors were shut!
He held out his hands to bless us and said, “Peace be with you.” I just stared. I could clearly see where the nails had pierced his hands. There was no blood or open wound, just scars, but there was no doubt. Then Jesus turned to me and took a step in my direction. He said to me, “Put your finger here and see my hands.”
I couldn’t move. My throat was so tight I could hardly breathe. Jesus pulled back his cloak and showed me the red scar in his side. It was deeply depressed into his body where the Roman spear had been ripped out. “Reach out your hand and put it in my side,” Jesus said. “Do not doubt but believe.”
I began to cry. I gasped, “My Lord and my God!” And I fell to my knees because I was so ashamed of doubting him, of doubting my friends. I had let Jesus down again. Wasn’t the testimony of my friends reliable? Of course, it was! Yet I refused to believe.
Jesus asked me, “Have you believed because you have seen me?” I was so ashamed I could only nod. Jesus rebuked me, saying, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”
When I looked up, Jesus was gone. Mary Magdalene was crying as I was. She came over and put her arms around me. Matthew was smiling from ear to ear.
I never did touch Jesus’ wounds. Nor did I ever again think I needed to. I learned that the problem isn’t doubt. I came to know countless devout Christians who were sometimes wracked by doubts. If God was always present in a way that left no room for doubt, there likely would be no room for you or me. The problem is not doubt but dismissal.
Later when I spread the Gospel to the east, I discovered that the people who came to follow Christ were at no disadvantage in having the same faith as us apostles. They could make the same claim as Mary Magdalene and the apostles made to me: “We have seen the Lord!” They said it because they understood what I finally learned: that the Scriptures, prayer, and the community of faith lead us not to external visions, but to the full experience of God in Christ. The revelation of God in Jesus is grounded in historical events, but the fullness of God in Christ is not trapped in history. Christ is ever new and ever knowable, even by people who never see a vision. The presence and reality of the risen Christ is always available through the work of the Holy Spirit. So, all believers have the same access to Christ as we apostles.
I never got to ask Jesus to forgive me for running away from him when he was arrested. But I am sure he did forgive me, even without me asking. In later years I would ask myself, did I really see him that day? He was there so fleetingly.
I know I saw him, but I also know that such a vision is not essential to faith. I never stopped loving my Lord and my God. And I never missed him again because he was always with me, even to the end of time, a crucified, risen and living Lord.
