St. Luke’s in the Meadow Episcopal Church
2 Easter – April 27, 2025
Acts 5:27-32; Psalm 150; Revelation 1:4-8; John 20:19-31
Homily preached by the Rev. Canon Linda Taylor

Thomas has been living in my head for a week or so. I’ve wondered yet again where he was that day—why he wasn’t in the room when it happened—and about his experience in general.

He’s one of the shadowy folks in the Jesus story. He’s not out in front like Peter, John and some of the other disciples, but he speaks on three occasions in the scripture that are recognized in our neck of the Christian woods and what he says seems important to knowing who he is.

Although he’s referred to in several scriptures, we only hear his words in the gospel of John. The first time he speaks is related to the death of Lazarus. After Jesus knew that Lazarus had died, he told the disciples that he was going to Judea. The disciples warned him that the authorities would be seeking to kill him, but Jesus said “Let us go to Lazarus.” Thomas immediately said to the other disciples, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” The second time he spoke was after Jesus had explained that he was going away to prepare a heavenly home for his followers, and that one day they would join him there. Thomas reacted by saying, “Lord, we don’t know where you’re going, and how can we know the way?” Today we hear his response to the story of Christ’s visitation and to finally seeing him for himself.

Thomas was not there when the risen Christ came into the room. So the disciples told him what had happened, and he did not believe it. He could not believe it. He said, “Not until I put my finger in his hands and put my hand in his side will I believe.”

He didn’t say that because he was a doubter—but because he had lost the center of his life. This man Thomas who had been so closely supportive of Jesus—who had been so faithful couldn’t bring himself to believe couldn’t open himself to another disappointment. He couldn’t begin to hope—or even to hope for hope.

As I searched for Thomas’ story in scripture, I was reminded that he was usually referred to as Twin—but his partner twin is never mentioned. It was the first time I’d noticed that, and it got my attention, followed by a memory from almost 30 years ago. My then spiritual director, the first woman ordained to priesthood in California, offhandedly mentioned to me that in some cultures, twinship is an indicator that something important is going on. The presence of a twin was—and perhaps is—considered proof that a person is exactly as important to the community as people are thinking.

So—as one does—I went to Wiki and learned that the person labeled Thomas was probably really named Jude or Judas—not Iscariot. The fact that he’s called Thomas or Didymus—both Greek words for twin—seems important to me. He may have been related to Jesus—as brother, twin, look-alike or as someone who simply understood more of Jesus’ purpose or behaved more like him than the others.

The more I thought about that, the more I wondered. What would it be like to twin ourselves in Christ’s image? Not simply to try to do what he taught us but to try to be as he showed us? It sounds a bit presumptuous to me, even as I say it, but isn’t that what we’re called to do? To live the teachings of Christ in a way that will bring peace into the world? To change our own behavior so that we can bring peace? Isn’t that the end goal of the Baptismal Covenant promises we made once again last week?

Jesus came into the room where the disciples who had deserted and betrayed him were locked away—paralyzed by their fear. And what does he say? “Peace be with you.” He shows them his hands and his side and says to them again, “Peace be with you.” The next week, again on the first day of the week, he again comes to them and says, “Peace be with you.” His response to their betrayal, his response to their faithlessness, his response to their human fear and weakness is not the wrath we—and they—would expect. His response is to offer them the gift of peace.

As we continue our discernment for the future of our community, I ask you to remember that peace is God’s gift to us, and that it requires—calls for—yearns for a response from us. It requires that we examine our own hearts. It requires that we look at those grudges we hold so dear in the clear light of the risen Christ. It requires that we open our hearts to the possibilities—and the risks—of forgiveness and reconciliation. It requires that we pattern our lives as individuals and as the Body of Christ in ways that support not only our own journeys of faith but the lives of people we may never meet.

God’s peace requires that we change this world by the way we live our lives. Christ came to show us the way.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!