Love Carries Us Through Doubt

The Rev. Sara Warfield

Scripture: John 20:19-31

The disciple Thomas is mentioned eight different times in the New Testament, but seven of those are basically in passing—in lists of names of the disciples. But this pericope in John, this is Thomas’s big moment, his time in the biblical spotlight. And what do we do to him? We shackle him with the nickname “Doubting Thomas” for the next 2,000 years.

Yes, us. And so many Bible readers throughout the centuries. We who always need a winner and a loser. Someone who’s right, and someone who’s wrong. A black and white way to interpret every situation.

And we do it to poor old Thomas. The disciple who would not believe without seeing, without touching. The disciple defined by doubt. The “flawed” disciple. And it’s not fair.

Because Thomas is simply asking for what all the other disciples already got: They heard Jesus’s words, that familiar voice of a friend, say something he’d said to them before, “Peace be with you.” And Jesus is explicit in showing them his wounds. Only after experiencing Jesus physically, in the flesh, did the disciples rejoice, because they recognized the Lord. All of them saw him at the same time, able to confirm what they witnessed together.

Thomas just happened to be away that day, and what he asks for when he asks to touch Jesus is nothing different from the proof the other disciples already had.

I think Jesus knows this. He doesn’t berate Thomas when they finally meet again for the first time after the resurrection. He simply grants his disciple’s request. “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe." Jesus is offering physical proof and saying, now you don’t have to doubt.

—

Said. Showed. Saw. Breathed. Put a finger in. There is so much physicality in today’s gospel.

And why wouldn’t there be? What is most profound about our Christian faith is that God comes to us in this physical world and becomes one of us, someone we can see, hear, smell, touch. Someone we can love.

Because that’s how we experience love: seeing, hearing, smelling, touching another person. Being in their presence and feeling safe and respected and held. How many of you hear a certain song and think of your person, or maybe a person you loved in the past? How many of you catch a certain scent in the air and remember a certain moment with a certain person?

Now you may love some of the more abstract things about a person: their intelligence, their humor, their kindness—but these are still always manifested physically.

And that’s what God gave us: God’s love and wisdom and kindness and power made physical and present through Jesus. And then Jesus breathed the Holy Spirit onto his disciples, onto us, and made us his body, God’s love and wisdom and kindness and power made physical in this world now.

We gather together on Sundays to nurture Jesus’ presence in us and one another, to nurture the love that only physicality can manifest in this world. That’s what church is for: to become the Body of Christ that can be seen, heard, smelled, touched in this world.

And we do so by first being present to one another, practicing living, moving, and having our being through God with each other. Here. In this place. Hugging one another; listening to one another's joys and fears; setting up the altar for communion; making music; singing and hearing each other sing; seeing our beloveds on Zoom; putting a hand on someone’s shoulder when they share something hard; sitting, standing, kneeling—all the ways we are physically community, physically the Body of Christ, together.

And, of course, your priest is part of that Body. My words, my movements, my stumbles and the laughter that comes after. My physical presence among you in this community. You called me here to hold this space, to remind us all of God’s real presence in and among us, to shape and direct a vision of God’s love and belonging at St. Luke’s.

And living into this call is truly the greatest joy of my life. All I want for each of you is to step fully into the beautiful and powerful and unique ways that God created you. And when I’m here on Sunday mornings, with you, that’s what I get to do. I feel most fully and beautifully myself, most confident in how God created me, when I’m here with you in worship. When I get to sit with each of you in your most devastating moments. And your most joyful moments. When I’m sitting with a group of you, doing my best to make space for each of your voices and perspectives.

I love being a priest. And I especially love being YOUR priest.

I was telling Kathy the other day that being a priest is my most sacred and beautiful burden. Now the word “burden” is often seen as a negative thing, but whenever we commit to something: a marriage, a job, a church—as some of us will do today—we take on a burden. We commit to holding someone else’s cares and concerns and making them our own. Love is taking the risk of taking on the burden of another person’s experience and trusting that it will be a creative, joyful, transformational power in our lives.

I have committed to you, and you have committed to me and my way of being your priest, your leader. And we have been through SO MUCH together. A worldwide pandemic that forced us all onto Zoom worship for over a year! And the strange and bumpy transition after. You held me through a devastating divorce. We lost beloved church members. And then a tumultuous election and its continuing consequences.

Of course, there have also been amazing things: the new ways we learned to connect to and care for one another during the pandemic. The From Transactional to Relational Group that has shaped so much of our community’s visioning. And, of course, resurrecting this sanctuary in a way that acknowledged and held everyone’s concerns and hopes.

It’s been a wild six years, my friends. And, honestly, an exhausting six years. I love carrying my sacred and beautiful burden as your priest, AND I am so grateful that you are giving me the opportunity to set it down for a while.

It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Setting it down for awhile? Not checking my email or answering my church texts for three months. Not creating the enewsletters or worship handouts. Setting down the responsibility of responding to those of you who may be struggling or in need of guidance—and please don’t worry: we have an amazing Care Team and on-call clergy who will be there for you while I’m gone.

It sounds so easy to just step back and luxuriate in this time I’ll have. But I’m actually a little doubtful, like our friend Thomas. Your dear priest has her own fears and insecurities around absence, around not seeing or being seen. Will my community want me back after I’m gone for so long? What will I miss out on? Who am I if I’m not being your priest?

And I’ve heard some of you express your own doubts around my upcoming absence. “You better come back,” more than a few of you have told me in recent weeks. I know some of you have had the heart-wrenching experience of a priest leaving your parish not long after they went on sabbatical.

So now, in this moment, we—myself and you—are called to Jesus’ words not just to Thomas, but to all the disciples: “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

Belief is a kind of trust, isn’t it? We learn through the physicality of this world—the hearing, the seeing, the touching, the tasting, the smelling—what love means, what family means, what community means, what God means. But the only thing we can be sure of in this life is that this physicality will end.

The belief we are called to in our faith is that while this physicality does end, love does not. That’s what Jesus taught us through his teachings, and through his passion and resurrection. It’s what gives us comfort through our hardest losses. And it’s what we—myself and you—get to practice over these next three months.

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” Belief is the trust that love does not end, even in the midst of absence. Let us all remember that.

Amen.