The Sunday after Easter has a nickname among clergy: Low Sunday. The lilies are fading, the brass has gone home, and the pews settle back into their ordinary, gentle hum. We are still in Eastertide, the fifty days the church keeps celebrating after Easter Day, but the second week of the season always feels quieter. It is also the Sunday the church tells, every single year, the story of Thomas, the disciple who missed the resurrection appearance and declined to take anyone’s word for it. I preached on that story this past week, in a sermon called “Doubt Comes to Dinner,” and I have been thinking about Thomas ever since.
Here is what strikes me every year. Thomas asks for evidence, plainly and without apology, and Jesus does not scold him. There is no lecture, no disappointed sigh, no suggestion that he has failed some entrance exam. Jesus simply shows up and offers Thomas exactly what he asked for. Whatever else that story teaches, it teaches this: an honest question brings Christ closer, not further away.
I have come to think of Thomas as the patron of honest faith. Not the patron of doubters, exactly, because that makes doubt sound like a club for people who flunked believing. Doubt is not the opposite of faith. Indifference is. Doubt is what faith feels like when it is paying attention. It is a door you can walk through, not a wall you have to climb.
The question at coffee hour
After worship on Sunday, over lukewarm coffee in the parish hall, someone pulled me aside and asked a question I expect to carry for a long time: “What if I say the Creed every week and I’m still not sure I believe all of it?” The Creed is the church’s ancient summary of faith, recited together in worship, and it is old enough and strange enough that this is an entirely reasonable thing to wonder.
Here is roughly what I said. The Creed begins with “We believe,” not “I believe,” and that plural is doing real work. On the Sundays when you cannot carry a particular line, the person beside you carries it for you, and some other Sunday you will return the favor. Some weeks that person beside you is me. Faith at St. Dunstan’s is not a solo performance. It is closer to a choir, and a choir can hold the note while any one singer takes a breath.
If you have been wondering whether a church could possibly want someone with your particular questions, let me say it as plainly as I can. Your questions are not a problem to be solved before you arrive. They are welcome to walk in with you. Our front doors are painted red on purpose, an old sign of refuge, and the bell that rings across the water before worship does not ask anyone for credentials.
We gather for Holy Eucharist, the meal of bread and wine at the heart of our worship, every Sunday at 10:00 a.m. Thomas would tell you that sometimes it helps to be in the room to see what your friends keep talking about. Sit near the back if you like. Question everything you hear. And then, if you are willing, stay for coffee afterward. I will be the one still turning your question over on Tuesday.
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