Abstract
This Sunday, the Sunday after Easter, used to be known as Low Sunday. ‘Low’ is thought to be a corruption of the Latin word Laudes (Praise) which is the first word of the Sequence for the day. But it was sometimes said to derive from the relative unimportance of this day compared with Easter Day.
Whatever the derivation, I always feel that there is often a marked contrast between last Sunday and this.
Last week we were on a spiritual high, with the joy of the resurrection and the euphoria of Easter.
This week the reality kicks in.
Last week we were in the garden by the empty tomb with its symbolism of life and freedom.
This week finds us with the disciples in the claustrophobic atmosphere of a locked room (possibly the same Upper Room where the Last Supper took place?) – the doors locked, in the airlessness of deathly fear.
And maybe with this, the conviction instilled by Easter joy begins to weaken a little; the certainty of Easter Day begins to take on certain tinges of doubt.
Today’s gospel recounts two related incidents; two appearances of the risen Lord.
The first takes place on the evening of the first Easter Sunday. Jesus appears to the disciples. He greets them (“Peace be with you”) and shows them the wounds in his hands and side. And he gives them their commission to forgive people their sins in his name. But then – almost as an afterthought – in a sentence which links this scene to the next, the evangelist tells us that Thomas is not with the disciples on this occasion. And Thomas staunchly refuses to believe what the other disciples are telling him, unless he can see for himself.
The second incident takes place a week later – and on this occasion Thomas is present. Jesus (apparently aware of the conversation that has taken place) singles Thomas out, and invites him to touch the wounds and to have his doubts dispelled. This is Thomas’ opportunity to see the risen Lord in the flesh, to verify what the other disciples have told him, and to move from doubt to commitment and belief.
The Gospel presents us with a tantalising question? Where was Thomas on the first occasion? Why was he not present?
The disciples had locked themselves away, fearing for their lives, fearing the retribution of the Jews. So why was Thomas not there? And if he wasn’t there, where was he? Had he gone out to visit another disciple? And if so, whom? Or was he simply the brave one, the one who had enough courage to leave the security of the upper room to fetch some much needed food?
Intriguingly, the writer of the fourth gospel does not give us an answer. He simply states that Thomas was not present on the occasion of the first appearance of Jesus in the upper room – and leaves it at that. That is sufficient to set up the incident which follows.
There are a number of similarities between the two scenes which St. John depicts here:
On both occasions, it is the first day of the week
Jesus enters – apparently through a locked door
The greeting is the same “Peace be with you”.
And on both occasions Jesus shows the disciples his hands and his side, still bearing the marks of his passion. The risen Lord is not repaired and made new, but still bears the marks of his suffering.
But there are also a number of contrasts with the events of the previous Sunday:
In contrast to the early dawn light of the first Easter day, here the daylight is fading; night begins to descend once more [and if you have been to the holy Land, you will know that there is very little twilight – the light fades quickly, and daylight is rapidly replaced by darkness]. And there is a darkness too in the hearts and souls of the disciples.
In the garden Mary is not allowed to touch Jesus: the famous “Noli me tangere” [“Touch me not”]. Thomas is invited to do more than touch him – he is invited to put his finger into the nail prints, and his hand into the gash in Jesus’ side. Caravaggio, in a famous painting of this incident, The Incredulity of St. Thomas, actually shows Thomas prodding one of the holes in Jesus’ body, but in fact the gospel writer does not actually tell us that Thomas does this. He simply says that Jesus invited him to do so.
And the climax of the scene is Thomas’ moment of enlightenment, of faith:
My Lord and my God.
Thomas has gone down in history as the doubter; the one who would not believe what the others told him; the realist, the pragmatist, who wanted proof for himself. And he maintains this attitude for a whole week. A week! A week is a long time – in religion as well as in politics.
But in many ways this label of doubter is unfair to Thomas. Thomas is not always the doubter. In the course of these two scenes from the gospel drama, Thomas goes from one end of the spectrum to the other. Thomas the doubter becomes Thomas the believer.
The final irony is that the disciple who doubted the most, is the one who believes the most. “My Lord, and my God” is the deepest statement of belief in any of the gospels.
Trevor Dennis, in The Easter Stories (SPCK 2008), points out that, although various people in John’s gospel (John the Baptist, Nathanael, Martha) declare that Jesus is the ‘Son of God’, and although Peter, speaking for the disciples, says “we have come to believe and know that that you are the Holy One of God”, Thomas is the first and only one to state his belief in terms of deep, personal commitment.
When St. John’s Gospel started, we were told that In the beginning was the word… and the word was God… and the word was made flesh.
Now the wheel turns full circle, and at the end of the gospel Thomas is the first to truly realise, as he is invited to touch that flesh, that this is indeed the incarnate Lord.
N.T. Wright, in The Resurrection of the Son of God (SPCK 2003, p. 688), observes: The so-called Doubting Thomas takes one small verbal step, and a giant leap of faith and theology. This at last is faith indeed.
It is interesting to note Jesus’ attitude towards Thomas.
Jesus does not castigate Thomas for his lack of belief. He doesn’t reprimand him. “Thomas, I promised you that I would rise again; that I would come back. Why didn’t you believe what the others told you? O ye of little faith.”
No, Jesus merely gives the usual greeting of peace, and then (knowing what Thomas wants) gives him the opportunity to do what he asked to be able to do.
It is a kind, a patient, a benevolent Jesus who greets Thomas. A Jesus who realises that people come to faith in different ways. Who knows that while for some faith comes easily, and is easily accepted, for others it only comes as a result of wrestling with doubt, of weighing up the situation, and then finally making that leap of faith. Thomas’ “My Lord and my God” shows that he has trodden that road, and has come to that deep devotion which arises from conquered doubt and hard-won faith.
What Jesus is saying to Thomas – and what he says to us as well – is that it is okay to have doubts. That doubts are, in a sense, part of the process of coming to faith. The prayer “Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief”, is the prayer of many Thomases. As we struggle towards faith from one side of the divide, Jesus reaches out his hand (his wounded hand) from the other side and draws us towards himself.
The same process is evident in the Eucharist. As we hesitate (Lord, I am not worthy), Jesus bids us come (O taste and see how gracious the Lord is: this is my body, take it and eat; this is my blood, drink it).
If, as the high of Easter fades from our minds, we begin to wonder about the reality, the veracity, of it all, we can take heart from Thomas. We too can hear Jesus’ voice “Reach out your finger; reach out your hand” and that gentle invitation can draw us, like Thomas, to overcome our doubts, and to make our own confession of faith: “My Lord and my God.”
Trinity in Early Modern England
Paul C.H. Lim, Mystery Unveiled: The Crisis of the Trinity in Early Modern England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. £45.00. pp. xvi + 488. ISBN: 978-0-19-533946-8).
This book is original and ambitious in what it sets out to achieve, and creative and confident in what it delivers. Lim wants to show how the doctrine of the Trinity stood at the heart of theological debate in the second half of the 17th century. He makes the case from different angles, with a series of distinctive new arguments. First, he contends that anti-Trinitarianism was pervasive in the 1640s and 1650s (not just in the 1680s and 1690s). Then he draws together pro-Trinitarian writings from disparate parties – Catholics, Laudians, Calvinists, Arminians – to demonstrate common themes in reaction to the challenge of ‘heresy’. Moving on, Lim interprets the Trinitarian spirituality of Francis Cheynell and John Owen in a novel light as red-blooded ‘polemical spirituality’, intended to counter the appeal of anti-Trinitarian ideas. Next, he turns to views of history that attacked the credibility of church councils, and so eroded the grounds for appeal to councils to bolster Trinitarian doctrine. The final chapter looks at early modern exegetical and theological debates on the Trinity in the Gospel of John, drawing on a range of texts from 1557 to 1700.
Lim’s analysis is astute, balanced, informative and impressive. He contextualises the theological material brilliantly. His close work with texts is embedded in a rich understanding of the period. A particular strength of Mystery Unveiled is the way it shows the centrality of biblical exegesis to debate, for all parties.
SUSAN HARDMAN MOORE
School of Divinity, University of Edinburgh