A Sermon for the Second Sunday of Easter
Johanna Morrigan
Acts 3:12a,13-15,17-26
Psalm 111
1 John 5:1-6
John 29:20:19-31
His name was Thomas Edmund Wilson - called Tom or T. E. by those who knew him, and he was my grandfather.
When I was a little girl visiting my grandparents, folks in the little town of LaBelle, Missouri, would ask me who I belonged to.
I was shy and timid around strangers. But when someone asked me that question, I would stand up very straight and tall - I'd square my shoulders and thrust up my face to meet that stranger eye to eye - and I would say, "I'm Tom Wilson's granddaughter!"
I loved to say that... I never hesitated or doubted about what to say to that question. When I would say, "I'm Tom Wilson's granddaughter," people's eyes would light up and they would smile at me with a certain recognition and respect. There was no doubt about it, Tom Wilson was respected in that small farming community in northeast Missouri.
He wrote a column in the town newspaper. And his column was unique. Now I suspect that many of you probably know about those kind of columns in little town newspapers - the ones that tell you all the local news like: Mrs. Harvey Glaves entertained the Presbyterian Ladies in her home on Thursday afternoon - or Mr. & Mrs. Philip Ross have recently returned from a trip out east to visit their daughter.
Now my grandpa faithfully reported all the local news, but in and among the news items he would slip in bits of wisdom or humor; and on occasion he would challenge the status quo.
Tom Wilson stayed home and worked so that his sister, Annie Laurie, could go to college. This was at a time when most people thought that educating women beyond the eighth grade was a foolish waste of time and money. But he didn't - and both of his daughters became college graduates as well.
Tom Wilson was a farmer, like his neighbors. But he was a farmer who was far ahead of his time. He rotated crops, left stands of trees and brush for the wildlife, and rested his fields - long before those practices were recognized as good land management.
Now not everyone agreed with my grandpa. But I knew with certainty that almost everyone did respect him. And I always felt confident and proud when I walked with him into the LaBelle Bank or the newspaper office on a Saturday morning.
As I grew older, I began to tell stories about Tom Wilson. During my college years I would take the train from St. Paul, where I went to school, to St. Louis, Missouri where my parents lived. It was a very long trip, and took all night. There was little chance of sleep in the remarkably uncomfortable seats, so inevitably the person sitting next to me would start up a conversation.
I was still pretty shy - and uncomfortable talking with strangers - so I would turn the conversation away from me to stories about my grandpa, Tom Wilson. And once again, I would experience that sense of pride and delight that this extraordinary man was my grandfather.
Over the years as I told stories about Tom Wilson, people would almost inevitably say, "I wish I had knows him. I would have liked your grandfather." And I would nod and smile, and show them pictures of this wonderful man whom I adored.
I also have a big brother. But all too often I have chosen not to tell people about him. When a conversation lags, I don't jump in with stories about my big brother. And when someone asks me if I know him, I'm inclined to say, "well, of course I do," and quickly change the subject. Even though almost everyone knows something about him, it's almost as if it's bad manners to talk about him.
I've always known how people felt about my grandpa - that they admired and respected him. But when it comes to my big brother - well, that's a crap shoot. He has been the subject of considerable debate and at times, even violent disagreement - and over the years a good many people have suffered and even died just because they admitted to knowing him...... knowing my big brother, Jesus.
Some people are quite sure that he really doesn't matter much anymore. Oh, they might say that he was a good man - or even a great man - but a misguided man who allowed himself to be killed for no good reason - and now he is dead and gone.
Just one more idealistic revolutionary who didn't have sense enough to grow up, get a job, and live a respectable life. And I don't even have a picture of him to show people - to prove that he existed, and to reassure them that he is still here with us - that my big brother, Jesus, died for me and for them - that he was raised again to eternal life by our Father.
How am I supposed to tell stories about someone whom I don't even have a picture of, someone who died 2000 years ago and was supposedly raised up again by God? Other people claim to have seen him - to have experienced his presence in their lives - but how am I to be sure? For much of my life I just didn't believe it. It was too weird. It didn't make any sense. I wanted something more - something tangible - I wanted proof.
I think Thomas in today's gospel had a similar problem. He also wanted proof. He needed something he could reach out and touch. His friends said they had seen the risen Lord - that Jesus had shown them his hands and his side - that they had received the Holy Spirit and were to go out and tell the Good News to all they met...... "As the Father has sent me, so I send you." That's what Jesus said to them... or so they said.
But Thomas hadn't seen him. Thomas hadn't heard Jesus tell him to go and tell others about him. Thomas doubted. He wanted something to still his doubts. He wanted proof.
Sometimes I think Thomas gets a bad wrap. All my life I have heard the phrase, "doubting Thomas" spoken in disparaging ways to describe people who didn't have enough faith or the right kind of belief - people who were to be judged as lacking because they had questions and doubts - and furthermore they admitted it!
But I've come to like Thomas - even to admire him in much the same way that I've always admired that other Thomas in my life, Thomas Edmund Wilson, my grandpa. In ways, they are very much alike.
There was an uncompromising honesty about both of them. They absolutely refused to say that they understood what they didn't understand, or that they believed what they didn't believe. When he was sure about something, my grandpa spoke with conviction. But when he wasn't sure, he never shied away from saying, "I don't know" or "I'm just not sure what I think about this or that." He never stilled his doubts by pretending that they didn't exist. And neither did Thomas.
Thomas was not going to spread the good news of Jesus, the Christ, until he was absolutely certain that it was good news! As much as he must have wanted to believe that his Lord lived, he was not just going to accept it without question. He was not going to just go along when he didn't understand it. He doubted in order to become sure - and when he did become sure, his surrender to certainty was complete: he said to Jesus, "My Lord and my God!" No doubts remained.
I was sure of my grandpa - he was a remarkable man who always walked to the beat of his own drummer. And I want to be just as sure of the good news of Jesus, my big brother and my Lord. I want to be sure so that when the conversation lags - I won't hesitate to turn to my companion and say, "let me tell you about my big brother, Jesus - I'm just sure you'll like him - he really is quite an extraordinary fellow." I want to tell stories about Jesus with the same pride and conviction that I have always told stories about Tom Wilson, my grandpa.
And in order to do that, I have to question - I have to struggle with things I don't understand , I have to doubt in order to be sure. I have to be a doubting Thomas so that I can become a disciple of Jesus, my big brother.
Amen.