I have long been inclined to defend two people who are bullied and unfairly maligned. One is St. Paul. We might not agree with everything Paul said or wrote, and we might take issue with some of his views. But let’s face it: Paul was a brilliant theologian. He was faithful, and our understanding of Christ would be impoverished without his voice. So, can we cut him a little slack?
The other person I’m quick to defend is Thomas, poor old “doubting Thomas.” Let’s get one thing straight. The original Greek of today’s Gospel reading never says that Thomas doubts. Thomas may want to see proof of Jesus’s risen body, but having doubts is not at odds with choosing to believe. Let’s cut Thomas a bit of slack, too.
The truth is that Thomas is more accurately a prototype of all of us at some stage or another in our spiritual lives. Each of us is a Thomas at some point, because each of us will doubt, and yet, like Thomas, we will hopefully choose to believe. We should be wary of those who assure us that they have no doubts and have everything wrapped up nicely and tied with a bow.
If Thomas is a prototype of one who needs to see something before believing, then I can honestly say that I was a Thomas six years ago. Six years ago, the doors of this church were shut, just like the doors of that upper room in Jerusalem so many years ago. The doors of this building were closed by mandate because there was a pandemic. But there were a handful of people inside this church who knew the wounds of their history. If they had not witnessed firsthand the conflict, the demonizing, and the fractious spirit during the parish’s most tumultuous years, they had at least laid eyes on the aftereffects of it. The wounds on the risen body of Christ were still present.
I, on the other hand, was not on the inside. I was serving in another parish and flirting with the idea of coming to Good Shepherd, but I didn’t know whether I could yet believe that life persisted on the other side of these church doors. In my most skeptical moments, I was like many others who were fixated on the parish’s troubled past. I was more skeptical than Thomas because I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to enter the locked-up room to see the wounds. I was told by scoffers that I should stay away from this parish. I was told that I would only be entering a morass of trouble. And in my weaker moments, I wondered whether God could do anything new here. I questioned whether life was possible, especially when there seemed to be so much death.
But there were a faithful few on the inside who testified that they had seen the risen Christ, even despite the wounds. The scars were still visible on the body, but the body was alive. The body had a future. Unbeknownst to many, God had breathed upon the dry bones so that they could live. Like Thomas, I needed to see it to believe it. I decided to come into the sealed room to see for myself. And I’m so glad that I did.
It didn’t take long after I came into this upper room to see that the naysayers were all wrong. They had all forgotten a non-negotiable tenet of the Gospel. The risen Christ can’t be shut out by sealed doors. The risen Christ, alive and glorified, appears despite those closed doors. The risen Christ is always present in our midst, and his first words to us are words of peace. No amount of fear or demonizing of other groups can keep the risen Christ out. He will get in. He will always get in.
Christ was already here, alive and well, active among a faithful remnant. He had, of course, already breathed his Spirit upon the body gathered in this place, and once the body began to recognize that they had already received this Spirit, anything was possible. With this life-giving Spirit, old grudges and resentments could be released and forgiven. Old wounds could be healed, even if the scars remained. This is the heart of the Easter message. The risen Christ is alive even though the wounds persist. Our past histories can’t be erased, nor should they. And yet, they shouldn’t define our future either. In resurrection light, the future is always being written by God, with whom anything is possible.
Most of us in this room today are Thomases. We were not here when the risen Christ first manifested himself, wounds and all, to announce his peace. But we came anyway. We came to see for ourselves. Maybe our first thoughts were like Thomas. 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. And yet, we showed up, and we stayed. We made a choice to believe.
When we arrived, the risen Christ was already in our midst. He would not let any doors keep him out. He, unlike us, is never afraid of past histories and of difficult situations. And when we came here to see for ourselves, the risen Christ offered us his peace and then said something startling. Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Remember the wounds of past hurt but see that the body is risen, is still alive and flourishing. Remember the past divisions but see the current unity and fellowship. Remember the past anger but see the present love. Remember the past conflict but see the present unified spirit. Know of the past exclusion but see the present inclusion. Do not be faithless about what God can do, but be faithful, trusting that with God, anything is possible!
If we had doubts before coming to the upper room, we should not berate ourselves, just as we shouldn’t berate poor Thomas. If we needed to see before believing, we shouldn’t be ashamed either. Thomas knew something the other disciples may not have known. He knew that the wounds of Jesus’s body were the real proof of his resurrected presence. The wounds testify to a body that survived death, a body that remained alive even though death has done its worst. We can only announce the truth of the resurrection after we see the evidence of a body that still carries its scars and yet lives.
Being a Thomas is far different from being a modern-day skeptic. There are many in our own day, even in the Church, who view the wounds as a sign of decay and death because they have succumbed to the fateful despair of a secular age. They don’t believe that dying parishes should have a second chance. They can’t see that the wounds of declining membership and myriad challenges are not the mark of an inevitable fate but rather opportunities for a body to be raised by God and live again.
Because Christ was raised from the dead and still lives despite the wounds, the Gospel is full of non-negotiables. It’s non-negotiable that Jesus will show up even when the doors are shut. It’s non-negotiable that a body gathered in Christ’s name should testify to peace and unity, not violence and division. It’s non-negotiable that if we profess to be Christian, then we must believe that sins are forgiven and new life is always possible. In just a few minutes, when Charlie goes into the waters of the font, he will rise to new life in this hope. His future is not consigned to fate. His future will be given by God in all its newness, and he will be embraced by a new family defined by a fullness of life that persists despite the lingering wounds.
But there is still more to the story of this parish. The close of chapter 20 of John’s Gospel is open-ended. It was written for all of us, who were not there when the risen Christ showed up within the shut doors of that upper room. Because of John’s invitation, we have come to believe. We have chosen to show up even with our doubts to see the evidence of the wounded but risen body for ourselves. And we have chosen to believe.
But there are still others who are part of the ongoing story of this parish. They are not yet here, but God knows about them. The Holy Spirit will implant a desire in their hearts, a nudge to walk through the doors to see for themselves. For those of you who have seen for yourselves, you must issue the invitation. Come and see the body that still bears its wounds and yet is alive. Come and see that love is stronger than death. Come and see that the accusing voices of despair and hopelessness in the world and in the Church are not the end of the story. Come and see that no closed doors can inhibit the risen Christ. And because his wounded body has been raised from the dead, he will always find his way in.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Second Sunday of Easter
April 12, 2026