Sermon for April 27, 2025 - The Second Sunday of Easter

“From Doubt to Declaration: Peace in the Risen Christ”

On this Second Sunday of Easter, we find ourselves still in the afterglow of resurrection light, still clinging to the hope that Christ is risen. But today’s readings meet us not just in joy, but in struggle—particularly in our struggle to believe.

We meet Thomas, called the Twin, a disciple of Jesus who dared to say aloud what many of us feel in our hearts: "Unless I see, I will not believe." And alongside his story, we hear John’s vision of the risen Christ in Revelation—glorious, eternal, “the firstborn from the dead,” coming with the clouds.

These two passages, taken together, remind us of a journey—from fear to faith, from doubt to declaration. And they point us to a Lord who comes to meet us not with judgment, but with peace.

Our gospel begins with a room full of fear. The disciples have locked themselves in. Jesus has been crucified. Yes, there are whispers of resurrection, but fear still reigns. They fear the religious leaders. They fear the future. Perhaps, deep down, they even fear that it might be true—that He is alive—and what that would mean.

And suddenly, Jesus is there. No key, no knock—He simply appears. His first word is not a rebuke. His first word is not, “Why did you abandon me?” His first word is *peace*.

“Peace be with you,” He says, and He shows them His hands and side. He brings them the evidence of love—a love that endured nails and thorns and death. And then He breathes on them, a new creation breath, and sends them out. Resurrection is not just a fact to be acknowledged—it’s a mission to be lived.

This is a crucial moment: the disciples go from hiding to being sent. But not all of them are there.

Thomas wasn’t in the room.

Why not? We don’t know. Maybe he was grieving. Maybe he had distanced himself in pain. But when the others tell him, “We have seen the Lord,” Thomas can't bring himself to believe secondhand faith. He speaks words that have echoed through the centuries: “Unless I see the nail marks… and put my hand into His side, I will not believe.”

Many have called him Doubting Thomas, but really, he’s just Honest Thomas. He asks for what the others were already given—proof. A personal encounter.

And here's the beauty: Jesus does not condemn Thomas. He doesn't scold him. A week later, Jesus comes again. And again, the doors are locked. Fear still lingers. But Jesus comes through the locked doors, into the middle of their doubt, and says again: *Peace be with you.*

Then He turns to Thomas, inviting him to touch, to see, to believe.

“Stop doubting and believe,” Jesus says. But the Greek here is more like, “Don’t become unbelieving, but believing.” Jesus is guiding Thomas forward—not with shame, but with grace.

And Thomas responds with the most powerful declaration of all: *My Lord and my God!* In that moment, the doubter becomes the confessor. The skeptic becomes the worshiper.

Jesus’ words to Thomas are for us, too: “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” That’s us. We don’t stand in that locked room. We don’t touch the scars. We walk by faith, not by sight. But the blessing of Christ reaches even across the centuries to find us here.

John’s Gospel concludes this passage with a purpose statement: “These are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Messiah… and that by believing you may have life in his name.”

Doubt is not the enemy of faith—it is often the doorway. Thomas’ story reminds us that questions are welcome in the presence of Jesus. He meets us where we are and leads us to where we need to be.

If Thomas gives us the personal, intimate encounter with the risen Jesus, Revelation lifts our eyes to the cosmic Christ—the One who is, who was, and who is to come.

John the Revelator writes from exile, and he greets the churches with the same word: “grace and peace.” But this time it comes not from a room with locked doors, but from the eternal throne.

This risen Jesus is no longer veiled in flesh. He is the “faithful witness, the firstborn from the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth.” He is the one who “loves us and has freed us from our sins by His blood.”

Thomas saw scars and said, “My Lord and my God.” John sees glory and says, “To Him be glory and power forever and ever!”

This Jesus is not just risen for one moment—He reigns eternally. “Look, He is coming with the clouds,” says Revelation, “and every eye will see Him, even those who pierced Him.” The personal becomes universal. The one who met Thomas in a quiet room will one day be revealed to all creation.

So what does this mean for us today?

It means that your doubt is not the end of your faith story. Thomas doubted, and Jesus came close. You may find yourself in a locked room—fearful, uncertain, hesitant—but Jesus comes bearing peace.

It means we are not called just to believe in a fact, but to follow a Lord. Thomas didn’t say, “You are the risen one.” He said, “*My* Lord and *my* God.” Faith is personal. It is trust, it is surrender.

It means we are part of something much bigger. The same Jesus who appeared in a quiet room now reigns in glory. And He has made “us” a kingdom of priests to serve His God and Father. He has given us peace, and He sends us with purpose.

Friends, the journey from Easter Day to Easter faith is not always a straight line. It often winds through grief, questions, and locked doors. But the risen Christ is patient. He comes again and again, speaking peace, showing love, breathing life.

And whether you are in the room of faith, like the first disciples, or standing in the tension of doubt like Thomas, Jesus comes to you. He shows us His wounds—not to shame us, but to heal us. He invites you to believe—not blindly, but boldly.

From the locked room of fear to the throne room of heaven, Jesus reigns. He is the First and the Last, the Living One. He was dead, but now He lives forever.

So let us echo the words of Thomas. Let them become the confession of the Church and the heartbeat of our lives:

“My Lord and my God.”

Amen.