Jesus Meets us Where we Are - John 20:19-31
A pattern I have noticed in my ordained ministry is that parishioners frequently apologize to their priest for missing church. Back when shaking hands was safe and regular, the receiving line after a Sunday service often included several confessions of regret and explanations of absence. For instance, I might hear something like, “I’m so sorry I haven’t been here, I’ve been out of town,” to which I usually respond with, “there’s no need to apologize for not being able to be in two places at once!” I also hear things like, “I’m so sorry I haven’t been here, my father’s been terribly ill,” to which I quickly respond with, “please don’t apologize for taking care of your family!” But my favorite goes something like this, “I’m so sorry I haven’t been here…Sundays are hard,” to which I heartily respond with, “do not apologize, if I didn’t work here, I probably wouldn’t be here either.”
I have always found it striking that Thomas offers no explanation for his absence when the resurrected Christ appeared to the rest of the disciples in the Upper Room. I’m so intrigued by it. Was he sick? Traveling? Working? In a fight with Peter? We simply don’t know. In fact, when Jesus appears the second time, with Thomas in attendance, his previous absence isn’t even mentioned. Jesus does not ask about his whereabouts, nor does he chide Thomas’ skepticism. In our Gospel passage today, Jesus is not interested in apologies, confessions, or atonement. He seems instead to be interested in connection, shared experience, and blessing.
During his earthly ministry, Jesus was inviting, inclusive, and radically hospitable. We expect nothing less. But the resurrected Christ shows us an aspect of the divine we haven’t seen before. He shows us that there are no longer any barriers between God and God’s people. The grave could not keep Christ away from the world. Thick walls and locked doors could not keep him from his disciples. Even human resistance, doubt, and pragmatism prove to be no match for the risen Lord. What Thomas has to teach us on this second Sunday after Easter, is that while Jesus of Nazareth called people to him, the resurrected Christ meets us wherever we are.
Thomas has shown throughout the Gospel of John that his is a curious, engaged, risk-taking spirituality. In chapter 11, Jesus tells the disciples that Lazarus has died, and that he must go to Bethany. Thomas suggests that they all go, “that [they] might die with him.” It’s hard to say whether Thomas intends to accompany Jesus on a life-threatening journey, or to express his most sincere, if hyperbolic, condolences to Martha and Mary. But either way, Thomas knows that something important is about to happen in Jesus’ ministry, and he wants to be present for it, to be part of it, regardless of the danger it may pose.
Just a few days later, in chapter 14, the disciples gathered for a meal with Jesus, and Jesus offers what we now call the farewell discourse, his famous speech at the Last Supper. In the middle of Jesus’ oration, Thomas interrupts him to ask a clarifying question. Respect for the speaker and for the mystery of his prophetic claims seem to take a back seat to Thomas’ need for understanding. The path of life that Jesus is laying out for them is complex and confusing and Thomas is unwilling to let the opportunity for deeper engagement and understanding pass him by. Today, we often read that passage at funerals, and identify strongly with Thomas when we are beset with grief.
And then in today’s passage, Thomas’ friends tell him the most joyful and hopeful and extraordinary news possible. But he is unsatisfied. He refuses to let his relationship with Christ rest solely on the testimony of others. Like the risen Lord, Thomas is all about connection, shared experience, and blessing, so that is precisely how Christ enters into a renewed relationship with him. Christ meets him exactly where he is on his spiritual journey.
I once admitted to a mentor of mine that I felt guilty for not reading as much theology as I do fiction. I meant it as a sort of confession, like telling my priest I’ve been absent from church. And I expected him to have a word of encouragement for powering through the dense works of the early church fathers. Instead, he casually remarked that Christ meets me right where I am, whether it’s in Richard Hooker or Flannery O’Connor. I’ve read for pleasure as a spiritual practice almost every day since.
We forget about this aspect of God sometimes. We think that spirituality exists solely within the confines of the church, whether it be the four walls of a church building or the covers of a dense theological tome. And we mistakenly think that if we’re not there, we’ll miss out not just on the life of the church, but on Christ himself, as though Christ is not also present at the beach, or in a hospital room, or in a novel, or even at brunch!
Now don’t get me wrong, I believe strongly that the Holy Spirit is deeply at work in our common worship, and I am so grateful for every human being that walks through those doors. But, as my mother would have said, we shoot ourselves in the foot when we live as though the miracle and mystery of Easter can be contained. Christ has quite literally busted out of that tomb. He is stretching his legs and will not be held back. He is hungry for distinct and creative relationship with each and every one of us, and the glory of Eastertide is in celebrating all of those beautiful and diverse ways that the resurrected Christ comes to us.
As we regather, I cannot wait to hear about the places you’ve been when you weren’t here, and I can’t wait to hear about how Christ has appeared to you throughout this pandemic. How has your spirituality grown and expanded? Where and how did Christ meet you where you are? If you still feel the need to apologize, there’s room for that too. But as we slowly reenter public life, let us remember that Christ doesn’t ask where we’ve been or demand an apology for our absence. He simply shows up right next to us eager for a relationship of connection, shared experience, and blessing. Amen.