Poolesville Presbyterian Church
Rev. David Williams; 04.27.14
Scripture Lesson: John 20:19-31
Knowledge is a funny thing.
We like knowing, and knowing what we’re doing. We like being aware, in the most general way, of the parameters of our engagement with the world.
Flying blind into something seems like the best way to get completely messed up. Oh, sure, we might be completely confident in our abilities, totally sure of ourselves. But confidence can only carry you so far, we remind ourselves. Sure, we can fire that motorcyle up. But when it comes time to twist the throttle, we don’t want to go barreling into a roadside sign like Pee Wee Herman.
We need information. And so there is a very human tendency to focus our energies on finding out more. We want to try before we buy. We want to do the research. We don’t want to be vested in something until we have a complete understanding of every last detail, and every possible parameter.
Before we can proceed, we tell ourselves, the matter needs more study.
And I realize we’re outside the Beltway here, but y’all spend enough time inside that burning ring of fire to know what saying something needs more study means. It means that somewhere, someone wants to make sure that nothing ever happens. It needs more study is basically a bureaucratic death ray. There is no better way to kill a new thing than to hit it with an analysis paralysis beam.
As much as it pains my Presbyterian soul to say it, almost any simple, basic, essentially good thing can be blasted into oblivion by overthinking it. Something remarkably easy can be turned into something remarkably hard, if you do not find it in yourself to trust.
I’ve always been a critical overthinker. Like, say, in high school, whenever I’d contemplate whether or not it might be appropriate to mention to a particular someone that I liked them. Should I tell her? I’d weigh the variables in my mind, trying to play out every possible scenario. But if I say this, she might think that. And if I say that, she might respond in thus and such a way.
I’d try to anticipate every single possible response, and then carefully construct the most positive possible answer, until I’d arrived at the scenario that seemed least likely to result in either mortal embarrassment or some other disaster. I was ready.
Of course, by this point, I’d been in college for eighteen months.
When our need to grasp things extends to the point where we find ourselves unable to act, unable to move, unable to engage with a new and potentially joyful thing, then we’ve managed to let our fear govern us. We have allowed our doubt about something to consumer our ability to engage with it.
That’s a particular challenge when it comes to engaging with our faith, because we are always and ever finding ourselves wanting to base our actions on what we know with certainty.
That’s the core of the message about doubt that we hear in John’s Gospel this morning, the tale that has become known as the story of Doubting Thomas. It begins with the disciples gathered in a house, tight knit and fearful behind locked doors.
Their fear makes sense, because even though it was just after the events of Easter, and they’d heard reports of some amazing things happening from Mary Magdalene, things were still far from settled. Their rabbi was dead, or probably dead, or mostly dead, or something they couldn’t quite figure out. Mary kept telling them, “I have seen the Lord,” but they were skeptical. More than skeptical. They were terrified.
Having seen him die, they weren’t particularly eager to go that route themselves. And so we hear they’re gathered around in the house, “for fear of the Jews,” our Bibles say.
This seems a little weird, to be honest. Not the fear part. Generally, most of us have that reaction when presented with the very real likelihood of being crucified. “I might be killed horrifically? Eh, doesn’t bother me much.”
It’s the “fear of the Jews” bit that makes less sense. Every single person in that room would have thought of themselves as Jewish. James isn’t going to glance over at Peter and shriek “Aaaaah! A Jew!” There are two ways to think of this. First, John’s Gospel is the latest and last of the stories of Jesus to reach final written form, perhaps sometime between 50 and 70 years after the life of Jesus. By the time it was written, Judaism and Christianity were very distinct, and the Greek speaking Gentiles who were the likely audience for this Gospel would have felt themselves to be very much apart from Judaism.
Another option is that the word judaioi, which is the Greek word used here for “Jews,” might actually mean “Judeans,” the urban people who lived in the southern kingdom, particularly in and around Jerusalem. The disciples would all have been rural galileioi, Galileans, who spoke and dressed in very different ways. It’d be a bit like a bunch of folks from Kentucky hiding away in terror in an apartment in New York city for fear of “the Americans.” Yeah, they’re *technically* from the same country, but really, they’re not. Really, not.
Whichever way, these frightened souls have a visitation, the arrival of a Jesus who brings them a word of shalom, of peace. He gives them peace, he gives them the the great gifts of the true church. He gives them the Holy Spirit, and he gives them the power to forgive. And then, he’s gone.
This is where Thomas comes in. It’s not clear quite why he wasn’t there in the first place. Maybe they’d sent him out to get beer. He gets back, and they say the same thing to him that Mary Magdalene had said to them. “We have seen the Lord!”
And Thomas stands there, with the case of Pabst Blue Ribbon in his hand, and he shakes his head. “What, are you kidding me? Seriously, no.” He wants evidence, and it’s hard to blame him. Show me, he says. It’s easy to read his demands as being overly aggressive and a bit bloody. “I won’t believe until I stick my fingers in his wounds,” he says, and we say, “ew.” But though his requirements put the viscera in visceral, he doesn’t ask for more than Jesus showed the others.
A week passes, and the doors are still locked, and somehow ninja Jesus manages to slip in again. He offers them the same shalom, the same peace, and then has a little chat with Thomas. He does not attack him. Instead, he says, “Here I am. Here’s my hand. Here’s my side. Go ahead. Just don’t doubt, but believe.”
Thomas does, but we still struggle a bit with it. We struggle because doubt seems to be a necessary part of who we are. We struggle because while there may be brief moments of clarity and certainty in our lives, there are other times when we are less clear and less sure about both the path before us and the robustness of our knowing.
Do not doubt, but believe? It seems impossible. Doubt is always there in us.
Here, I’ve always found the writing of 20th century German existentialist theologian Paul Tillich helpful. Yes, he’s a little dense and hard to read. 20th century German existentialist theologians aren’t like reading the Hobbit, although they are *great* for putting your kids to sleep at bedtime. Yes, Tillich tends to use words that stretch even the most robust vocabulary. I was reading one of his books of theology years ago, and came across a word I’d never ever seen. When I looked it up, the “example” sentence for usage was exactly the same sentence I was reading.
But his way of putting doubt into the context of faith really works. If we are completely certain of a thing, we grasp it totally, and there’s nothing about it we do not know? Then we do not have faith. If we can explain everything, and be totally and utterly confident in our explanations? We do not have faith.
Like hope, faith isn’t a hard and fast thing. It is the thing we do not completely grasp, but allow ourselves to be moved by. It is the state of being that is beyond us, but that we trust enough to guide us.
Let that be so, for you and for me, AMEN.
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