Words We No Longer Avoid: Doubt ~ John 20:24-29

 

There are some words we would rather not say out loud. Not because they are unimportant, but because we were led to believe that they were dangerous and made to feel afraid. “Doubt” is one of those words. Many of us were taught that good Christians believe. Really believe. Without hesitation. Without questions. Without uncertainty. We learned that faith meant being sure. And so when questions began to appear, we became frightened. “What if I don't know?” “What if I change my mind?” “What if something is harder to believe than I thought?” And perhaps most frightening of all: “What if my questions mean that I am no longer a Christian? No longer welcomed at church? No longer loved by my family. No longer accepted by my friends?”

The fear is real. Doubt can involve severe consequences about our identity and belonging. I’ve personally encountered that fearful response: “Why would you doubt that?” “How can you call yourself a Christian if you don't believe that?” “You just need more faith.” As though faith were the ability to turn off my questions. As though God’s love was threatened by my hesitation.

But Scripture tells a very different story. Abraham questioned. Moses questioned. Job questioned. The psalmists questioned. John the Baptist, sitting in prison, sent word to Jesus asking, “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” And even Jesus, hanging on the cross, cried out the question of Psalm 22: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” The Bible does not hide doubt. It gives it a face, a voice, and a central role in the drama of faith.

And perhaps its most famous lead actor is “Doubting Thomas.” Although I think we've remembered him unfairly. We don't call Peter “Peter the Denier.” We don't call Martha “Martha the Anxious.” But for about 1,400 years we've remembered this disciple by this one unfortunate nickname. John doesn't introduce him that way. That was never his name.

He appears in our passage as “Thomas, one of the twelve.” And even after he questions Easter morning, John still calls him “one of the disciples.” He still belongs. He’s still part of the community. He’s still welcome. He still shows up. Perhaps that’s the first thing John wants us to understand: doubts don’t place us outside the family of faith. Sometimes doubt happens right in the middle of it.

If you pay attention to Thomas throughout John's Gospel, doubt is hardly his defining characteristic. He’s courageous. When Jesus decides to return to Judea after Lazarus has died, the disciples are frightened because they know going back could mean death. Thomas is the one who says, “Let us also go, that we may die with him” (Jn. 11:16) That's not exactly the voice of a spiritual coward.

Later, Jesus tells the disciples that he is going away to prepare a place for them. He says, “You know the way to the place where I am going.” Thomas speaks up: “Lord, we don't know where you are going. How can we know the way?” (Jn. 14:5) Thomas is willing to say what everyone was thinking.

And now, after Jesus has been crucified, the other disciples tell Thomas, “We have seen the Lord.” And Thomas says, in effect, “I can't simply take your word for it.” Maybe Thomas isn't the disciple who has less faith. Maybe he’s the disciple who is less willing to pretend. He won't manufacture certainty. He won't say something he doesn't believe just because everyone else believes it. And there’s something deeply courageous and faithful about that.

And the other disciples don't lecture him. They don't shame him. They don't tell him he isn't a real Christian. They don't ask him to leave. They simply keep him in the room. A week later, Thomas is still there. He hasn't resolved his questions. He hasn't had some dramatic spiritual breakthrough. And yet, he keeps showing up with everyone. Why? Because they loved each other. Because even in the midst of his doubt, he knew he belonged. That’s what faith does in the face of pain and doubt. Because faith is not certainty. Faith in the way of Jesus is simply loving people when clarity disappears. Sometimes faith is choosing to remain in relationship while mystery remains.

Sometimes staying in the room like Thomas is all faith looks like. You keep praying. You keep coming to worship. You keep asking questions. You keep talking to God, even when you're not sure God is listening. You keep the door open a crack.

And then Jesus comes. John says that Jesus stands among them and says, “Peace be with you.” And then he turns toward Thomas and doesn't give him an argument. He doesn't kick him out. He says, “Put your finger here.” The evidence Jesus offers Thomas is not a debate topic. It’s a wound. Perhaps that’s because Jesus understood Thomas’ wound. Jesus had prayed with anguish. He questioned the Father's seeming absence. His own personal encounter of faith did not require him to silence or cancel those wounded experiences.

And this matters enormously for how we think about faith. Christianity does not say suffering is an illusion. It does not say the wounds aren't real.  No, Jesus’ wounds are still there, and now, held inside resurrection, they are proof of unkillable love even in the face of denial and doubt. So when Thomas struggles. Jesus doesn't answer by becoming less wounded and more defensive. He moves closer and shows him his wounds.

And that should change how we think about doubt. Because maybe the answer to our deepest doubts is not always another intellectual explanation. Perhaps it’s an encounter with wounded love. Love that suffers with us. Love that shares wounds. Love that is willing to be touched. Love that refuses to abandon us in the places where we hurt. Love that enters locked rooms. Love that bears scars. Love that keeps loving us even when we still have questions and doubts.

I’ve shared with you before that when I was working on my Ph.D., I had an atheist friend named Greg who loved to debate religion. One afternoon he walked into my office and announced, “All right. Prove to me that God exists.” I surprised him by saying, “Okay, come to church with me. Not because church settles every intellectual question. It doesn't. Not because Christians have figured everything out. We haven't. But because if you want to know what Christianity looks like, come meet people whose lives still bear wounds yet somehow continue to radiate hope. Meet people who have experienced grief and still find a way to love. Meet people who have been betrayed and somehow learn forgiveness. Meet people who have been disappointed by the church and yet still come back because they haven't given up on Jesus. Meet people who doubt but keep showing up, whose lives are not evidence of perfection but evidence that love can survive things that should have destroyed it.” Friends, what if the wound of faithful love is the church's best testimony? Not certainty. Not perfection. Wounded people who keep leaning into one another. Doubters who still show up and always belong. I think that's why Jesus shows Thomas his scars. Because scars are love's best evidence.

Some of us have been taught that we need to hide our questions in order to be faithful. But what if our doubts could become part of our own wounded testimony? Where you could say, “I don't know.” “I struggle with this.” “I don't understand.” “I’m angry with God.” “I’m not sure God is there.” And instead of hearing, “What's wrong with you?” we heard, “Sit with us.” “Let's wonder together.” “Peace to you.” “This is my wound.”

But Jesus does more than show his wounds and share our doubts. In verse 27, he says, “Do not become apistos but pistos.” [Me ginou apistos alla pistos]. The Greek hinges on two key words: apistos and pistos. Pistos is a relational word meaning faithful, trustworthy, reliable. Apistos is formed with the little prefix a-, which negates it: unfaithful, untrustworthy, unreliable.  And then there is the verb ginou. It means, “become.” Jesus doesn't say, “Thomas, stop asking questions.” He says, “Do not become untrusting. Become trusting.” Because the contrast isn't exactly doubt versus faith. In fact, the three Greek words which literally mean “doubt” are not used here. The contrast is more personal and social. It’s about whether Thomas will remain closed off or lean in. Jesus isn't demanding that Thomas suddenly possess perfect intellectual certainty. Jesus is inviting him to become a person who trusts in him. Perhaps that's why the next thing Thomas says is not, “Now I have sufficient evidence.” He says, “My Lord and my God.”

Thomas doesn’t solve a problem. He trusts a person. He moves from uncertainty toward relationship. From demanding proof toward recognition. From “I need to know everything” to “I trust the One who comes.” That is the kind of faith Jesus seems to invite. Not the faith that eliminates every question. The faith that has learned where to bring its questions. Because some of us were raised to think doubt is the opposite of faith. But what if the opposite of faith isn’t doubt but indifference?

What if doubt means you care enough to ask? What if doubt means you love enough to keep searching? What if doubt means you’re honest enough to say, “This doesn't make sense to me.”? What if doubt is what happens when love refuses easy answers? Sometimes you don't lose faith. Sometimes you lose an inadequate version of it. And that can be frightening. But it can also be holy.

Thomas's experience of doubt allows him to encounter a Jesus who is larger than the Jesus he thought he understood. And perhaps that's true for us as well. Sometimes the God we lose in doubt is a God we needed to lose. A God who was too small. A God who always rewarded good behavior. A God who could be explained. A God who was never present in suffering. A God who was threatened by questions. A God who needed us to be certain in order to love us or save us.

Doubt can be both a painful and fruitful gift. Doubt can make us humble. Doubt can make us listen. Doubt can make us compassionate. Because once you've lived with your own wounded questions, you become less eager to condemn someone else's. You begin to understand that everyone is carrying questions you cannot see.

And maybe that's why we need the church. Not a church where everyone pretends to be certain. But a church where we can remain together while we touch each other’s wounds. A church where the person whose faith is strong today can sit beside the person whose faith is barely breathing. Because someday the roles may reverse. Today you may be Thomas. Tomorrow you may be the one who says, “We have seen the Lord.” And someday someone else may need you to say, “It's okay. Hang out with us. You still belong here. I’ve struggled too. Trust me.”

And I wonder if that's what some of us need to hear today. Maybe you've been afraid of your questions. Maybe you've been carrying a doubt you thought you weren't allowed to say. Maybe something happened to you that made the faith you once had impossible to hold in quite the same way. Maybe you prayed and God seemed silent. Maybe you suffered and the explanations you were given stopped making sense. Maybe you're not sure what you believe anymore and worry that you no longer belong.

Then hear this: You are not disqualified. Your questions do not frighten God. Your uncertainty does not make you unwelcome. You don't have to pretend. You don't have to manufacture certainty. You don't have to hide. Stay in the room. Keep showing up. Keep asking. Keep praying. Keep listening. Keep bringing your questions into the presence of Christ. Because the good news of Christianity is not that every question has been answered. It’s that Jesus comes with wounded love even while the questions are still there. He comes while the doors are locked. He comes while fear still lingers. He comes while grief still aches. He comes while Thomas is still uncertain. He comes with wounds in his hands. He comes with a scar in his side. He comes not first with an argument, but with presence. And he says, “Peace be with you. Look at my wounds. You can trust me.”

And perhaps the invitation of Jesus to Thomas is also his invitation to us: Don't become closed. Don't become cynical. Don't become hardened. Don't pretend. Become trusting. Become open. Come closer. And sometimes, after all the questions, after all the wrestling, after all the uncertainty, after all the things we still don't understand, faith won’t say, “I have figured it all out.” Faith simply stays in the room and says, “I believe that I belong. And though I do not know everything. I can trust my Lord and my God.” Amen.

Words We No Longer Avoid: Grief ~ Matthew 10:29-31

 

There are some words we would rather avoid. Not because they are bad words. But because they frighten us. Because they hurt and ache. Grief is one of those words. We are often remarkably good at talking about healing, resilience, recovery, and moving forward. We know how to celebrate victories and milestones. We know how to encourage one another to find the silver lining. But grief? Grief makes us uncomfortable. Often, we treat grief like an interruption—something we need to get through so that we can return to normal life.

But Scripture refuses to treat grief as an interruption. The Bible is not simply a book of victory and celebration. It is a book filled with stories of lament. Israel worshipped with its grief. Hannah prayed her grief. Job wrestled with his grief. Jeremiah wept through his grief. Even the son of God was called “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.” And even after the resurrection, Jesus still carried his wounds.

The Bible does not imagine a faithful life without grief because it does not imagine a faithful life without love. Because grief is not the problem. Grief is what love looks like after something precious has been lost. The great poet Mary Oliver once wrote, “To live in this world you must be able to love what is mortal.” And that is the great risk of being human. Every child we love. Every parent. Every spouse. Every friend. Every animal who becomes part of our family. Every ordinary moment that becomes precious because it cannot happen again. To love what is mortal is to accept that grief will one day come knocking. But we love anyway. Because love is worth the risk. Grief is the testimony that love mattered.

C.S. Lewis, writing after the death of his wife, described this vulnerability of love: “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.” And he was right. The only way to avoid grief completely is to avoid love completely. But avoiding love is not the way of Jesus. So listen to Jesus – who loved God and suffered terrible grief. Or maybe, listen! Jesus loved God and suffered terrible grief.

In Matthew 10, Jesus speaks words about God, love, and grief.

He says: “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.”

Most of us have heard these words. God sees you. God knows you. God cares about you. And that is true. But I think Jesus is saying something even deeper. Because notice where these words appear. Jesus is not speaking to people having a peaceful afternoon picnic. He is speaking to disciples he is sending into a dangerous world. He tells them they will be rejected. They will be hated. They will be dragged before authorities. Families will turn against them. Some will suffer. Some will die. These are not sentimental words spoken to people who have never experienced pain. These are words spoken to frightened people. And Jesus does not promise them, “You will never suffer I” because love suffers. Instead, Jesus promises: “You will never suffer alone.”

There are three things Jesus wants us to know about grief.

First, Jesus tells the truth about the falling. The Greek word Matthew uses for "fall" is piptō. It means to fall, collapse, or perish. It is not a gentle word. It is the language of things breaking. Things coming undone. Jesus does not pretend that beautiful things do not fall. Bodies fail. Relationships break. Dreams collapse. People we love die. Jesus does not give us a faith that requires us to pretend these things are not painful. The Bible gives us permission to talk honestly about the falling. To ask questions. To cry. To rage. To lament. Christian faith is not the denial of suffering. It is a faith that can always tell the truth and still believe that suffering does not have the final word.

Second, Jesus tells us that God notices what the world overlooks. And this is where Jesus' image is a bit silly. He chooses sparrows. Not eagles. Not majestic creatures. Sparrows. The Greek word is strouthia—a tiny bird. Something ordinary. Something cheap. In Luke's version of this saying, Jesus says that five sparrows are sold for two pennies (In Matthew, it’s two sparrows for one). In other words, the fifth sparrow is thrown in for free. That is how little value the marketplace placed on these creatures. But Jesus says: “Not one of them falls apart from your Father.” The world says “disposable.” God says “beloved.” The world says “insignificant.” God says “noticed.” Listen to Jesus! There is no such thing as an insignificant grief to God. You do not have to say: “Other people have suffered more.” Perhaps they have. But your grief is still real. You do not have to say: “It was only a pet.” You do not have to apologize because you are still sad. You do not have to hurry yourself toward closure. If God notices a sparrow sold for pennies, then God certainly notices and honors the ache in your heart.

And then Jesus says something almost astonishing: “Even the hairs of your head are all counted.” It’s such an absurd and extravagant image. Jesus is not describing a distant God who vaguely cares about humanity. Jesus is describing a God who knows you intimately. A God whose attention is not general. It is particular. God does not simply love humanity. God loves you.

But there is one final thing Jesus wants us to understand. And I believe it is the most astonishing thing of all. God does more than notice the falling. God enters the falling. Jesus says: “Not one of them will fall apart from your Father.”

That phrase is easy to miss. Many translations add the word “care”—that nothing happens without God's care. And certainly that is true. But the Greek is even more provocative. Jesus does not say that God causes the fall. He does not say that God wants the fall. He does not say that God stands above the fall and explains why it had to happen. He says that nothing “falls apart from your Father.” Nothing is abandoned. Nothing is forgotten. Nothing is separated from the presence and love of God. What if Jesus is telling us that even in the falling, God is there?

What if God does not merely watch the sparrow fall? What if God falls with the sparrow? Not because God causes the suffering. Not because God delights in our pain. But because love refuses to remain distant from the beloved. This is what we mean when we call Jesus Emmanuel—God with us. Emmanuel isn’t only the name of God becoming present in one moment of history. Emmanuel reveals who God has always been. The God who refuses to be apart. The God who enters every place we enter. Even the places we fear most. Even grief. Even death.

The cross is where Christians discover who God truly is. It overturns every picture of God as a distant ruler watching suffering from a safe place. In Jesus, God does not stand above our wounds. God enters them. In Jesus, God does not explain suffering from a distance. God shares it. The cross tells us that there is no place of human abandonment where God has not already gone ahead of us. There is no place where we can fall that Christ has not already entered. God would rather die with us than remain safely above us. That, my friends, who God is.

And that means that even in our deepest grief, we are never in a godless place. Christ has already filled even death with his presence. This is why Jesus weeps at Lazarus' tomb. Think about that moment. Jesus knows resurrection is coming. Jesus knows the tomb will not have the final word. If anyone could have skipped the tears, surely it would have been Jesus. But when Jesus arrives at the grave of his friend, Scripture says simply: “Jesus wept.” Why? Because love grieves. Hope does not eliminate tears. Hope makes room for them. God is revealed most clearly not in power that controls everything from a distance, but in love that enters everything with us. The boldest Christian claim about God is not that God explains suffering. It is that God shares it – truly, utterly, definitively.

And remarkably, much of what we are learning from grief research points us in the same direction. For many years, psychologists believed healthy grieving meant detaching from the person who had died. The goal was to move on, find closure, and return to normal. But many grief researchers today recognize that healthy grief often looks different. Healthy grief needs a “with.”

Healthy grief is not forgetting. It is not leaving someone behind. It is learning how to carry love in a new way. Researchers describe this as “continuing bonds.” We continue to love those we have lost. We remember them. We tell their stories. We carry pieces of them forward.

Neuroscientist Mary-Frances O'Connor describes grief as the brain learning a world that no longer matches the map of what love should be. That is why grief can feel so disorienting. You still reach for the phone. You still expect to hear their voice. You still think, “I need to tell Mom this.” You still turn to share a joke with someone who is no longer sitting beside you. Grief is not a failure. It is love trying to make connections in a world that seems “apart.”

And this is why Paul does not tell Christians not to grieve. He says: “We do not grieve as those without hope.” Notice what he does not say. He does not say we do not grieve. He says we do not grieve without hope. Christian hope does not erase grief. It gives grief a future. The goal of healing is not to stop loving. The goal is to learn how to love in the presence of loss.

And Scripture, psychology, and centuries of Christian wisdom all point us toward practices that help us do this.

·       Tell stories. Speak the names of those you love. Memory is not an obstacle to healing. Often, memory is part of healing. You can even talk to the dead. Christianity is a religion where we believe the dead truly aren’t – dead.

·       Accept that grief comes in waves. A song. A smell. A birthday. An anniversary. A familiar place. All of these things can bring grief rushing back. That does not mean you are failing. It means you loved deeply and that love always refuses to remain “apart.”

·       Stay connected to community. Grief convinces us that we are alone. But one of the great lies of suffering is that we must carry it by ourselves. The church exists because God never intended us to grieve alone. We gather. We pray. We share meals. We tell stories. We light candles. We break bread. We remember.

·       Create rituals. Ritual gives love somewhere to go. That is why Christians have always gathered around tables and waters and graves. Every Eucharist is an act of holy remembrance. Every baptism is a declaration of dying and that death does not have the final word. Every funeral is a community saying: “This person mattered.” “This love mattered.” “This life mattered.” Rituals do something very important. They “incarnate” our thoughts and feelings. They embody them.

·       Practice compassion toward yourself. There is no single right way to grieve. Some days you may cry. Some days you may laugh. Some days you may feel numb. Some days you may feel grateful. All of these things can belong and you can always be honest. Grief is not a straight line. It is love learning a new shape.

And perhaps this is why the risen Christ still carries scars. Resurrection did not erase Jesus’ scars. Love had no need to erase them. The scars are not evidence that resurrection failed. They are evidence that love remembers. The wounds tell the story of what God was willing to enter. And one day, Scripture tells us, God will wipe away every tear from our eyes.

Notice what God does not say. God does not say: “There was never any reason to cry.” God honors every tear before removing it. Because every tear matters. And every love matters. Death remains the last enemy. But love has already won the decisive battle.

So perhaps our calling is simple. Become people who make room for grief. Stop trying to fix each other's sorrow. Stop rushing people toward closure. Stop treating grief as something embarrassing or inconvenient. Sit beside Lazarus’s tomb with Jesus. Weep with those who weep. Remember together. Hope together. Love together. Because no sparrow falls outside the Father's embrace.

Not Lazarus. Not your mother. Not your child. Not your spouse. Not your friend. Not you. The Father still falls with every little thing.  And because Christ has entered death and come out the other side, we dare to believe: Grief is not the end of love. Grief is love's testimony. It is love refusing to remain apart. Amen.

 Friends, Jesus did not promise that sparrows would never fall. He promised they would never fall alone. He still makes that promise. Today we make room for grief—not to solve it, but to carry it together. You were each given a paper sparrow when you entered worship today (if not, you can find them at the back). I Invite you to take a moment to consider what grief you carry and to write it on the paper sparrow. When Harris begins to sing Love Came Down, you are invited to come and place your sparrow on the altar-table as a way to acknowledge your grief and the ever-present falling love of God.

[NOTE TO SELF: When the song finishes, leave a full minute of silence.]

Finish with this prayer:

 

 

 

God of every sparrow,

You know every name written here.

Every story.

Every wound.

Every absence.

Every love that still lives in our hearts.

Teach us not to run from grief,
but to discover you already waiting there – always willing to break our fall.

Until resurrection has the final word,
make us a people who remember well,
love faithfully,
weep honestly,
and hope stubbornly.

Through Christ,
who still bears scars, Amen.