Easter 2B

Sometimes I wonder if I don’t engage in a form of self-punishment by reading the newspaper, particularly the letters to the editor or off-the-wall comments on blogs. What utterly amazes me is people’s certitude of what is right and what is wrong. How often have I seen a letter in which somebody declares how their religion tells them exactly what was right and what was wrong and how glad they are that their church gives them up or down answers.

As difficult as it is, I am glad that our Anglican tradition does not paint the world in broad brushstrokes of black and white. I am so thankful for our Anglican tradition of living in ambiguity and the messiness of questions. While having absolute, facile answers may be consoling—and it is to the majority of people who call themself Christian these days—such certitude eliminates or hinders the honest and true struggle with the mysteries that our faith presents us.

Doubt comes from raising questions. Questioning my second-hand beliefs. My beliefs only become first-hand if I doubt, raise questions, and do all of this as an act of faith. All of us seem to be brought up to deny these faith questions. I have had people over the years tell me that in previous churches, or with previous clergy, they were not allowed to ask questions. My heart weeps when I hear that. As a lover of Christ, I love the questions that come. And I am not afraid to ask them, nor do I want anyone here at Trinity to be afraid to ask questions. It is in asking questions that one can figure out for oneself what parts of this rich and complex faith we have been given by tradition don’t make sense or to which we absolutely cannot relate. Perhaps part of the Fifty Days of Easter is being given permission to question, because we have that Paschal candle, reminder of the resurrection, standing smack in the middle of the church, telling us that it is all right to doubt, to question the status quo so that our faith won’t be second-hand, but first-hand. To ask a question demonstrates strength.

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So here we are, a mere week after the great Easter celebration, a day when we declared with all our heart and soul, Alleluia, Christ is risen, indeed, Alleluia! And look what the gospel story presents us today: a tale of fear, doubt and faithlessness on the part of those closest to Jesus, his followers. Are we missing something here?

No. Because even two millennia later, we still struggle with those real feelings. Wisely, though, the gospel does not leave us with doubt or fear because along with the familiar story of doubting Thomas also comes the promise: Peace be with you, my spirit I leave with you.

Remember that on that first Easter, the disciples were locked in—locked in fear, dissention, confusion, pain and division. Life was not hunkey-dorey—they last saw Jesus on the cross before they fled. Only Mary Magdalene and the beloved disciple and Peter had seen the empty tomb. Even when Jesus appears to the disciples in the upper room, their apprehending him is not without pain: they must enter into the mystery of his wounds and suffering. At the same time they enter into that mystery, which leads to faith and belief, Jesus gives them the Holy Spirit.

When, on the cross, Jesus gives up the spirit, he gives up more than his life, though that is how we tend to take that wording. Martin Smith, formerly of SSJE, suggests that at that moment Jesus hands over the life-giving Holy Spirit to the disciples so that they will continue in his footsteps. The continuation of this handing-over takes place in the upper room on the evening of Easter when Jesus comes to the disciples and tells them, Peace be with you. In the Johannine version of Pentecost, Jesus breathes on the disciples, telling them: Receive the Holy Spirit. What do they make of this? We do not know.

All we know is Thomas was not there for the initial handing-over of the Spirit and commissioning of the disciples. Though the disciples tell him for a week they have seen the risen Christ, Thomas cannot believe. As he finds out, in order to believe, he, too, must enter into Christ’s wounds. Through his doubt comes the ability to believe. Yet even here, the gospel leaves things vague—we will never know whether Thomas actually touched the wounds—as if to remind us that we will never have certain answers. Even with the other signs Jesus does so that others may believe, always we are called to look with the eyes of faith… never with blind faith, but an active, probing faith.

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Maybe I look for the difficult in life, and maybe sometimes God hands me a challenge but I would rather wrestle with the questions and doubts because ultimately I trust that God’s voice will become clear to me. Sometimes it takes a long time to hear what God is telling me, especially when I want signs and clear evidence the way Thomas wants. Sometimes all I can hear is ‘no’, when really I should be hearing ‘yes.’ Mercifully, God is infinitely patient with me. Usually when I let go of trying to figure out with my mind what God is saying and let my heart take over, I gain a bit more clarity. But never absolute clarity. The writer of the Letter to the Hebrews, written after the fourth gospel, writes, ‘To have faith is to be sure of the things we hope for, to be certain of the things we cannot see.’

I find our Anglican grace lies in having the latitude to say, as the unknown Jewish person in WWII wrote: ‘I believe in the sun even when it is not shining. I believe in love even when feeling it not. I believe in G-d even when God is silent,’ and not feel condemned for doubting. Sometimes our doubt is our belief and that is the best we can muster. Doubting does not mean the end of one’s faith, rather, it indicates a desire to delve deeper into the questions. Nor does doubting mean fear. If we doubt, we do not have to withdraw from the community, as did Thomas. The community needs to hear our questions and doubts because in wrestling with them, it, too, can learn and be strengthened. The one place not to go either in questioning or doubting, though, is fear. Our faith cannot grow if it is afraid.

If I am still, I can hear where God is writing straight on the crooked lines on my life. I know through faith that what might seem like a loud ‘no’ can also be a loud ‘yes.’ I also know that there is no clear road, but that the way is made by walking.
Like Thomas, there are times when I yearn for a sign, a guide-post or marker. Like Thomas, there are times when I have tried—unsuccessfully—to bargain with God.

Those moments are when I have to remind myself that through baptism, God has already chosen me and marked me to be bearer of hope and faith. Through baptism, I have already received the life-giving gift of the Holy Spirit, just as Jesus breathed the Spirit onto the disciples that scary night.

And if that isn’t about resurrection, new birth and new life, I don’t know what is.