At my elementary school, we had an assembly every semester where awards were handed out for stuff like Good Citizenship, Public Speaking, and—of course—Class Clown. I’d gotten a few awards like Budding Artist and Perfect Attendance before, but they seemed pretty trivial compared to what I really wanted: to be on the Honor Roll—a mark of academic excellence with its own gold-starred certificate.

From kindergarten to third grade, I struggled with math and science, was too anxious to ask for help, and couldn’t focus on one task for long. I was often embarrassed by my report cards, especially when my classmates would ask to see mine as they’d compare each other’s. While I can’t remember exactly how I pulled it off, it would be in the first semester of fourth grade that I would finally make the Honor Roll. For the first time, I was able to look at my report card and truly be happy with what I saw. I was proud of myself for how hard I worked and wanted to share that joy with my parents; they were just as proud, if not moreso, and were beyond excited to see me get that certificate.

When the date of the semesterly assembly was announced, I made sure to tell my parents as soon as I got home from school. However, they broke some bad news: for reasons I can barely remember, they weren’t sure if they’d be able to be at the assembly, mentioning something about multiple conflicting appointments, but that they’d try their best to make it. I was heartbroken at the thought of my parents not being there, so I bombarded them with questions. Could you not reschedule? Are you sure you have to go? Why does it have to be that day? I wanted to believe they could make it and trusted they would find a way, but I wouldn’t truly know until the day came.

When the time came for the assembly, I was in the auditorium frantically scouting for any sign of my parents to no avail. There was nothing I could do, and doubts began to flood in; Do they care enough to come? Will they even try to? I didn’t know, and part of me didn’t think so. The principal had each student come up to the stage when their name was called, shook hands, handed them a certificate, and sent them back to their seat. Even as I walked on stage, I continued to look. But it would be on the way back to my seat—certificate in hand—that I finally saw them; my mom and dad were in the back with the other parents, waving and blowing kisses to me while my dad was fiddling with his little point-and-click camera. They made it, they really did. To this day, neither I nor my parents remember how they managed it or anything that happened after, but what matters is that they came—I saw them, and I believed.

Now I don’t know about any of you, but I feel really bad for the disciple Thomas. He gets such a bad rap—I mean, how many of us have heard or used the phrase Doubting Thomas? He’s the target of teasing and jokes rooted in his doubt, his skepticism—that unless he saw, he wouldn’t believe. There’s often a stigma around questioning and doubting. To some, our questions make us look like troublemakers, distrusting too much and disrupting the status quo. But I have come to understand the empowerment that’s brought about by questions, not just answers.

You see, there is a fine line between being cynical and being curious. To be cynical is to have deep distrust and expect the worst (if anything at all). But to be curious is to step beyond oneself, be moved by questions, and assume that there is far more to this world than what we already know. Curiosity, a fruit of the mind God gave us, empowers us to set out into the world as explorers and not conquerors, drawing the circles of our lives wider and wider through relationships and experience.

At our best, we question because we care—because what we’re curious about or unsure of matters that much to us. It draws our mind, body, and soul to itself, letting us know that there is more. Yet while it is good to ask questions and seek answers, there must be room for mystery. We question because we want an answer—a response—in some way, shape, or form. And we doubt when the responses we get seem unclear, untrue, or incomplete—when our questions and doubts are met with silence, and proof feels out of reach. But this is precisely where mystery comes in; at a certain point, we must humble ourselves in the knowledge that there indeed is more than what our eyes can see, our ears can hear, and our hands can touch.

I don’t blame Thomas one bit for questioning what his fellow disciples were telling him; surely, he wasn’t doing it out of cynicism or aggression. The claim they were making was one seemingly of the utmost impossibility, mystery, and absurdity—namely, that Jesus of Nazareth, the One who was crucified, died, and buried only days prior was now raised back to life. It’s such a unique and weighty claim that people to this day still question it. Even the other disciples were just as doubtful of this news, first told to them by Mary of Magdala; they were no better than Thomas. He wanted proof, and it took Jesus entering their company and giving peace to the disciples—Thomas included—to believe.

In response to their doubts, fears, and suffering, Jesus offered them peace—a peace that this world could never give and that only God could. He gave them peace of mind, proving to them that death did not have the final say. To their pain, he responded with healing; to their skepticism, he gave them reassurance; to their fear, he gave them courage; to their questions, he gave them an answer. There were still many things that remained mysterious and unknown to the disciples and us as well, but they did know this: that Jesus, who had been crucified and died, is risen.

Doubt isn’t the enemy or the opposite of belief; we can doubt and still believe—still have faith. For to have faith is to radically trust, for just as we say “I believe you,” we likewise say “I have faith in you.” It goes beyond the visible, physical, and measurable, beyond what we can see and touch and hear. We place our trust in those who are faithful, who find a way, who keep their word, and who stay with us even in the worst of times. We trust that God will find a way amidst the uncertainty and mystery of this world to respond to the longings of our hearts. We trust what we have seen, heard, and touched—and where we cannot, we the trust the greater Mystery at the heart of all truth.

For the gift of questions that lead us forward; for the grace to trust the visible and invisible; for the mystery that holds us and the faith that sustains us; let us give thanks to God. Amen.

This text is of a sermon I wrote and preached for the Second Sunday of Easter. The readings assigned by the Revised Common Lectionary are Acts 5:27-32, Psalm 118:14-29, Rev. 1:4-8, and John 20:19-31.

For more information on the Lectionary, visit Lectionary Page for the cycle of scriptural readings for Sundays, feasts, and seasons in accordance with the Revised Common Lectionary and its use in the Episcopal Church.

This sermon was preached at my home congregation of St. James’ Episcopal Church in Fremont, CA—within the Episcopal Diocese of California. Linked below is the service recording/livestream, with my sermon beginning approximately at 19:55.