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.