Today is the Second Sunday of Easter.
In addition to being a festive holy day, Easter is an entire season of fifty days — Eastertide. The themes of these weeks focus on new life, love, connection, and community. The readings will primarily be from the Gospel of John and the epistle of 1 John. Eastertide lasts until Pentecost which, this year, is Sunday, May 19.
Epistle Reading — 1 John 1:1-7
We declare to you what was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands, concerning the word of life — this life was revealed, and we have seen it and testify to it, and declare to you the eternal life that was with the Father and was revealed to us — we declare to you what we have seen and heard so that you also may have fellowship with us; and truly our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son Jesus Christ. We are writing these things so that our joy may be complete.
This is the message we have heard from him and proclaim to you, that God is light and in him there is no darkness at all. If we say that we have fellowship with him while we are walking in darkness, we lie and do not do what is true; but if we walk in the light as he himself is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin.
Gospel Reading — John 20:19-31
When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you." After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, "Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you." When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, "Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained."
But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord." But he said to them, "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."
A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you." Then he said to Thomas, "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe." Thomas answered him, "My Lord and my God!" Jesus said to him, "Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe."
Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.
Today’s gospel passage is traditionally read on the second Sunday of Easter. It’s a widely known story — that of Doubting Thomas, the disciple who doesn’t believe that Jesus has risen until he sees and touches him.
But that’s not where the story starts. The passage begins a week earlier on the evening of that day. “While it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed.” She ran and got Peter and another disciple. The men returned with her, went into the tomb and found no body, but only burial wrappings. They ran away.
Mary, however, stayed at the tomb and cried. A stranger inquired after her, and, following a brief conversation, she realized that he was Jesus, the risen Christ. He asked Mary to tell the disciples what had happened. And Mary did exactly that: “I have seen the Lord!”
It is evening of that day. The Doubting Thomas episode didn’t happen until a week later.
For whatever reason, I’ve never found the second half — the Thomas part — of this passage compelling. But this evening encounter away from the tomb, told so sparely in a few verses, never fails to speak to me.
When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the discipleship met were locked for the fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.”
This verse is often overlooked when the story is read. Yet, I’m convinced that it is full of important details. First, the disciples retreat to the room where they last gathered with Jesus, the place of their final Passover meal (I wrote about this in “The Holy Thursday Revolution”).
The second significant thing is that the doors are locked. Mary made her big announcement. So, what did the male disciples do? They hid where they thought they wouldn’t be found and locked themselves in. They were scared. Really scared.
And what scares them? The “fear of the Jews.”
In recent decades, many liberal theologians and mainline preachers have gone to great lengths to minimize the antisemitism of John’s passion narrative, a story full of references to “the Jews.” This year, my own pastor sent out a note to the congregation explaining (rightly) that during Holy Week we’d hear texts that mention “the Jews” but those references really mean the Jewish authorities who collaborated with the Romans. The clarification is now fairly commonplace in mainline churches — which is a very good thing. Not all Jews, certain Jewish enemy sympathizers.
Thus, the opening words of Easter evening — the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews — are read softly, skipped over, or mentally reinterpreted to say “for fear of the Jewish authorities.” We want to move on quickly, not dwell on this problematic phrase. Much better to put the emphasis on the end of the sentence: Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.”
Whew. Now we can breathe.
But what if the writer — in this case at least — really meant “for fear of the Jews”? Why wouldn’t the author say Pilate’s men or the Roman soldiers if the disciples were afraid of the authorities? There were plenty of bad actors they might have feared.
Why “for fear of the Jews”? That’s odd given the fact that all the disciples locked in the room were themselves Jews. Were they afraid of their own people? Were they afraid of themselves?
Casual readers of John’s narrative often forget that this book is the least literal of the gospels. Indeed, scholars have pointed out that John’s gospel is full of mystical and symbolic language. It is spiritually multivalent. The author of John mastered the tension between figurative speech and plain speech — using language and telling stories that both conceal and reveal at the same time.
Maybe the plain speech of this passage is the fear of Jewish authorities. But perhaps the figurative meaning of the text is that the disciples were terrified of their own people, their own selves. The execution, the missing body, the empty tomb, the shocking message of Mary — they couldn’t or wouldn’t face it, they fled, they locked themselves behind those doors.
And why do we lock doors? We usually lock doors because we’re afraid of the dark. The darkness outside; the darkness inside.
“You know / so very well / the edge / of darkness / you have / always / carried with you,” writes the poet David Whyte.
When I first read Whyte’s poem, “The Edge You Carry With You,” a few weeks ago, these words struck with such force that my knees buckled. He describes that edge as our fear of our truest self and deepest longings — dreading our bodily passions and powers, terrorized by both our own life and our death. We close the door on it, locking ourselves in against this darkness, bolting the door against ourselves. We will be safe inside. Better than living on that edge.
But what if the darkness is really just obscuring the light?
And what if the locked door isn’t protecting us but holding us prisoner? What if the door must be opened to that which awaits on the other side?
But your edge
of darkness
has always
made
its own definition
secretly
as an edge of lightand the door
you closed
might,
by its very nature
be
one just waiting
to be leant against
and opened.
The plain speech of John’s gospel is that Jesus was crucified, died, and was buried. And, on the third day, he rose and lives. The disciples were terrified. They didn’t know what to make of it. They locked themselves in. On the evening of Easter, they entombed themselves.
John’s figurative story is that when we lock ourselves behind doors for fear of our neighbors, our people, ourselves, we turn the feasting room into a tomb. The edge of darkness — the edge of all our fears — is also a kind of crucifixion, death, and burial. Slam the door! Bolt it shut! We’re afraid. So afraid of the dark. Cut off from others, we quiver alone in the night.
Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you” . . . Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”
The chains fall off. The door opens.
Your way home,
understood now,
not as an achievement,
but as a giving up,
a blessed undoing,
an arrival
in the body
and a full rest
in the give
and take
of the breath.
The edge of darkness, imprisoning us in fear, is revealed to be the light: This is the message we have heard from him and proclaim to you, that God is light and in him there is no darkness at all.
Elsewhere in John, Jesus said, “I am the door.” And, in Revelation, a book also attributed to the author of John, Jesus proclaimed, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock.”
Perhaps Jesus was at that locked entry, not those whom the disciples imagined had turned on them and would harm them. They feared what they thought was at the door — the darkness of death. They missed seeing the light under threshold. I wonder if Jesus tried to get in some more normal way — but was ignored by his friends shivering inside with fright. Only then did he resort to miracle.
This living
breathing body
always waiting
to greet you
at the door,
always prepared
to give you
the rest you need,
always,
no matter
the long
years away,
still
wanting you,
to come home.
Whether plain speech or figurative speech or both, I know this story. In my flesh. In my bones. What’s beyond the door? Darkness? Or is it really light? Away with the locks, tear down the prison. I want to come home to the other side. My Lord, and my God!
Peace be with you.
THURSDAY AT THE COTTAGE, April 11 at 11:30 AM Eastern
An online conversation for paid subscribers with NPR’s Sarah McCammon
Cottage Conversations feature discussions and live Q&A with noted authors, artists, and activists in faith, spirituality, and social justice.
This week will be a treat: Sarah McCammon, National Political Correspondent for NPR, shares with us about her New York Times bestseller, The Exvangelicals: Loving, Living, and Leaving the White Evangelical Church. It is a compelling and informative book — weaving personal narrative with journalistic reporting (my favorite genre!) about why young adults are leaving evangelicalism and “deconstructing” their religion.
It will be especially helpful to ex-evangelicals in the Cottage community (and there are many), those of you wondering about young adults and the ‘nones,’ and pastors of mainline churches who now find themselves with wounded exvangelicals searching for a new faith community.
ALL PAID SUBSCRIBERS will get a link in their email about two hours before the live conversation on Thursday.
If you can’t make the live broadcast, DON’T WORRY! The recording will be sent to all paid subscribers afterward.
INSPIRATION
You know
so very well
the edge
of darkness
you have
always
carried with you.
You know
so very well,
your childhood legacy:
that particular,
inherited
sense of hurt,
given to you
so freely
by the world
you entered.
And you know
too well
by now
the body’s
hesitation
at the invitation
to undo
everything
others seemed
to want to
make you learn.
But your edge
of darkness
has always
made
its own definition
secretly
as an edge of light
and the door
you closed
might,
by its very nature
be
one just waiting
to be leant against
and opened.
And happiness
might just
be a single step away,
on the other side
of that next
unhelpful
and undeserving
thought.
Your way home,
understood now,
not as an achievement,
but as a giving up,
a blessed undoing,
an arrival
in the body
and a full rest
in the give
and take
of the breath.
This living
breathing body
always waiting
to greet you
at the door,
always prepared
to give you
the rest you need,
always,
no matter
the long
years away,
still
wanting you,
to come home.
— David Whyte, “The Edge You Carry With You,” from Still Possible
Although this song is usually played in Advent or Epiphany, its imagery is drawn directly from today’s reading in 1 John. The interplay of the darkness and light weaves together the poem by David Whyte and the 1 John text.
This video is from Chris Brunelle, music director at Holy Family Catholic Church in Portland, OR.
Are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?
Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
— Mary Oliver
Another "Wow!" interpretation. Thank you!
A full, deep breath of freedom! Thank you, Diana. ❤️