.jpg)
Thomas our Stunt Double
Collect: Almighty and everlasting God, who in the Paschal mystery established the new covenant of reconciliation: Grant that all who have been reborn into the fellowship of Christ's Body may show forth in their lives what they profess by their faith; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
Acts 2:14a,22-32 He was not abandoned to Hades
1 Peter 1:3-9 Your faith is tested by fire
John 20:19-31 The doors of the house were locked
Psalm 16 My heart is glad … my spirit rejoices
Give ear O heavens and I will speak. Let the earth hear the words of my mouth.
For I will proclaim the Name of the Lord and ascribe greatness to our God.
Knock knock
Who’s there?
Willy
Willy Who?
Willy come to see us today?
I apologize if this silly exercise caught you off guard. Probably in the 2,000 year history of preaching and teaching, the Church as a whole has probably never been tested with jokes from our childhood, so it’s OK if this caught you a bit flat-footed.
If I say, “The Lord be with you,” I have no doubt you would say: (point to congregation)
“... and also with you.”
If I say, “Lift up your hearts …” you would reply:
“... we lift them to the Lord.”
So what happened with our opening Knock-knock Joke?
In a word, it was unexpected, wasn’t it?
You and I know how those jokes work, but that’s not how sermons work. But let’s try another one anyway:
“Knock knock.” (point)
Who’s there?
I am.
I am who?
I am who I am. There. A little more biblical.
So we know the joke. We know how it works. We know what we’re supposed to do. But here we are in church, and what happens is we scroll through our little rolodex of versicles and responses, all the things we’re supposed to say and do, but you won’t find “Knock knock, who’s there” anywhere.
Saint Paul admonishes the faithful to do everything decently and in order (1 Cor. 14:40), so we find ourselves processing: Does this rule apply here? I know the joke. I know how it works. I know what I’m SUPPOSED to say. But can I say it? Can I say it here? in Church?
So we hesitate. It’s natural. No one wants to say the wrong thing. No one wants to do the wrong thing. No one wants to look foolish in the eyes of God and neighbor. No one wants to put their reputation at risk – No one.
So …
I want us to think about that fear, that anxiety for a moment. Hold on to that little lump churning away in the tummy. In a small way, that fear, that anxiety, that discomfort helps unite us to those earliest disciples we heard about as they huddled together in the Upper Room in the evening of that First Day of the Week.
What happened there was just as unexpected as what happened here. Only more so, wasn’t it?
Our fear pales in comparison, but human beings still respond to the stimuli they’re given.
The doors were locked for fear of the Jewish and Roman authorities. We sometimes forget it wasn’t just the religious authorities who killed Jesus. It was the work of both the secular and religious powers that be. It’s not enough to take out the Teacher. You’ve got to take out all the leaders, don’t you? Regime Change!
One of the most vicious things I’ve ever seen in the movies (and I’ve seen a lot) is a series of scenes in the movie The Godfather. It’s the part where Michael Corleone’s nephew is being baptized, and the movie shifts back and forth from the baptism of the child, the beauty of the church, the holiness of new birth – while, simultaneously, the heads of rival gangs are systematically assassinated in brutal, bloody fashion. Holy scene … Bloody scene ... Holy scene ... Bloody scene.
The disciples had every reason to be afraid; to be very afraid. They were huddled in fear – more like terror. The word “fear” doesn’t really convey that sense of deep terrible dread they were facing and experiencing.
The doors were locked. The windows were no doubt shuttered, curtains drawn closed. They weren’t singing: Hail thee festival day (Hymnal 1982: #175). They weren’t singing: That Easter Day with Joy was bright (Hymnal 1982: #193). Because …
… No it wasn’t. It was yet another no good horrible day after Good Friday. It was yet another agonizing day endured by the Twelve (minus Judas, who either hanged himself (Matthew 27:5) or tossed himself to his death off a cliff (Acts 1:18), depending on who you ask).
Fifty-two hours of fitful, restless, sleepless pain. Twelve hours since those hysterical women came back to tell them about the empty tomb, meeting with a gardener, or an angel, or a young man in white linen, or who the heck knows who they had been talking to (they never could get their story straight).
But there you go. All Gehenna breaking loose. Empty tomb. Missing body. The FBI and ICE and maybe even Dog the Bounty Hunter are scouring the city, looking for the rest of them.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, there they were: Jesus’ closest friends and followers who swore they would rather die than let anything happen to their beloved Jesus and, well, there you go. Last time we saw them, they were scampering away to be swallowed up by the darkness of the night. Tough talking cowards. All of them. Each of them.
They weren’t just hiding from the authorities. They were also hiding from themselves. Gutless wonders, filled with shame and self-loathing. And we need to ask ourselves, would we have done any better? Have we done any better, when you get right down to it? No one stands tall in a lightning storm, do they?
And yet … Here they were. Together.
Together?
Yes, together. Maybe they did scatter to the four winds on Thursday night when Jesus was arrested. Maybe they found cubbies and closets and caves and rat-holes to hide in for a few hours or a day. But slowly, they came out of hiding. They came out of their hidey-holes and made their way back to the room where Jesus had washed their feet, broke bread with them, drank wine with them.
They made their way back to where Jesus had said, “This is me. Serving you. Serve one another. This is me, feeding you. Feed one another. This is me, pouring out my life for you. Pour your lives out for one another. Do this, and I will be with you always, for this is me. Always.”
Period. Full stop.
Really? Really.
It is into this room, into this room full of gloom and doom we find Jesus popping in. The door is locked, but Jesus doesn’t knock (or do silly jokes). He simply appears in the midst of their fear and trembling and says to them, “Peace be with you. Shalom, my friends.”
And he shows them his wounds. Why? First of all, to show them that it really is him. We know Jesus by his wounds. He is wounded, just like us. Isn’t that amazing? Even in resurrection, Jesus carries his wounds, just like us.
Like the disciples, we are filled with fear, scars, scabs, wounds, and imperfections. Like the disciples, and like Jesus.
Jesus wasn’t embarrassed by his wounds. They are what they are.
Like Jesus, we discover we can approach one another just as we are. We can approach God in all of our imperfections and the only thing God will say is, “Oh, I thought that was you.” Too much spit and polish, God may not recognize us.
The second reason Jesus shows them (and us) his wounds is to assure us of something else. Jesus is not on a retribution tour. He’s not out to get those who failed him and abandoned him, or those who hurt him, or those who killed him. He’s not out to shame us, or accuse us, or do unto us what we have done unto him or unto one another.
Jesus shows us his hands and his side and invites us to help him break this cycle of violence that has brought us to this place. Peace, as has often been noted, is not the absence of war, but the presence of justice, wholeness, and health. “Peace” is being made whole once again.
Into this whole mix, of course, we have poor old Thomas Didymus - Doubting Thomas. There’s probably nothing I can say about Tommy that hasn’t been said before, but let me give it a shot. Thomas is called the Twin. Thomas is a stunt double. You know in the movies or on television when there’s a stunt to perform and you don’t want your star to get hurt, the director calls for a stunt double to come in, to take the punch or the fall.
Thomas is our Stunt Double. He’s our stand-in, our twin! Just like Thomas, none of us was in the Upper Room that first night of the week. None of us experienced the presence of the Risen Christ. None of us heard Jesus offer us peace. None of us saw Jesus show his hands and his side. None of us experienced that jolt of forgiveness that must have really rocked the folks in that room.
Thomas comes into the room like Johnnie-Come-Lately, and he’s still got his baggage of fear and loathing. He’s still got his guilt and his sense of failure. And is there anyone here who doesn’t know what it is to be an hour late or a dollar short?
The Detroit Redwings won the Stanley Cup in 1997 when Barb and I lived in Allen Park, just outside of Detroit. There is a tradition where every member of the Stanley Cup team gets the Cup for a week to take around and share with friends and family. No other trophy does that. Not the Super Bowl. Not the World Series. Not the NBA. No one but the Stanley Cup. It is the Holy Grail of sports.
The Stanley Cup came to our block. Five houses away. Everyone in the neighborhood knew about it ... except us. So close. Like Maxwell Smart, we missed it by “this much.” Our closest friends were so excited when THEY got the news, they never thought to call us, to tell us. Talk about disappointment.
Nothing like Thomas and the Upper Room, but so close, and yet so far.
Thomas is our stand-in. Thomas is our stunt double. Jesus comes to visit, and Thomas is out buying Tacos, corn chips, or a cappuccino. Talk about missing out.
It’s not that he missed out, exactly. It’s just that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or was he?
Thomas was doing whatever he needed to be doing at the time. He may have missed out on that first opportunity, but haven’t we all? You and I weren’t in that upper room that first night. But a week later, Jesus made a return trip, a return engagement, and this time Thomas was there (and we are there, through him).
Instead of focusing on what he missed last week, he was there to focus on Jesus, “My Lord and my God.”
Thomas did one of the bravest things a person can do. He set aside the failures of the past; he embraced the possibilities of the present; he glommed on to the hope of the future. He embraced the one who called him to be at peace, who invited him to embrace his wounds, who invited him to go into the world, just as God had sent Jesus into the world.
We are called to be God’s hands, God’s feet, and God’s heart. We bring our Lord and our God to a wounded world. We show them OUR wounds that they may know: We ARE the Community of the Resurrection, wounded though we are, imperfect though we are.
So, in Conclusion
Knock knock. Who’s there?
I am. I am who?
I am finished. Alleluia and Amen!
