A friend of mine was complaining to his tennis coach that his elbow hurt. This friend is a serious tennis player and had been working hard. And now his elbow hurt. His coach looked at him and said, "Well, of course it hurts. The only question is, 'Does it hurt in the right place?'"
That was the question Thomas asked. And it's still the right question.
The disciples were gathered together after some crazy reports from a few of them that they had somehow experienced Jesus alive after all. He's alive, they said, but not like before. He's harder to recognize now at first glance, but it really is Jesus. They said. We've recognized him.
Thomas hadn't been in on any of this at first and he insists that he's not going to buy any of this business about Jesus being alive unless he has proof. And what kind of proof does he want? Proof of the most intimate and earthy kind. "Unless I can poke around in the wounds they made, I will not believe a word of it."
I like Thomas. He's the only one honest enough to say what they all must have been feeling. Thomas is a saint for many of us, I think. I talk to people all the time who seem afraid to admit their doubts, certainly to a bishop like me and I imagine to God. It's almost as though they're afraid doubt is some kind of weakness or something they shouldn't have. But doubt isn't a sin. The opposite of faith is not doubt, you know. The opposite of faith is certainty. Dead certain, as we say. Thomas doubted. He was cynical even, but he remained in community. He was there with them in that room and so he didn't miss the opportunity to meet Jesus. He was there with his doubts and all. But he was there.
Thomas wanted proof. He wanted the proof we always want and rarely admit. We know that there is no such thing as easy community, instant trust, painless love. We know it, and yet we'll do almost anything it seems to avoid it. We're really pretty good at pretending we don't need community, don't need love, real love, the kind that only comes with wounds. We live in a culture that doesn't much recognize that kind of love. We live in a society that doesn't believe it ought to cost anything – that if you're just strong enough, smart enough, young enough, beautiful enough, well-off enough – you've got everything you need. And if you don't believe you have the right stuff, then you can live vicariously through the glamour of celebrities, or sink into depression, or join yourself to a church or a club or a guru who'll promise to fix your every ill – find something to escape real life.
But Thomas points to another way. Thomas didn't run away from what looked like a dismal failure to do his own thing. He stayed with the friends of Jesus. He insisted on seeing the wounds. The wounds are the only thing that make this resurrection gospel believable to me. Notice, Jesus' wounds do not go away after resurrection. They are still there. In fact, they were the only thing Thomas could identify about Jesus. It's always the wounds. Knowing our wounds, our hurts, our fears, our vulnerabilities, our doubts – knowing the wounds, probing around in them – finding out where they are and how deep they go – that's the only sure way the bible knows to an encounter with the living Jesus.
It's why a lot of people get turned off by the church I suppose. At least by a church that refuses to sidestep or avoid the ambiguities of life. Some people seem to want only a triumphant church – all muscle and righteousness, but no room for doubt, no room for the real hurts, the pain, the uncertainties of this life. Some people want a pale holy club – Rotary International with hymns – where the only measure of success is how nice everyone is to everyone else. No, there's nothing wrong with being nice … except we aren't always. We hurt each other, we get hurt. We're afraid.
And so people either won't have anything to do with the church – how could this bunch of hurting, seeking, fearful people possibly compete with the glamour of the NBA or a trip to the resort? Or what may be worse, they show up occasionally (two or three times a year) put on a happy face, but never join Thomas, never risk an encounter with the wounded and risen Jesus. Archbishop Tutu says that most of us use Christianity like an inoculation: we get a little dose of it from time to time to avoid coming down with a full blown case of the real thing.
Thomas caught a full blown case. He found the wounds of Jesus and they became his own. There are some wonderful stories about what happened to Thomas after all this, after this encounter with the Risen Lord. Legend has it that Thomas took the gospel to India where he was martyred eventually – with a spear like his Lord. This gospel of Thomas is always read on the Second Sunday of Easter for a reason. We're being reminded, especially those of us who entered the font last weekend, those of us who stood with the newly baptized to reaffirm our own vows – we're being reminded that the wounds don't go away. Our wounds, our hurts, our doubts, our difficulties are not magically taken away by baptism or our faith. We've still got them, just like Jesus. But they might just be different. Instead of just bleeding, there is the possibility now in Christ that they might be the key to a totally different kind of living.
"Put your hand here on this wound," Jesus says to Thomas. "It's really me." Where are your wounds? Baptism doesn't take them away any more than resurrection did. Baptism doesn't fish us out of anything. Belonging to the church, becoming a member of the crucified and risen Christ is no exemption from suffering and pain and death. Baptism, the Christian life, is not an escape from our wounds; it is bringing them to the wounded and risen Jesus. And that makes all the difference.
Peace be with you, he says. Peace. Where does it hurt?
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