Second Sunday of Easter
By the Rev. Alanna Sullivan
Associate Minister and Director of Administration
The Memorial Church of Harvard University
(The following is a transcript of the service audio, April 12, 2026)
Will you pray with me? May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts and minds be acceptable in your sight, oh God. Our rock and redeemer. Amen. In our gospel lesson for today, the disciples find themselves in a complicated, dangerous, messy time, shrouded in a heavy fog of shame and fear and disbelief. The disciples don't know what to do with themselves on this side of the resurrection. So they seek solace and hide out in a familiar place where Jesus shared his last meal with them, washed their feet, and foreshadowed the details of his betrayal.
A few years ago, I actually had the opportunity to visit that familiar place in the Old City of Jerusalem, the Upper Room. It's believed by many Christians to be the same room, which is where our story takes place today. And there is much that I remember from this holy pilgrimage site, but there was one detail that stands out: the large pale stone blocks that formed its walls. They were thick, so thick that the noise and chaos of the city beyond them all but disappeared. And standing there, I remember thinking that if I ever needed to feel safe, I can imagine myself sinking sanctuary in a place like this.
So it's here that Jesus comes to these terrified disciples, and at first they don't recognize him. It's not until Jesus reveals his wounds, and then he bestows mercy onto them and asks them to share his message of grace and love and peace with the world. It's certainly easy to dismiss the disciples for not recognizing Jesus at first, yet how many of us have found ourselves disoriented and wandering at times? At moments when we are overwhelmed by life, and we end up doing something that we regret, at moments we fail to recognize ourselves, let alone those around us.
And hearing good news does not necessarily erase our fear, especially when we're filled with doubt and anxiety. So it is not at all too surprising that a week later, the disciples find themselves again in the exact same place, hiding away in the same house, behind the same shut door, so Jesus comes again. Jesus comes again and again to these scared, confused disciples. He meets them exactly as they are, exactly where they are. This time, Thomas is with them. He missed the first encounter with Jesus and did not believe them. In other moments of the gospel story, Thomas is revealed to be somewhat of a practical guy. So his response to their news sounds like the Thomas they know, "Unless I see the marks of the nails in his hands and put my finger in the marks of the nails and my hand is in his side, I will not believe."
But can one blame him for needing some reassurance and certainty during this complicated, dangerous, messy time? And what I find surprising is not Thomas's doubt, but it's his sharing of that doubt publicly. He's not afraid to display his vulnerability. And what's more, the community of disciples doesn't rebuke him for doing so. Even in their own fearful state, they allow him to articulate his uncertainty without fear of mockery or retaliation. So when Jesus comes again, bolstered by the community's support and care, Thomas accepts God's presence in their midst. Jesus invites him to, "Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt, but believe."
And Thomas exclaims, "My Lord, my God." In recognition. In addition to his vulnerability, Thomas reassures us that faith doesn't have to be straightforward. Writer Debbie Thomas observes, "Rarely does change happen all at once. Often it creeps along ever so gradually and slowly, coming in sideways and in fits and starts." Anyone who's battled an addiction, or stuck it out in a challenging relationship, or lived with a chronic illness, knows that conversion is a lifelong process. So Thomas reveals to us that it is okay to take our time. It is okay for us to wander. It is okay to hope for more.
This is a story about God coming to us whenever and however we might be. So how do we know if God arrives in our own lives? I believe that the authors of John offered two clues if we have encountered God. First, Jesus says, "Peace be with you." When the disciples react with fear, and Thomas reacts with doubt upon their first meeting after the resurrection. When life is unmoored, and our bodies are shaky, and our souls are weary, and our guards are up, Christ does not arrive with an argued defense or a rationalized response. Rather, he comes with a surprising proclamation of peace and touching love.
Second, after Jesus says, "Peace be with you." It is quickly followed by an invitation to see his innermost parts. The scripture says that the disciples, he showed them his hand and his side. And a second time with Thomas, Jesus actually invites him to put his fingers through his wounds. There is hardly a breath between the comforting words of Jesus and the revealing of his wounds. The peace of Christ is tethered to the wounds of Christ. Theologian Serene Jones shares that this story affirms that God comes in those moments when peace is offered. And in those moments when life's most brutal violence is honestly acknowledged and when in the midst of comforting of confronting this bracing honesty, we realize we are not alone.
Christ's resurrected body is not unblemished without any sign of the trauma that it has endured. Christ's healing does not mean that his body has returned to its former state. Rather, Christ's resurrected body, wounded and healed, reminds us that some pain, some trauma will always stay with us. And our wounds are not pretty, and they certainly are not the whole story of who we are, but they are honest and in that way can be holy. Lutheran minister Nadia Bulls Weber founded a mission church in Denver called “The House for All Sinners and Saints,” and she became a leading voice in the emergent church movement. And she tells a story about how her own alternative understanding of church was challenged. When her church started out, her congregants were what she described as hip, urban young adults. And about two years after she planted her church, the Denver Post ran a front-page above-the-fold story about Pastor Nadia preaching at Easter.
And at that time, they had only had about 40 to 45 people attending on a regular basis. But the next week, the church doubled in size. Pastor Nadia really struggled with this spike in attendance. She said, "I freaked out. They could have gone to any mainline Protestant church in the city and seen a room full of people that look just like them. Why are they coming? We were excited because we were really struggling to grow, but these were the wrong kind of people." Some churches might freak out if drag queens show up, but these were bankers, wearing Dockers.
So she decided to schedule a meeting to talk about the demographic changes in their community. And when the meeting happened, Pastor Nadia told the newcomers about the story of the church, and the newcomers, in turn, told who they were and why they were there. And Asher, a longtime member, was one of the last to speak, and Asher said, "Look, as the young transgender kid who was welcomed into this community, I just want to go on the record of saying I'm glad that there are people who look like my mom and dad here because they love me in a way that my mom and dad can't." Asher's vulnerable sharing laid bare the truth, we all need to be loved and we might be surprised about where that love comes from if we're open to receive it.
Honesty is sometimes an invitation for the holy, and admissions like Asher's become an extension of grace. They have the power to unlock places in our hearts where we are too afraid to share with ourselves, let alone with one another. The passing of the peace is one of our beloved liturgical practices here at the Memorial Church, and it's a ritual that goes back to the early church. And what might it look like if we took cues from Jesus when we echo Christ's words each week? "Peace be with you." Peace be with you, and I am so tired from staying up all night worrying.
Peace be with you, and I yelled at my child this morning. Peace be with you. I am addicted to alcohol. Peace be with you. I am all alone. The peace of which Christ offers is not one absent of conflict, not one that ignores brokenness, and not one that turns away from our pain. In one of her visions, Julian of Norwich sees Jesus hanging on the cross. He looks down at his side and then invites her to go through the wound and inside his body. There she finds a fair, delightful place, a place large enough for all of humankind that will be saved to rest in peace and love.
Like healing, salvation is a word that means whole and complete. The mystery is that as we enter the wounded place, we're made whole. For it is in that wounded place where Christ will meet us to provide assurance and compassion and grace. And perhaps that's why God's grace surpasses all understanding, because we come to experience Christ's love when we least expect it. The peace Jesus announces is also not one to be left behind locked doors. God calls us to share it with the world. Yet even if we are scared and fearful with the doors of our hearts locked, trying to protect us from the pain and suffering of the world, God still finds us. "Peace be with you. I'm here."