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John 20: 19–31
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Lord, may we hear your voice in the words spoken in your name. Amen
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In Jerusalem, it was the night of the Resurrection, but on that night
there was no hint of the celebration we’ve come to associate with
Easter. No trumpets, no alleluias, and certainly no Easter lilies. There
were only ten disciples huddled together in the inner room of a
house – just terrified at what might happen next. And it
wasn’t just the leftover terror of Jesus’ crucifixion that
had them trembling in their boots. For all day long one disciple after
another had run in breathlessly, wild-eyed, saying they’d just seen
the Lord, risen from the dead. First Mary Magdalene and the other Mary.
Then Peter and John. And finally the two disciples who had come in
late from the road to Emmaus. Before his death, Jesus had predicted
that when he died they would be scattered like sheep on a hillside
without a shepherd. And tonight, that’s how they felt – scattered,
anxious, distraught.
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If all this sounds familiar, it should. For we ourselves this Easter
season are now cloistered in our homes, afraid for our safety and the
safety of those we love. And not at all sure what might await us if we
do venture out. Just like them, many in our midst are mired in a sense
of isolation and apprehension. Just like them, we can’t imagine what
life, now, will be like. Our fear, of course, is for the corona virus
that is now besieging the entire world with deadly consequences.
Theirs was a fear of what the Jewish leaders might now do to them,
Jesus’ disciples. If those authorities had crucified Jesus, what
might they now do to his followers?
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So maybe this year, we too will hear Jesus’ word, “Peace
be with you!” with the same sense of relief those frightened
disciples did. For peace was what they wanted – a sense of being
knit together within themselves and with one another, after being torn
apart. For that, actually, is what that word “peace” means
in Greek. The noun, peace, in Greek is eirene
–– eirene. And the verb eiro––
eirw –– means ‘to knit together into a whole
something that’s been torn apart.’ And just as surely as they
wanted that sense of being made whole again, complete within – we
do too. We want to feel settled and peaceful, confident and unafraid.
We also want to feel securely connected to one another. We want to go
out again without fear to meet with one another, to work together, to
share thoughts and ideas, to worship together. And that’s what they
wanted too.
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So that night, ever the gentle shepherd, Jesus comes back to
them – straight through locked doors – to collect them,
to calm them down, to give them peace. To restore their souls. And
then he breathed on them, just as the Father, back in the second chapter
of Genesis, had breathed his own breath, his own life into Adam and Eve.
Both occasions signaled new beginnings. On both occasions God brought
life out of chaos. And on both occasions, the life that breath conveyed
equipped those who received it with whatever they needed to do the job
he had for them.
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Here in the Gospel of John, this is the occasion when the Holy Spirit
descends on the disciples, transforming their terror into courage, and
sending them out to minister in Jesus’ name. For that is what
Jesus said that night as he breathed on them: “Receive the
Holy Spirit.” In the synoptic Gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke,
the Holy Spirit doesn’t come until seven weeks later, at Pentecost,
after Jesus has ascended to the Father. But the timing is not so
important as the net result. For the net result was to transform not
only the fearful disciples, but the entire world as well.
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But I’m getting ahead of myself, for there’s more to John’s
story of the disciples in that shuttered house in Jerusalem than we
have touched on. That evening one disciple, Thomas, was not in the
room when Jesus came in. And when he did come in – to hear the
others try to describe what had just happened – he was not
inclined to take their word for it. For Thomas was a pragmatist. He
had been the one a few nights earlier, on hearing Jesus’ lofty
words about going on ahead of them, to say bluntly, “Lord we
don’t know where you are going. How can we know the way?”
He simply wants to see what they have seen for himself.
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And Jesus, ever gracious, supplies what he needs. One week later, when
all the disciples – including Thomas – were
again assembled in that house, Jesus comes back into their midst.
This time he has come for Thomas, and he speaks to him directly.
“Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and
put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” And that is all it
takes. Thomas exclaims, “My Lord and my God!””
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We read this story every year on this Second Sunday of Easter and refer
to it as “the story of doubting Thomas.” But a closer look
reveals something surprising. Thomas was not the only doubter in the
story. Mary Magdalene also doubted the angel’s announcement that
Jesus had risen from the dead – until she herself encountered the
risen Christ. In fact, all the disciples disbelieved the
women’s story, judging it to be “an idle tale,” until,
that night, they too met with Jesus in that shuttered room. So the
surprising thing here is not their doubt, which seems to be something
they all shared, but Jesus’ willingness to meet with them and
assuage their doubt.
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In fact, at the very heart of the Gospel is the promise that God is
both with us and for us in all conditions. In sorrow or joy,
in triumph or tragedy, in gain or loss, in peace or fear, in scarcity
or plenty, God is with us. And will meet with us as often as it takes
to relieve our fears and help our faith to grow.
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This morning, I did not download the scripture readings in our bulletin
for you. But a look at the Epistle reading from 1 Peter tells me it
is indeed the word we need to take to heart this morning. Peter writes,
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