DOUBT'S NEXT STEP

A Sermon preached by the Rev. Michael Anderson Bullock

[Acts 5:27-32; Revelation 1:4-8; John 20:19-31]

As far as it goes, I’m pretty much an ordinary guy – at least that was an accurate personal description before I started following Jesus.  Oh gee, pardon my thoughtlessness; allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Thomas.  As I was about to say, my “twin” thought I was crazy to leave hearth and home to go after this itinerant rabbi/stonemason-carpenter; but he was an individual who attracted others simply with his …what?  What was Jesus’ power?  I think that now, knowing what I know, I would say that Jesus’ integrity was what pulled me in; and clearly I was not alone in being drawn by the gravitational pull of his … truthfulness.  He wasn’t trying to prove anything.  That was part of his power.  He just was … present – present to himself, to those he met, present to God.

There were other “ordinary” people in the new orbits around Jesus, the strangest company of men and women that I have ever seen.  At the center of this orbiting system were eleven others like me.  We were the “Twelve”, the ones that Jesus chose as his first circle of followers.  All men.  All extremely human.  Some of us were more notable than others, but the clear and absolute thing we had in common was that with Jesus we discovered ourselves as a purposeful group of “student teachers”.  Unnervingly, we were learning, but painfully slow to understand.  We were sharing but only what we were willing to know.  Such strange but unavoidable work, wouldn’t you say?

The first part of the recruited class of “Twelve” all came from the same Galilean area, which accounts for the fact that they knew each other.  They were fishermen by trade, working at making a living from the demands of the Sea of Galilee.  I know that two brothers, Andrew and Peter by name, were strong-backed, hardened fishermen; and they had formed an unexpected partnership with the Zebedee boys, James and John.  I say “unexpected partnership” because (to be completely honest) in comparison to Andrew and Peter’s unpretentiousness, James and John were more than a little spoiled by the privilege of their parents.  For instance, their father outrightly owned several fishing boats and had hired hands in an expanding family business, which would eventually be turned over to his sons.  And oh, their mother!  She was the quintessential “mother hen”.  When she wasn’t pecking at her husband and her sons, she was fiercely on the lookout for anyone who might impede her sons’ future – a future she had firmly in mind.

The rest of this band of Twelve were an odd assortment of men, none of them very remarkable other than they, too, were drawn in by Jesus’ integrity, leaving their self-styled routines to follow him.  In point of fact, all of us were extraordinarily ordinary, not what you might want to pick as your representatives if your intention was to impress, not to mention succeed.  There was also a band of women in our group, which in and of itself, caused problems – mostly because in my time the role of women was largely seen as one that supported the men in their lives.  Moreover, Jesus brought this loyal, generous female group into our circle which clearly broke a lot of social rules and expectations; but it was the gossip that circulated about the women’s presence that was most disturbing, especially given that such talk was maliciously false.

Where was I, Thomas, in all of this? you may ask.  As it turned out, I was what could rightly be said a true convert.  As I said a moment ago, I resonated intuitively with Jesus’ integrity.  In my gut, I sensed he was real; and I was, therefore, willing – most willing – to be a member of the “Jesus Team”.  I know that says a great deal about me and what makes me tick.  I’m not an analyzer.  I’m not a strategic thinker.  I’m not even what you might call a “natural leader”.  I’m certainly not some kind of hero.  Yet, when it came to being with and for what Jesus was about, I quickly found myself “all in”.  Call it impetuous; but it didn’t take long for me to know that I wanted – I needed – to stay connected to him.  And, for better or for worse, that connection with Jesus, that inexplicable sense of commitment made me willingly risk offering my true self to what he was about.  And this is the reason, I think, that John Zebedee’s Fourth Gospel records three, very telling occasions where I play the foil for Jesus and his story.

The first occurred at the time when we received the report that Jesus’ dear friend, Lazarus, had died.  This stunningly sad news was compounded by the fact that Bethany, where Lazarus’ sisters lived, was just outside of Jerusalem.  It lay within the heart of the religious elite’s resistance to Jesus.  In fact, we had retreated to the hinterlands because they were threatening to kill Jesus.  So, at his unceremonious announcement that he would go to Bethany to pay his respects to Lazarus’ sisters and fellow supporters, I raised a fuss with the rabbi.  “Why?”, I said, “why would you walk right back into the hornets’ nest, when you know what they want to do to you?”

It was the kind of thing a good teammate would quite naturally do; or at least it was what I quite naturally needed to say – both for Jesus’ welfare and for my own: Truth to his power and all that.  Typical of many of his responses to such well-intentioned “reasoning”, Jesus parried the issue to what for him was the larger issue.  In the case of Lazarus’ death, he announced that he (and by extension, all of us) would go to Bethany to “awaken” Lazarus but that we’d wait a few days, not rushing in to risk being some sort of distraction to the grieving process, I suppose.  At this fearlessness, I couldn’t help myself.  I just jumped up and said that we should all go with our leader to die with him.  I didn’t know what I was saying, I admit.  It just came out of my mouth.

The second occasion when John used me to make his ongoing gospel point came at a most poignant, pastoral moment.  Increasingly, Jesus mentioned his going to Jerusalem, where the unthinkable would happen to him.  We didn’t like this subject one bit nor his cryptic explanations; but the reference to his death and his life’s purpose did cause all of us to pause deeply and wonder.  It was at one of Jesus’ oblique explanations about Jerusalem that caused me (yet again) to speak out.  For when Jesus spoke his tender words which were meant to comfort us in the impending “time of trial” – you know the words: “Let not your hearts be troubled; believe in God, believe in me.  In my Father’s house there is room for everyone; and I am going now to prepare a place for you”—I was triggered, most particularly at these indicting words: “And you know the way that I am going.”

Oh, please!  Why was I the one to have to state the obvious?  “What way, Lord?”  We got no clue about this way!”  Fortunately,  my disciple-brother, Philip, (I believe you have heard of him) spoke in his unassuming way, softening my brutishness with his gentle asking, “Lord, just show us the way, and we’ll be ok.”  (Note to self: Following Jesus is always better when done with help!)

My third cameo appearance in John’s gospel (the appearance you are all here to commemorate – right?!, that famous story of me missing the first post-resurrection bus and then receiving the upending news from my brothers in the “Twelve-minus-one” club that they had seen Jesus, alive and kicking.  “Not no way, not no how,” was my dismissive reaction.  That I was in doubt is an understatement, to the extent that whenever my given name is presented, it is eternally preceded by the descriptor “Doubting”.  (My sainted and departed mother would have been so proud!).  But (with all due respect) she and most of you are tempted to hide behind this signifier, which tends to prevent you (and me, at that time) from what my eventual encounter with the Risen One was really about.

On the one hand, yes, my deep reservations about the extent to which Jesus’ resurrection raises the issue of what doubt has to do with faith.  Without being defensive, I can only say simply and directly that doubt has two fundamental connections with faith.  To those who believe that doubt is the opponent of faith, I can tell you straight away that doubt is not faith’s opposite.  Don’t fake yourself out.  Be clear: fear is the opposite of faith.

In faith’s second meaning, the place of doubt is a rare example of an important “either/or” situation.  Either doubt is used as an absolving excuse to turn your back on the exploration and possibilities of faith; or doubt functions (as one of your contemporary faith teachers puts it) as the “ants in the pants of faith”.  Either/or: No in-between.  No excuses.

Whatever hesitancy my expressions of doubt contained, the fact is that whatever amount of fear I felt in dealing with the resurrection news, I came back.   I came back to take responsibility for my doubt.  In my own unsophisticated, brutish way, I demanded proof; didn’t I?  And in this, the me that is “Doubting Thomas” represents just about everyone and most likely all of you.  And here is the point, at which only those who are willing to follow through (that is quite literally, to get their hands dirty) – only participant’s get the new life that Jesus reveals and brings.  No spectators!

You know what I said in my bold defiance of the news of resurrection, when my own discipleship brothers told me that they had “seen the Lord!”  I boldly said, “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.” “ Without that, I will not give my heart away again.”  Truly, I was not only demanding to get my hands dirty with Jesus’ wounds; I was also willing to do so.

Well, the Risen One called my bluff.  It was part of his alluring and disturbing integrity, his personified truthfulness, the reality of his presence.  So, after a full week, when I finally chose to end my self-imposed retreat, I rejoined the others in our meeting place that was the Upper Room.  As if on cue to my own re-appearance, Jesus came to us through the room’s locked, wooden door and specifically approached me with his unthinkable invitation.  “Go ahead; do what you said you’d do.  Check me out.  Put your hand in my wounds.  Don’t back out now!  Follow through on your doubts, Thomas.”

It was unavoidably the moment of my “either/or”.  And (as you know) since I am not clever enough to dodge, I plunged in.  Yet, not my will be done.  Again, the truthfulness that was and is Jesus changed my course of action; and from that moment, nothing has ever been the same for me.

In my experience of the wounds of Christ, I mention that in my human fear and frailty that I wanted some “proof” that resurrection was real and that Jesus was raised.  So, here’s the thing that I learned.  The presence of the risen Jesus does not necessarily amount to a matter of proof.  Rather, it shifts the question from whether something has happened to exactly what happened.1  What I mean is that I came to realize that what resurrection was and continues to be is that life with God is stronger than fear and death.  Or as another’s poetic insight puts the experience and reality of resurrection: When we walk, we walk as in a dream.  Understanding nothing. But knowing what it means.2

Please know: I did not take Jesus up on his offer.  I did not touch his wounds.  I didn’t need to.  I simply saw the reality of the wounds, but I also saw with the eyes of my opened heart that the Jesus I followed and knew and loved was present beyond what fear and death can define.  I could have touched him, but I didn’t need to.  And here’s the thing.  It was the reality of being invited to touch his wounds that I also realized that in Jesus’ presence I was being invited to touch my own wounds, that I didn’t need to hide from them anymore.  And in this recognition of new life for me, I could also touch the wounds of others and be the Risen One’s healing, new life agent.

So, if that’s what doubting can do and if that’s what doubting is about, then, without any doubt, I will surely and gratefully take it.  Amen.

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1. Andrew McGowen. Andrew’s Version. Easter 2; Yr. C

2. Paul Pastor. “Year of Wonder”