April 27, 2025: The Second Sunday of Easter

Laura Meyers

Reading: John 20:19–31 '

Five years ago, much of the world found itself confined behind closed doors. The COVID-19 pandemic had arrived, and life changed in a matter of weeks. Streets emptied. Homes became places of isolation. Communities were hushed. We locked our doors—not just for safety, but out of fear, uncertainty, and grief. Even now, that experience lingers in our bodies and memories.

We don’t need a pandemic to feel locked in. That time only exposed what many of us already knew: how easily fear and pain can close us off from the world, from each other, even from God.

That’s where today’s Gospel meets us. Behind closed doors. With fear thick in the air. The disciples have locked themselves in—not only out of fear of religious authorities, but also perhaps because they were confused, grieving, maybe even ashamed. Ashamed that they fled. Ashamed that they weren’t there when Jesus breathed his last breath.

Or perhaps they were simply overwhelmed—too heartbroken to know what to do next. Hiding felt safer than facing the unknown.

Behind locked doors, we stash away all kinds of wounds: our doubts, griefs, unfinished prayers, and aching losses. We may not hide from Roman guards, but we know the fear of closing ourselves off—literally, emotionally, spiritually.

And then—right into that locked room—Jesus comes.

“Peace be with you,” he says.

Not: “Why did you abandon me?”
Not: “You failed.”
Not: “You’re too late.”

Just: Peace.

No lock, no fear, no grief—not even death—can keep him out. He walks right into their fear, and he breathes peace.

And he doesn’t erase the wounds. He shows them. His hands. His side. His broken body. The resurrection hasn’t polished away the crucifixion. The marks remain. As Amy-Jill Levine, a renowned Jewish New Testament scholar, points out, “Jesus’ post-resurrection body is physical enough to be touched, yet transformed enough to enter locked spaces. His body bears the marks of suffering, and it is precisely through those wounds that he reveals himself.”

This is good news for us. Our wounds, our griefs, our traumas don’t disappear in the presence of Christ. They are seen, honored, and breathed into. Peace doesn’t come from erasure—it comes from incarnation. From God meeting us exactly where we are.

And then Jesus sends them: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” He breathes on them—an echo of the Spirit breathing over the waters at creation, a new beginning. He breathes life into those overwhelmed by fear, and he commissions them to carry that peace into the world.

But not everyone is there. Thomas is missing.

We don’t know why. Maybe he needed air. Maybe he mourned differently. Maybe he couldn’t bear the sight of their gathered grief.

When he returns and hears, "We have seen the Lord," he answers honestly: “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

Thomas isn’t refusing faith; he’s insisting that resurrection must bear the truth of crucifixion. He needs to see that Jesus’ suffering was real—that resurrection does not wipe it away but transforms it.

Thomas' longing isn’t a failure of faith. It’s a longing for truth. A longing for faith that embraces the woundedness of the world and still dares to hope.

And Jesus meets him there. He comes again—for Thomas. He invites Thomas not just to see, but to touch. To place his hands into the very places of wounding.

Only then does Thomas proclaim, “My Lord and my God!”—the fullest declaration of Jesus’ identity in the Gospel. He doesn’t just call him "Teacher" or "Messiah." He names the divine presence embodied in wounded flesh. Thomas sees the truth: the divine is not separate from suffering. God’s glory shines even—and especially—through brokenness.

This week, I received a page to the ER to provide spiritual support to a family. Their beloved partner and father had been struck by a hit-and-run driver. He would not survive. After the initial shock, they adamantly wanted to see him—to be with him—to begin their mourning with presence, not absence.

Their love—fifty years of partnership, three daughters, and extended family—was expressed not in polished words, but in the raw courage to be with the wounded body. To love even in the face of death.

That’s the gospel in action. Resurrection hope does not erase death’s sting. It transforms it by love, by presence, by refusing to turn away from the wounds.

Just as Thomas needed to touch the wounds to believe, so too do we need a faith that is willing to touch the world’s pain without flinching.

Today’s passage reminds us that resurrection appearances are personal. In the verses just before today’s reading, Mary Magdalene stands at the empty tomb, not recognizing Jesus until she hears him call her name. She doesn’t understand by sight alone; she knows him by relationship, by the recognition of love.

Like the disciples, like Thomas, like Mary, we come to faith not through argument or proof, but through encounter. Through relationship. Through presence that breathes peace into fear and love into grief.

Because let’s be real: the last few years have left many of us shaken. We live amidst division, the erosion of truth, assaults on human dignity through systemic violence, deportations, discrimination, and cruelty. Climate disasters deepen. Gun violence wounds our communities. We hunger for healing, for justice, for peace.

We believe—but we also yearn to touch the promised miracle.

And today’s Gospel assures us: Jesus is not offended by our yearning. He comes back for the ones who are grieving. He comes back for the ones who need to see and touch and be held.

Our Gospel closes by acknowledging that many other signs were done that were not recorded. But these are written so that you may believe. What is preserved? Breath. Wounds. Peace. Presence.

Faith does not mean having all the answers. It means encountering the risen Christ—in our grief, our longing, our locked rooms—and allowing ourselves to be breathed into, touched, and sent.

So, where are your locked doors today?

What wounds do you hide?

Where have you longed to see resurrection with your own hands?

You don’t have to open the door. Jesus will come in anyway.

But when he does, will you dare to be seen?

Will you dare to reach out?

Will you believe that God is still breathing life into the very places you thought were beyond hope?

May you receive that peace today.

May you carry it with you.

May you proclaim, like Thomas, "My Lord and my God!"

And may your wounds, too, become holy ground—not as scars to be hidden, but as signs of a resurrection still unfolding in you.

Amen.