There are some Sundays in the life of the Church that come wrapped in joy and tenderness, and Mother’s Day is certainly one of them. But if we are honest, it is also one of the more complicated days we observe.

There are certain days in history that are seared into our minds, and for me, one of those days is the day my mother died. On the 8th of February 2018, my mother suddenly died. It was early in the morning, and the phone rang. My sister-in-law was calling to give us the news. When Nicky told me what had happened, I lost it and could not move.

My mother was my strength and my rock. She was my biggest supporter and my loudest critic. That day in February left a big hole in my heart and in my life. I miss my mother’s presence every day, but I feel her spirit and know she is with me in everything I do.

For some, this day is filled with gratitude and warm memories. For others, it carries grief—grief for mothers who have died, for relationships strained or broken, for children longed for but never born, and for hopes that did not unfold the way we imagined. Still, throughout these different experiences, many women have raised children not born to them and nurtured generations through teaching, caregiving, mentoring, healing, counseling, or by simple presence. Some women have carried communities on their backs while no one thought to thank them.

With all of this in mind, I want to not only celebrate mothers in the narrow sense of the word, but also honor the sacred vocation of women—women whose lives reveal strength, compassion, wisdom, courage, sacrifice, endurance, and grace.

This honoring has deep roots. Throughout Scripture, whenever God is preparing to change the world, very often a woman is already there.

Before Moses could lead, there was Jochebed, his mother, who hid him among the reeds to save his life. Before Israel had a king, there was Hannah praying with tears in the temple. Before the resurrection was proclaimed, there was Mary Magdalene, one of the most maligned women in history, standing faithfully at the tomb when others had fled.

And before the salvation of the world entered history in flesh and blood, there was Mary.

Mary of Nazareth. The mother of Jesus.

I am a theologian of the Reformed tradition. I firmly believe that the church needed and continues to need reform. As I have said in the past, God is still speaking, and Revelation is still happening.

At the same time, I feel the reformers discarded more than they should have, including devotion to the mother of Jesus. I refer not to worship, but to honoring the woman chosen by God above all others to be the mother of the Word Made Flesh.

Mary is a young woman from an unremarkable village. Poor. Unknown. Living under Roman occupation. Yet when the angel appeared and spoke impossible words, “Greetings, favored one,” she answered not with power or certainty, but with questions, and courage.

“Let it be with me according to your word.”

We often soften Mary into stained-glass gentleness, but there was steel in her faith. Mary said yes to a calling that would place her in danger, invite misunderstanding, and ultimately lead her to stand beneath a cross watching her son die.

And yet she remained.

Mary teaches us that holiness is not weakness. Holiness is endurance. Holiness is showing up when love becomes costly.

At times, the Church underestimates women because the world often equates gentleness with fragility. Yet Scripture never does.

The Bible is filled with strong women.

Deborah stood as judge and leader over Israel when the nation lacked courage. Esther risked her life before the king for the sake of her people. Ruth crossed borders and built a new future out of loss and uncertainty. The Samaritan woman at the well became one of the first evangelists after an encounter with Jesus. Lydia opened her home and helped establish the early Church. Phoebe was a deacon.

These women were not background characters in God’s story. They were central to it.

And perhaps that should not surprise us, because from the very beginning, Scripture tells us that women and men alike are created in the image of God.

Not one reflecting God more than the other. Both bear a divine imprint. Both necessary. Both beloved.

And yet, many women move through life carrying burdens largely unseen. Expectations. Exhaustion. Caregiving. Emotional labor. Quiet sacrifices no one applauds.

Women are often the ones who hold families together, remember birthdays, sit through hospital nights, offer comfort at funerals, teach children to pray, and somehow continue giving even when they themselves are weary.

There is a holy resilience in that.

But today should not merely be about thanking women for what they do. Shifting our focus, it should also be about affirming who they are.

Beloved children of God.

Not valuable only because they nurture others. Not worthy only because they sacrifice. Not holy only because they serve. Women are sacred simply because God created them, called them good, and affirmed their inherent dignity and worth.

One of the tragedies of our modern culture is that we have learned to measure people by productivity instead of presence. Too often, we find ourselves asking, “What do you contribute?” before we ask, “How is your soul?”

Jesus never did that.

Look carefully at the women around Jesus. He spoke to women publicly when others thought it improper. He listened to them. He healed them. He defended them. He welcomed them among his followers.

In a world that often pushed women to the margins, Jesus consistently brought them to the center.

That matters. It mattered then, and it matters now because affirming women’s dignity and equality is central to our faith and community.

Because there are still too many voices in our world, including voices in the Church, that try to diminish women, silence women, objectify women, dismiss women, or define women too narrowly.

But the Gospel speaks a different word.

The Gospel declares women as bearers of wisdom, strength, prophecy, leadership, compassion, and faith. It proclaims women as first to announce resurrection and as essential—not secondary—to God’s plan of redemption.

And so today, we honor all women.

We honor mothers raising children in exhausting and beautiful circumstances. We honor grandmothers whose prayers still echo through generations. We honor adoptive mothers, foster mothers, godmothers, spiritual mothers, teachers, nurses, counselors, chaplains, mentors, caregivers, and friends.

We honor women who have buried children and women who never had the chance to hold one. We honor women who live quietly faithful lives no one sees except God. We honor women who have fought battles others know nothing about.

We honor women who are healing. Women who are grieving. Women who are searching. Women who are surviving. And women who still dare to hope.

Because hope itself is holy.

Mary knew that.

When she sang the Magnificat, she sang not as a passive observer but as a prophet proclaiming a God who lifts the lowly, fills the hungry, and overturns injustice.

Mary believed God was doing something new in the world.

And perhaps that is the invitation for us today as well.

Let us build a Church where women are not only appreciated one Sunday a year but continually honored, heard, encouraged, and empowered. This is our calling: to recognize the sacred dignity in every woman, every day.

To teach our daughters that their voices matter. To teach our sons to honor and respect the image of God reflected in women.

To become a community shaped not by domination but by mutual love.

At the foot of the cross, as Jesus breathed his last, he looked at his mother and made sure she would not be alone. Even in suffering, he saw her.

Perhaps that is one of the holiest things we can do as Christians: truly see one another. See the burdens. See the gifts. See the grief. See the strength. See the sacred image of God shining in lives that too often go unnoticed.

Today, we give thanks for the women who carried us, taught us, challenged us, comforted us, prayed for us, and loved us into becoming who we are.

And for those carrying sorrow today, we remember that God also sees your tears.

The God who called Mary. The God who strengthened Deborah. The God who walked with Ruth. The God who appeared first to Mary Magdalene in the garden.

That same God walks beside you still.

And so may this day become more than sentimentality.

May it become gratitude. May it become healing. May it become recognition. May it become a blessing.

And may we leave this place remembering that whenever courage, compassion, wisdom, resilience, and love appear in this world, the Spirit of God is already at work.

John 10:1-10

There is something deeply intimate about a voice we know well. You can be in a crowded room, filled with noise and distraction. Still, when that one familiar voice calls your name, you hear it. You turn. You recognize. You respond.

As a kid playing on the street, I could always hear my mother’s voice when she would call me to come home at the end of the day. Of course, I could always hear that voice when I had done something wrong, and she called me by all my names.

In the Gospel passage we heard today, Jesus speaks directly into that kind of knowing. “My sheep hear my voice,” he says. “I know them, and they follow me.” It is a simple image: shepherd and sheep. But beneath its simplicity lies a profound truth about trust, belonging, and discernment in a world overflowing with competing voices.

Good Shepherd Sunday invites us into this metaphor. We are not passive listeners to a quaint pastoral scene, but active participants in a relationship that demands attention. This shift asks us: the question is not simply whether the shepherd speaks. Do we recognize the voice?

And perhaps, to bring that closer to our own time, we must ask: how do we tell the difference between the voice of the shepherd and all the others?

We live in an age of amplified voices—shouting across social media, cable news, pulpits, and platforms. These voices promise certainty, security, identity, and belonging if we follow them. Some are persuasive or comforting in their simplicity. And yet, Jesus warns: “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.”

That’s strong language. It should make us pause.

Because not every voice that claims authority speaks life, nor does every leader who gathers a following lead people toward abundance. Some voices divide, manipulate fear, or reduce the complexity of human life to slogans and enemies. Some claim to protect the flock while quietly feeding off it.

Here, the image of the shepherd becomes more than a comforting pastoral metaphor. It becomes a lens for discernment, sharpening our perception as we navigate the many voices around us.

The shepherd, Jesus tells us, does not climb over the fence or sneak in by another way. The shepherd enters through the gate. The shepherd calls the sheep by name. The shepherd leads, rather than drives. And most importantly, the sheep follow not because they are coerced, but because they recognize the voice.

Recognition is formed through relationship. You don’t recognize a voice you’ve never taken time to hear.

There is a powerful idea offered by Bishop Yvette Flunder, fellow UCC Pastor and presiding bishop of the Fellowship of Affirming Ministries, which she calls the “Third Testament.” She uses this phrase to describe the ongoing revelation of God in the present moment—God’s action and voice continuing in our lives here and now. The “Third Testament” is not a replacement for scripture, nor an addition to the biblical canon. Instead, Flunder suggests it is a way of recognizing that God’s story didn’t end with the Hebrew Scriptures, which bear witness to God’s covenant with a people, or with the New Testament, which reveals God through Jesus. The “Third Testament” refers to the living testimony of God, still speaking, still acting, in and through our lives today. It means that the story of God is ongoing, continuing in us, among us, and around us.

If, as I believe, God is still speaking, then the voice of the Good Shepherd is not confined to the past. It is not locked in ancient text or memory. It is alive, present, and still calling us. We must listen carefully, because not every voice that claims divine authority reflects the heart of God. The “Third Testament” is written not in ink, but in lives shaped by love, justice, mercy, and truth. It is revealed whenever the vulnerable are lifted, the excluded are welcomed, and the dignity of every human being is honored. In those moments, the voice of the Shepherd breaks through the noise, and we can recognize and follow it.

And so, the spiritual life, at its core, is not about blind obedience. It is about cultivated awareness. It is about learning, over time, what the voice of Christ sounds like amid everything else.

What does that voice sound like? It is a voice that calls people by name, not by category. It moves toward the margins, not away from them. It refuses to weaponize fear. It tells the truth, even when the truth is costly. It leads toward life, abundant life—not just survival, not just comfort, but fullness.

“I came that they may have life,” Jesus says, “and have it abundantly.”

Now let’s be honest: abundance is not a word that always matches our lived experience. Many people today are anxious, economically stretched, and spiritually weary—watching a world that feels increasingly fractured: politically, socially, even religiously. The voices around us often reinforce scarcity: not enough resources, safety, or belonging.

Into that anxiety—the reality of our world—comes the voice of the shepherd. This voice does not deny hardship, but refuses to let scarcity have the final word.

Abundance, in the kingdom of God, is not about accumulation, but about communion. A life so deeply rooted in God that fear no longer dictates our decisions; communities shaped by radical hospitality; justice that restores rather than punishes—these mark the abundance we are invited to embrace.

And we see glimpses of that abundance even now.

We see it in communities that open their doors to migrants and refugees. They treat them not as threats but as neighbors. We see it in churches that are choosing courage over comfort. They stand publicly for dignity and inclusion, even when it costs them members or influence.

We see it in young people who are demanding a more just and sustainable world, not settling for the narratives they’ve inherited, but asking deeper questions about what it means to live truthfully and compassionately.

These are not abstract ideals. These are signs of the shepherd’s voice still calling.

Yet, even in those spaces, we encounter competing voices. Some claim compassion is weakness. Some insist justice is dangerous. Some argue that some people simply don’t belong.

We return, then, to the central question: which voice are we following? Following the Good Shepherd is not just about personal comfort; it is about communal responsibility.

When we claim to follow Jesus, we shape the environment in which others try to discern that voice. Our words, our actions, and even our silence all play a part. They can either clarify or distort what that voice sounds like in the world.

If our communities sound more like fear than love… more like exclusion than welcome… more like certainty than humility… then we have to ask ourselves whether we are truly echoing the shepherd or simply amplifying another voice altogether.

Jesus says, “I am the gate.”

That is a powerful image. It is not a barrier meant to keep people out. It is a point of passage, a place of movement between safety and freedom. “Whoever enters by me will be saved,” he says. They “will come in and go out and find pasture.”

Notice that rhythm: in and out—shelter and openness, security and exploration. The Christian life is not meant to be lived behind locked doors, nor to wander aimlessly. Instead, it is a life guided and held by a presence leading us into deeper, shared freedom—not an individualistic one.

A flock moves together. When one sheep is missing, the whole flock is affected. When one voice is silenced, the harmony is diminished. When one person is excluded, the body is wounded. The Good Shepherd does not lead a fragmented people. The Good Shepherd gathers.

So, what might it look like, in this moment, to be a people who truly recognize and follow that voice?

It might mean slowing down to really listen, beyond the noise; questioning voices we’ve grown comfortable with, especially when they lead us toward fear or division; choosing relationship over ideology, presence over performance; and trusting that the voice calling us toward love, justice, and mercy is not naïve, but profoundly real.

Because here is the promise at the heart of this passage: the shepherd knows us. Not as a mass. Not as a statistic. Not as a problem to be solved. But by name.

And to be known like that, to be called like that, is to be invited into a life that is both grounded and expansive. A life where we are not defined by the loudest voice in the room, but by the truest one.

So, on this Good Shepherd Sunday, the invitation is simple, but not easy:

Listen. Listen for the voice that calls you by name. Listen for the voice that leads toward life. Listen for the voice that gathers rather than scatters.

And when you hear it, follow. Not because you are forced. But because, deep down, you recognize that it is the voice of the one who has been calling you all along.

May we have the courage to listen—and to follow the voice that calls us by name, leading us beyond comfort into life that is bold, abundant, and true.

Amen.

There is something deeply human about walking away.

The story from Luke’s Gospel we just heard begins not in triumph, but in retreat. Two disciples, disappointed and uncertain, leave Jerusalem—not fleeing in fear, but not remaining in hope. They are walking away from the place where their deepest beliefs seem to have collapsed.

“We had hoped…” they say.

Those three words carry the weight of grief, disillusionment, and quiet resignation. We had hoped. Not “we hope,” not “we still believe,” but something past tense. Something that has already died. And if we are honest, we know that road.

We know what it is to walk away from something we once believed would change everything. A relationship that didn’t last. A calling that lost its clarity. A vision for the world that seems increasingly out of reach. We know what it is to watch the news, to hear the rhetoric, to feel the tension rising in our own nation and beyond, and to say, perhaps not aloud, but in the quiet of our hearts, we had hoped.

We had hoped for peace, yet we hear threats of war reduced to political theater. We had hoped for unity, yet we find ourselves more divided and fearful. We had hoped for leaders who build up, speak with humility, not bravado. We had hoped.

And so we walk too. Like those disciples, we keep moving, trying to make sense of what has happened, rehearsing the story again and again, as if repetition might somehow produce understanding.

Yet here is where the Gospel surprises us: Jesus comes alongside them, and they do not recognize him.

Not because he is hidden in some mystical way, but because grief has a way of narrowing our vision. Disappointment can make us blind. When hope dies, it takes with it our ability to see what might still be alive.

But they walk with him, this stranger who asks what they are discussing. There is almost a touch of irony here. “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know…?” they ask him.

Of course, he is the only one who truly does know. But he listens.

That, I think, is one of the most pastoral moments in all of Scripture. The risen Christ does not interrupt them with correction. He does not immediately reveal himself. He does not say, “You’ve misunderstood everything.” Instead, he invites them to speak. He allows them to tell their story, to name their disappointment, to articulate their confusion.

Before there is revelation, there is listening.

There is something here for us, especially in a time like ours. We live in an age of constant commentary, where everyone has something to say, and very few are willing to listen. Too often, we speak past one another, shout over one another, and reduce one another to caricatures. But Christ, the one who is Truth itself, begins not with proclamation, but with presence.

He walks with them.

And then, gently, he begins to reframe their understanding. He opens the Scriptures to them—not as a set of abstract texts, but as a living story that finds its fulfillment in suffering transformed, in death overcome, in a God who refuses to abandon the world even when the world rejects him.

“Was it not necessary…?” he asks.

Necessary—not in the sense that God desired suffering, but because God enters into the deepest realities of human experience and redeems them from within. The cross was not the end of hope; it was where hope was redefined.

But still, they do not recognize him. Because understanding alone is not enough.

You can have all the right theology, all the correct interpretation, all the intellectual clarity in the world, and still miss the presence of Christ walking beside you. Faith is not merely about what we know; it is about how we encounter.

They arrive at Emmaus. The day is nearly over. The stranger makes as if to continue, but they urge him, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening.”

Stay with us. That simple act of hospitality becomes the turning point of the story.

In a world that is increasingly closed off, guarded, suspicious, and quick to draw boundaries, there is something profoundly countercultural about this moment. They invite the stranger in. They make room at the table. They extend trust where there could have been distance.

And it is there, in that ordinary, domestic, unremarkable setting, that everything changes.

“He took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.” And suddenly, they see. Not on the road. Not in the explanation. Not in the analysis of Scripture, but in the breaking of the bread.

This is not accidental. Luke points us to the Eucharistic life of the Church. The pattern from the Last Supper—taking, blessing, breaking, giving—is repeated here. The risen Christ is revealed not through spectacle, but through sacrament; not in overwhelming display, but in the simple, sacred act of shared bread.

And the moment they recognize him, he vanishes from their sight.

Which might seem, at first, like a cruel twist. But it is not. Because the point is not to cling to a visible presence, but to recognize a deeper, more abiding one. Jesus is no longer limited to one place, one form, one moment. He is present wherever bread is broken in love, wherever lives are shared in grace, wherever hope is rekindled amid despair.

“He was made known to them in the breaking of the bread.”

And then they say something remarkable: “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?”

Notice the shift. What once felt like confusion, like emptiness, is now recognized as something else entirely. Even before they understood, even before they saw clearly, something within them was already being stirred.

Grace often works that way. Long before we can name it, long before we can articulate it, God is already at work within us, softening, awakening, kindling something new.

So what do the disciples do next? They get up and go back.

Back to Jerusalem. Back to the place they had left. Back to the community they had distanced themselves from. Back to the very place of disappointment, now transformed by the possibility of hope.

The road to Emmaus is not the end of the story; it marks a crucial turning point. Today, we are at that very crossroads, poised for what comes next.

We are, in many ways, a people on the road, trying to make sense of a world that feels uncertain, often fractured, sometimes frightening. We hear voices that trade in fear and power, in threats and division. We see suffering that seems endless, conflicts that seem intractable, and a political and social landscape that often feels more like a battlefield than a common home.

It is easy to say, we had hoped. Yet the Gospel urges us not to remain in disappointment, because Jesus walks beside us—even when we do not recognize him, especially then.

He is present in the stranger, in the conversation we might otherwise avoid, in the quiet stirring of conscience that calls us to something more than anger or despair. He is present in the breaking of the bread, in this table, in this community, in the shared life that refuses to give up on love.

And here is the challenge, the invitation, the calling for us: Will we recognize him? Will we make space for him? Will we allow our hearts to burn again, not with the fire of outrage, but with the fire of hope?

Because the world already has many voices of despair and division. It does not need more threats or certainty that the worst is inevitable.

What it needs are people who have encountered the risen Christ on the road, who have recognized him in the breaking of the bread, and who are willing to return, to go back into the very places of pain and confusion and proclaim, not with naïve optimism but with hard-won conviction:

Hope is not dead. Jesus is alive. And he is still walking with us.

So, if you find yourself today on that road, if your heart is heavy, if your hopes feel distant, if the world seems more broken than whole, know this: You are not walking alone.

And perhaps, just perhaps, the very one you think is a stranger is already speaking, already listening, already opening the story in ways you have not yet fully seen.

Stay at the table. Break the bread. Pay attention to the quiet burning within.

When you recognize him, do not remain where you are. Get up. Return. Tell the story. The world is waiting for witnesses.

Amen.

John 20:19-31

There is a tendency in the life of the Church to reduce people to a single moment. A single failure. A single phrase. And once we do that, it becomes very difficult to see them as anything more than that moment.

Thomas has suffered this fate perhaps more than most.

Say his name, and almost instinctively we say, “Doubting Thomas.” We sum up his discipleship in one moment of hesitation, as if that single response defines him above all else. Yet, doing so keeps us from seeing his true character.

Yet, Scripture offers a fuller portrait of Thomas, one that challenges our tendency to reduce him to a moment of doubt. If we listen closely, we see the movement from doubt to a deeper, more courageous faith.

This passage we just heard from John is so important; we hear it every year on this Sunday. We work off a three-year cycle of readings known as the Common Lectionary. Most churches use the lectionary, except for some Evangelical Churches.

Those who put the lectionary together felt that this story of Thomas, which appears only in John’s Gospel, was so significant that it placed it here, on the Sunday after Easter, to remind us what faith really looks like.

Before we reach the locked room in today’s Gospel, we meet Thomas in another pivotal moment, one that reveals an essential part of his character.

In John 11, which we heard on the last Sunday of Lent, just a few weeks ago, when Jesus hears that Lazarus is ill, he delays his departure, and by the time he decides to return to Judea, the disciples are understandably afraid. The last time they were there, the authorities were ready to stone him. To go back is to risk everything.

And it is Thomas, who speaks up and says, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.”

That is not the voice of a doubter. That is the voice of courage. That is the voice of belief.

Thomas is not standing on the sidelines. He is not hedging his bets. He is all in. If Jesus is going to Judea, into danger, into the shadow of death, then Thomas is going too, even if it costs him everything.

“Let us also go.”

Hold onto that, Thomas, for just a moment. When we arrive at today’s Gospel, the scene has changed, but the stakes have not. The disciples now gather in fear behind locked doors. The crucifixion has shattered their expectations; their courage has been replaced by uncertainty and grief.

And then Jesus comes and stands among them and says, “Peace be with you.” Jesus shows them his scars, his hands, feet, and his side, and there is no reaction from any of them. Their friend has just returned from the dead, and John records no reaction.

But Thomas is not there. We are not told why, but consider who Thomas is: someone who does not hide easily or remain content to be passive. Perhaps, true to his character, he is out searching for answers, acting on his need to engage directly with what has happened.

Modern scholarship tends to portray Thomas as someone who tries to figure everything out. A few days ago, he believed they would all die for the cause. The Messiah they expected was a general, someone to free them from Roman occupation—a strong, take-no-prisoners leader, not this love-everyone figure. Thomas was confused. But this is often what belief looks like.

When the others tell him, “We have seen the Lord,” Thomas responds as someone determined not to accept secondhand accounts: “Unless I see… unless I touch… I will not believe.” His motivation is not skepticism for its own sake, but a desire for the same direct experience the others had.

But what if we have been hearing that wrong? What if this is not a rejection of belief, but a refusal to settle for anything less than the same encounter the others have had? Thomas is not asking for more than the others; he is asking for the same. Until now, they all shared the same experience—except this time, Thomas was left out, and he feels cheated.

This story hinges on Thomas’s absence. It is not about doubt; it is a story of faith.

Thomas is not doubting Jesus; he is doubting what he is hearing from the others because he needs personal confirmation before believing such extraordinary news. He wants to see the Lord he has already committed his life to—the one he was willing to die with, whom he followed into danger back in Bethany.

Thomas believes in Jesus and the resurrection, but struggles to believe the story he heard from others.

Thomas’s words are not the opposite of faith; they are born from it. He believes enough to want the real thing, not just someone else’s experience of it. And once again, just as in Bethany, Jesus meets him there.

A week later, Jesus comes again. The doors are shut, not locked, but that does not stop resurrection. He stands among them, speaks peace, and then turns directly to Thomas.

“Put your finger here. See my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side.”

Jesus does not shame or rebuke Thomas. Instead, he honors the depth of Thomas’s longing and meets him in it.

And Thomas responds, not with hesitation, not with doubt, but with one of the clearest and most powerful confessions in all of Scripture: “My Lord and my God.” This is the only time in John’s Gospel where Jesus is referred to as God. That does not sound like someone who is doubting.

For Thomas, it all comes together in the moment. He has been a witness to everything that has happened; he believed before and was willing to die for that belief. But now, his belief has turned to faith, and it was the word, not a touch, that cemented that faith.

This is the same man who once said, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” Only now, having encountered the risen Christ, does he proclaim not just a willingness to die with Jesus, but recognition that Jesus is life itself.

See how Thomas’s story unfolds: He journeys from courageous belief to an even deeper faith.

He moves from following Jesus into the shadow of death to recognizing Jesus as the source of life. From mere commitment to transformative confession. This is the heart of Thomas’s story—and perhaps our own journey as well.

Thomas is called the twin, but it is never revealed who the other twin is. In fact, the name Thomas is derived from an Aramaic word meaning ” twin. Thomas is also called Didymus, which is the Greek word for twin. So, Thomas is actually called Twin, Twin.

It has been suggested that Thomas was the “twin” of Jesus, not in the biological sense but in the faith sense. Thomas has the kind of faith that all believers should have, that all believers should desire to have. A faith that is not perfect, but rather a faith that is being worked out.

Belief is not static; it grows, deepens, and is refined through life’s realities—grief, fear, loss, and uncertainty.

There are moments when we, like Thomas from a few weeks ago, feel strong enough to say, “Let us go. Whatever comes, we will follow.” We want to be that Thomas.

And there are moments when we, like today’s Thomas, need to see, to touch, to know that resurrection is not just a story we have been told but a reality we can trust. The Thomas we actually are.

Both are part of belief. Both are holy. And in both, Christ comes to meet us.

That is the good news of this Gospel. Not that we must have perfect, unwavering certainty at all times. But that Christ is not deterred by our questions, our searching, or even our absence.

He comes through locked doors, stands among us, speaks peace, and invites us into deeper belief again and again.

Tradition tells us that after the Ascension of Jesus, Thomas went to India and established seven churches. He is said to have died for Jesus in India, being killed by a spear. St. Thomas Cathedral in India, built in the 16th century, is believed to be on the spot where his tomb is said to be.

So perhaps it is time to retire the name “Doubting Thomas.” Instead, let us remember him as he truly is: Thomas the courageous. Thomas the committed. Thomas the believer. Thomas the twin—whose faith moved from fear to a profound confession of Christ.

The one who dared to follow Jesus into danger. The one who longed for a real encounter. The one who, when he saw the risen Christ, proclaimed with clarity and conviction: “My Lord and my God.”

May we have that kind of courage. May we have that kind of honesty. And may we, in our own time and in our own way, come to that same confession.

Amen.