Second Sunday of Easter (Year C, RCL)

1 Peter 1:3–9, John 20:19–31

On Saturdays at First Presbyterian, the congregants know good jazz when they hear it. But the event is first of all a church service.

In John's prologue, the incarnate Word is the God of creative address.

There is a richness and depth to this week's text from John's Gospel, fertile ground for reflection. Below are some assorted thoughts the story of Thomas inspires in me.

Why is the Jesus on that crucifix so small?

The cross overshadows him, dwarfs him. This is what I think about in my Aquinas class.

To ask a question is to risk an answer. Sometimes we don’t like the answer we receive. In Thomas’s case, though, the real risk is in success.

Last year I took a class to determine my Enneagram number. I’m an old hand at Myers-Briggs, with its 16 types, but this nine-number circle with all sorts of arrows going back and forth was a new system for me. Thankfully the teacher, Suzanne Stabile, had a teaching style I understood well. It turns out we are the same type.

Some of us reside in the heart (or feeling) triad, as Suzanne and I do, and some in the head (or thinking) triad. My guess is Thomas would belong in the third triad.

Thomas knows Jesus as incarnate. He cannot easily make the leap to Jesus’ new condition. It’s easier for us, because we consider the story in a different order.

When she knew she was dying, my grandmother took me to see the cornerstone of a small brick church in my hometown of Kansas City, Missouri. I didn’t recognize the sign outside. It was a Baptist church, I think. It was pretty rundown, but still in better shape than the neighborhood. Overgrown vacant lots were everywhere; it was like visiting an abandoned church in the jungle.

Perhaps it's only when we let go of who and what our loved one was that we can receive who they are now.

The story goes that God got a body. I’ve often pondered the relationship between incarnation and pain.

My father died about three years ago. As May comes around, the azaleas spring to life, and I remember my father's passing. Just as sure as the tulips and dogwood blossom, my mind wanders back to my dad. Even when I begin to open up to these strange and wonderful stories of Easter, struggling with the notions of recognition and revelation, I think about the last few months of my father's life.