Once Upon the Ink

Taken from John 20:24-29

It’s late. Outside the stars are out, the night is cold… quiet. But inside this room, the air is thick, warm and smothering with its anxiety. Just like every other night this week we’re hiding, smuggled in from one room to the next through shadows and cloaks, like criminals on the run.

We’ve been reduced to relying on others, avoiding the marketplaces in case we’re recognized, secretly funnelled from one family to the next by those whom Jesus rescued before he was captured and killed. And after the shock of what Judas did, none of us trusts easily. We’re just waiting for the next betrayal. For the moment when the army will break in and find us. Fear grips each and every neck, jolts through every eye contact. Time hangs suspended and yet jerks forward from one moment to the next in the disorienting way of trauma.

Right now, Thomas and I are standing in the back of the room, keeping to the edges of the group. Neither of us feels like joining the others as they eat and laugh and pray together. The camaraderie feels forced to us as we hover on the outskirts. There’s been a shift in the others over the past few days, a loosening of shoulders, a return of smiles. Because there’ve been reports of him: first from Mary, then Peter, and then others.

Reports that he’s not dead.

Even though both of us know that such a thing is possible – we saw what happened with Lazarus at the same time as all the others – neither of us is placated by the news. Neither of us lets ourselves be comforted. Thomas folds his arms and leans back against the wall next to me. The stubborn, defiant tilt to his chin mirrors my own. Both of us feel mulish. Rebellious. Resentful even. There’s a small rift forming between us and the others. And it’s making everyone uncomfortable. But we won’t budge.

“I won’t believe it.” Thomas mutters under his breath at me, again. He just got into an argument with Peter. Peter, as usual being so overly eager to share what he knows, totally missed the social cues Thomas and I were radiating. He was so caught up in it, glowing with excitement over being with Jesus for a minute. He couldn’t understand why we wouldn’t just believe him. Why our faces wouldn’t grin back at him. He was disgruntled at Thomas’ outright denial. And then it got awkward. For everyone.

“I won’t.” Thomas whispers – as if I argued with him – when I didn’t say a single word. When I am standing here beside him, mirroring his posture and his thoughts as if they were my own. His whole body is tense – wired (but so is mine), “Not til I’ve put my fingers in the holes in his hands, touched the wound in his side.” There’s an edge to his voice, a desperation, and it scrapes at me, makes me swallow back the answering knot in my own throat. I have to fight sudden tears I didn’t know were there. I don’t speak, I just nod my head. Perfectly in accord with him. He doesn’t know I’m here anyway, that I’m standing here with him rather than with the others.

What neither of us is willing to admit is the reason for our stubborn disbelief. Is the hot poker jabbing into our hearts. Why weren’t we there when Jesus came? Thomas is inwardly cursing himself for leaving, but underneath it, there’s a childish, bewildered yearning. Why didn’t Jesus wait until we were all here? Why didn’t we get to see him, too?

Does it mean something? That we’re the last? That we were left out while the others all got their time with him?

My heart squeezes tighter. There’s a growing resentment in the man beside me that I feel too. He’s supposed to just go off of what others testify? Just be the only one who didn’t get to see him, hear his voice?

Maybe we should be more mature than this. Maybe we should be patient. Jesus’ words about how the last shall be first flicker through my mind. But I hate that sentence right now.

And it doesn’t help to chastise myself, try to beat some patience into my skin. I don’t want to be mature. Or patient. I don’t want to let others be first. Not when it comes to him.

I want to see him.

The ache sits on my chest. Squeezes my lungs. I need him just as much as any other. Thomas doesn’t say it, but I heard the need in his voice. I can feel the desperation in his shoulders as if it’s my own. What if he’s the only one who never gets to see Jesus? Feel his hand clamp onto his shoulder again? What if his last sight of Jesus was that of one thrown over his shoulder as he ran away from the priests and the soldiers?

I feel sudden, deep affection for Thomas as I look at his rebellious stance. This one moment is going to be his most famous. And not in a good way. Sermon after sermon will be composed on how not to be like him. How to try harder or to be better. I look around at the rest of the group. I think about all the screw ups these men have been recorded doing. All their hasty words that get used as props in sermons. All their mis-steps, judgement, jealousy and bickering that gets picked apart and dissected and used. I think about how they could never keep up with Jesus, were always clueless about what he was trying to show them.

Thank goodness.

Thank goodness they’re like me. Not super heroes in a fantasy novel. Instead they’re people with flaws and good hearts that are sometimes hard, sometimes reactive, sometimes ego-centered. People that struggle and keep going anyway. That can’t preach a sermon without knowing they’re in the bog of unknowing just like the rest of us.

It surprises me, the spike of gratitude. I think it’s the first time I’ve been thankful for their mess ups. Thought of their imperfections as a gift. Instead of rolling my eyes at them and being annoyed I’m so thankful they’re like me. That being with Jesus didn’t make them suddenly perfect.

Thomas stiffens and slowly straightens from the wall, something in the sudden quiet making me look up from my toes. I jolt.

Jesus is standing right in front of us. Grinning. His expression is mischievous, as if he’s saying “gottcha!”

My heart turns over, squeezes, at the feel of him just there, right in front of me. So close. So familiar. Why do I always forget him so quickly?

He reaches out a hand. “Put your finger here.” He says to Thomas, holding his gaze, grabbing Thomas’s hand and guiding it to the hole the nails left in his wrist. He lets Thomas feel it, the both of them suddenly sober, the memory of that traumatic day right in front of them. He shifts direction, his voice quieter, but still full of comfort, “put your hand in my side.”

Thomas is weeping, silently. Tears spilling down his cheeks into his beard. Here he is. The man he missed like a brother. I feel the wave of his relief like it’s my own. All the fears and doubts are banished instantly in Jesus’ eyes. The ones that love us so much. The ones that tease and know us to our cores. That slow coming to life and remembering what it feels like to be safe. Thomas feels sheepish maybe (if he’s like me). Unsure what to say. It’s clear Jesus heard what he’d said. He knows how stubborn he was being. How unreasonable.

He needed proof – but more he just needed Jesus’ presence. Someone else’s testimony can’t carry our hearts. Not fully. We need to feel him for ourselves.

Jesus chuckles and pulls him into a bear hug, slapping his back. “Do you believe me now?” He teases. And then, knowing all the images Thomas fights with, the ones of his death and his beating. The hiding and waiting and the desperation, he whispers “I’m here,” They squeeze tighter, Thomas hugging him back, “I’m always with you.”

They step back then, Thomas awkward like men can get after emotional displays. There’s tears all over the room, though. Each one of these men is relieved to see Jesus. None of them wants to break the moment, in case he disappears again. Jesus looks at me, his eyes glimmering with tears too, seeing my longing, my wishing, my yearning. Knowing I’m only a wish in the room. That many others like me will do the same that I am doing. “Blessed are those who haven’t seen but trust in me anyway.” He says quietly, in comfort, his voice settling over my heart. Like a blanket, like a hug relayed by Holy Spirit straight into my soul. Speaking directly to me and those of us who didn’t get to live back then.

And though I know I’m not in that room with the disciples, I can feel him gathering up close, right inside my mind and heart and soul. Imprinting the feel of his heart and his love into the deepest parts of me. And the mischief in his eyes says he doesn’t mind that I get childishly tactile in my need for him sometimes. He doesn’t mind at all being needed.