7 Easter A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III

Greeneville, TN 

The Seventh Sunday of Easter 

May 17, 2026

• Acts 1:6-14
• 1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11
• John 17:1-11
• Psalm 68:1-10, 33-36

Today, the Church is in a tween space. We are in that in-between place where the Feast of the Ascension has just passed (we celebrated on Thursday) and the Feast of Pentecost has not yet arrived. And so we find ourselves right where the disciples once stood... looking upward in wonder, somewhat bewildered, waiting in uncertainty… We're trying to figure out what faithfulness looks like when Jesus is no longer standing right in front of us.

In our Gospel lesson today, we go back in time a bit. Back to the time before Jesus' arrest and crucifixion… to the end of the farewell discourse when Jesus is preparing his disciples for his departure. 

In this passage, Jesus is praying for his disciples. He's not teaching a parable. He's not performing a miracle. And he's not debating the religious authorities. He is praying. And what he prays for is the interesting part.

He's not praying for success…or power. He's not even praying for safety. He is praying for UNITY that they may be one... Unfortunately, the Church has yet to figure out what that means.

Jesus' prayer for unity feels foreign to the reality we see around us. Because Christianity today is deeply fragmented. There are countless denominations, movements, opinions, and ideologies. Christians divide over theology, politics, worship styles, social issues, and even interpretations and translations of scripture. Sometimes it seems as though every little disagreement creates another separation.

And the fractures go way beyond the Church… the world itself feels fractured. Nations are at war. Communities are polarized. Families sit at tables where people don't know how to speak to one another. Many folks feel isolated, anxious, suspicious, and exhausted.

Into all of that noise… Into all of that stress and division, Jesus still prays, "That they may all be one." But what does that actually mean? What does it mean to be one in Christ Jesus? Surely Jesus is not praying that everyone become identical. That would be silly… He is not asking us to think the same thoughts, or vote the same way, or agree on every question.

Unity is not uniformity. God did not create human beings to be xerox copies of one another. I think that the greatest beauty of creation can be found in its diversity. Different voices… Different gifts… Different cultures... and Different stories. The Body of Christ has many members, so Christian unity cannot mean sameness.

Instead, the unity Jesus is talking about is about something much deeper. It's a unity, rooted in relationship, in belonging, and in love. It's the recognition that even when we disagree, we still belong to one another because, together, we belong to Christ.

And that is where the Feast of the Ascension, the Feast that the Church celebrated just this past Thursday, where Jesus was raised up into the heavens right in front of his disciples, becomes so important for us today.

Sometimes people hear the story of the Ascension and imagine it simply as Jesus leaving. I even heard a joke that started during the pandemic… saying the Ascension was when Jesus finally got to work from home… Some folks treat the Ascension as just another happening in the calendar… knowing it's there, but not really understanding it...

Maybe thinking something like, Easter is over, and the work is finished, and Jesus has left... He's gone somewhere far away. But the Ascension is not about Christ abandoning the world. It is about Christ filling all things. The risen Jesus does not disappear from creation; he draws creation (all life) into the life of God.

In the Ascension, humanity itself is lifted into the heart and life of God. Jesus carries our humanity… all of it… our wounds, our joys, our fears, our lives into the divine life of the Godhead. Which means that our life, our human life, matters eternally to God. It also means that Christ is no longer confined to one place, time, or people. Through the Ascension, Christ becomes present to us everywhere.

Present with the suffering. Present with those who are lonely. Present with the grossly fragmented Church scattered across the earth. Present with us now. The Ascension reminds us that Jesus is still Lord... not Caesar, not an empire, not fear, not violence, and not division.

That's important because we live in a world that is constantly trying to convince us that anger is strength, that domination is power, that division is inevitable... and that other people, the other, just because they're different, are supposed to be considered threats to be feared rather than neighbors to be loved.

But the ascended Christ reigns differently. His Body is still marked by scars that we caused. His authority still looks like self-giving love. And his glory is revealed through his mercy. It's from that place that Jesus continues praying for us. That we may be one. Not because unity is easy. Not because conflict disappears. But, because love is stronger than separation.

The disciples themselves struggled with this. They misunderstood one another. They argued with one another. And yet Jesus still gathered them together. He still called them his Body, and he still entrusted them with the Gospel. That's what gives me hope for the Church.

Because Christian unity has never depended on our perfection… It depends on Christ. And perhaps unity doesn't begin with big declarations, but in small acts of grace. I think it starts with listening before judging, choosing compassion over contempt, and refusing to dehumanize those we disagree with. Making room at the table for everyone... Being there for one another and bearing each other's burdens, and remaining in relationship even when it is difficult.

That kind of unity is hard work, it's Holy work. And it's work we will engage in all our lives. And the great part is, we don't do it alone. We do it with the help Jesus promised us.

This Sunday stands between Ascension and Pentecost for a reason. The Church stands waiting for the arrival of the comforter and guide that was promised to us… We are waiting for the Holy Spirit that will descend on the followers of Jesus at Pentecost. Because we cannot become the Body of Christ through our own strength alone. The Spirit must teach us and correct us... comfort us, form us, and transform us.

The Spirit is what makes unity possible without erasing our differences. 

And so today, we wait with the disciples... And we pray with the disciples in hope… trusting that the ascended Christ has not left us orphaned. Trusting that he continues to hold the world in love. Trusting that even now, amid all our divisions and failures, God is still drawing humanity toward communion, reconciliation, and peace.

Christ has gone ahead of us into the fullness of God so that the whole world might one day be drawn together in him. But until that day comes, the Church is called to live as a sign of that coming unity… a broken people being together, learning to love one another in the light of Christ.

May the ascended Lord continue to gather us, hold us, and make us one.

6 Easter A 2026

The Rev. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The Sixth Sunday of Easter
May 10, 2026

• Acts 17:22-31
• 1 Peter 3:13-22
• John 14:15-21
• Psalm 66:7-18

“If you love me, you will keep my commandments,” Jesus says. And if we are not careful, we can fall into the trap, and think the words of Jesus today sound less like an invitation and more like a condition… as though Christ’s love must somehow be earned or proven.

But throughout John’s Gospel, Jesus never speaks of love as a transaction. We have spent the past few weeks in what is referred to as Jesus’ farewell discourse in the Gospel according to John. This particular passage comes right in the middle of the tenderness of his farewell discourse, as Jesus prepares his disciples for his departure, for the confusion and grief that will surely come after the cross. 

These are not the cold demands of some distant master. They are the words of one who loves his friends deeply and wants them to remain rooted in that love even when he is no longer physically beside them. So when Jesus says, “If you love me, keep my commandments,” he is not threatening to abandon them. He is describing the shape love takes in human life.

If we allow ourselves to love as Jesus loves, then love always moves us toward something. When we love someone deeply, we begin to care about what matters to them. Their joys begin to affect us and their burdens become our concerns. Over time, that kind of love changes how we live, not because we are forced to change, but because love itself reshapes our desires.

That is the kind of love Jesus is speaking about here. 

And perhaps this is where the wisdom of Julian of Norwich, whose feast day we celebrated on Friday, speaks so beautifully into the Gospel lesson today. Julian lived during a time of plague, political unrest, violence, and uncertainty. The world around her was fragile and frightening. And yet, in the midst of all of that instability, she experienced the overwhelming nearness of God’s love. Again and again, she returned to the conviction that God does not relate to humanity through fear, but through generous love and mercy.

You probably know her by her famous quote: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” She wrote that not because suffering was unreal. Not because the world was easy. But because she knew that divine love was deeper still. And Julian understood something essential about the Christian life. She knew we’re not transformed through fear of punishment, but through remaining in the love of God long enough for that love, God’s love, to change us.

That is exactly the kind of love Jesus is inviting his disciples into.

And today, on this Rogation Sunday, the church invites us to notice something important. The church invites us to notice that love is never only inward or spiritual. Love always becomes embodied - incarnational. It touches the ground beneath our feet.

Traditionally, Rogation Days were times when Christians would walk the fields and pray over the land, asking God’s blessing upon crops and labor, and remember humanity’s dependence on God and God’s creation. People prayed for rain. They prayed for healthy soil. They prayed for protection from famine and disaster. And for the work of human hands.

But Rogation Sunday is about much more than agriculture. It’s about remembering that all of life belongs to God. The earth is not merely a resource to consume. It is a creation, gifted to us, entrusted to us, and sustained by God.

And perhaps we see a need for Rogation Sunday with a particular urgency now. Because we live in a world that feels strained and exhausted. We see wars devastating lives and families. We see refugees searching for safety. We see political divisions deepening. We see systems designed to silence and exclude. We see truth treated as flexible and disposable. And creation itself groans. Storms intensify. Seasons shift. Communities face drought, floods, fires, and uncertainty. Many wonder what kind of future lies ahead for their children and grandchildren. 

In a world like this, it becomes easy to surrender our hearts little by little. To give our loyalty to fear instead of hope. To give our attention to outrage instead of mercy. To give our energy to self-protection instead of compassion.

If you love me, keep my commandments…

And so, Jesus’ words become less of an accusation and more of a gentle question, “What is shaping your heart?” Because love isn’t ever merely a feeling. Love forms, informs, and transforms us. This is why when Jesus speaks of commandments, he’s not talking about a checklist for earning grace, but as practices that teach us how to live within the life of God. 

In John’s Gospel, the commandment Jesus gives us is ultimately simple and profound. We must love one another, Jesus says, "as I have loved you, you must love one another." That kind of love is not sentimental. It is costly, patient, and forgiving. It’s truthful and steady. It looks like choosing compassion when anger would be easier. It looks like telling the truth in a culture of misinformation and distortion. It looks like refusing to let cynicism harden our hearts. It looks like noticing the overlooked person that everyone else passes by.

And the difficult part is that none of this happens overnight. It’s a slow process of us loving and being loved into a relationship with Jesus. Being disciples or followers of Jesus is not about mastering the rules… but it’s about abiding in (or living in) a relationship. 

We are transformed slowly through communion with Christ... through prayer, Scripture, worship, acts of mercy, and life together in community. Love grows through practice. Obedience to Christ in John’s Gospel is never separated from a relationship with Jesus.

Jesus doesn’t ask us for blind compliance. He invites us to follow him into a way of life grounded in trust, intimacy, and love. That’s what we need to start living and teaching as a church... because many people hear the word religion and think of it as an obligation rather than a relationship.

Because Jesus isn’t saying, “Perform well enough, and perhaps I will love you.” He is saying, “You are loved already. Remain in that love. And live from that love.”

And even when we fail, and we will fail, that love doesn’t go away. There will be days for us when fear wins. There will be days when we lose our patience. Days when we realize we have allowed other voices to shape us more deeply than the voice of Christ. But our failure is never the end of the story.

Because in the very same farewell discourse, Jesus promises that we will not be left alone. We will not be orphaned because we will receive the Spirit of Truth. He promises us that the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, the abiding presence of God, will continue to guide us, comfort us, convict us, and restore us.

Because the Christian life isn’t sustained by our perfection. It is sustained by God’s presence in our lives… By the indwelling presence of Christ through the power of the Holy Spirit. And perhaps that is what we most need to hear right now.

Because the world certainly doesn’t need more cruelty. It doesn’t need more outrage, suspicion, or fear. And it especially doesn’t need any of that being spewed from the pulpit.

It needs a people… a good faithful people, whose lives have been shaped by the love of Christ. People who forgive. People who serve quietly. People who refuse to let hatred have the final word. People who embody hope in the middle of despair. 

So perhaps the question before us today is not simply, “Do we love Jesus?” Perhaps the deeper question is, “How is that love (our love of Jesus, and Jesus’ love for us) shaping the way we live?” How is it changing the way we speak to one another? How does it influence the way we use our time… Or how we respond to suffering? How is it changing the way we care for our neighbors? Or the way we show unity, restoration, and hope to a divided world?

Because when the love of God in Christ truly takes root in our lives, it always leads somewhere. Toward mercy. Toward courage. Toward generosity. Toward a deeper compassion. Toward lives that begin, however imperfectly, to resemble Christ himself. Jesus does not demand flawless disciples. But he does invite our whole hearts.

“If you love me…” he says… And then he trusts that love… That love nurtured by grace, and sustained by the Spirit… He trusts that love, which is renewed again and again in his mercy, will slowly begin to shape everything else in the world. So may we learn, day by day, to abide in Christ’s love, not only with what we say, but in how we live.

5 Easter A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The Fifth Sunday of Easter
May 3, 2026

• Acts 7:55-60
• 1 Peter 2:2-10
• John 14:1-14
• Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16

Most of you know that I managed companies that built houses for about ten years before becoming a priest. I was responsible for building over 700 houses, but I would like to think that I was really helping build 700 homes.

And that raises a question worth asking, "What makes a house… a home?" Is it the structure?... The wood and plaster, brick and mortar? Is it a roof that shelters us from the storm? Is it a place of safety and refuge, or is it something deeper? Is it the lives lived inside the walls? Is it the love shared? The tears shed? Or the laughter that lingers in the rooms?

When you hear the word “home,” what comes to mind? For some, it’s comfort. For others, belonging. For many, it’s the place where we are known and still welcomed. We carry this longing for home deep within us. When we are lonely, we long for home. When we are afraid, we long for home. When life feels uncertain or fractured, we long for a place where we can rest.

It was St. Augustine who once wrote, “Our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” Here is where Scripture begins to reshape what we think home really is. Because the Bible doesn’t just speak of homes as places built with wood and nails, it speaks of homes built with “stones.”

In the First Letter of Peter, we hear this: “Like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house.” Living stones. Not cold, lifeless rock, but a people. You. Me. All of us.

God is building something, not out of bricks and mortar, but out of human lives. A spiritual home. And yet, before we get to that beautiful image, we are confronted with another kind of stone in the Book of Acts. Stones used not to build, but to destroy.

In Acts, we meet Stephen... One of the first seven deacons chosen by the church... a man full of faith and the Holy Spirit. A man who spoke truth with courage. A man who saw the glory of God even when others could not.

And what did the people do? They picked up stones. They covered their ears. They rushed at him. And they stoned him. The same object we were talking about before, a stone, becomes a weapon of fear, anger, violence, and rejection. And Stephen stands there, not retaliating, not cursing, but praying, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” Even as stones are hurled at him, Stephen entrusts himself to God.

This is a devastating scene. But, it reveals something important to us… It shows us that stones can be used to tear down or to build up. And the difference is found in the human heart.

Peter reminds us that Christ himself is the cornerstone rejected by the world, yet chosen and precious in God’s sight. Rejected… like Stephen. Rejected… like so many even now. And yet, God takes what is rejected and builds something holy.

“You are living stones,” Peter says. “Being built into a spiritual house.” That means the home we are longing for now… the home that our restless hearts seek is not just somewhere we go someday. It is something God is building right now. In us. Through us. And between us.

Every act of love is a stone laid in that house. Every moment of forgiveness is part of its foundation. And every time we choose compassion over anger, we are building. 

But, in the same light, every time we harden our hearts… every time we use our words or actions like weapons… every time we let hate and fear rule our hearts… we are throwing stones instead. So the question becomes, What kind of stones are we holding?

Are they stones of judgment? Stones of resentment? Stones we throw to protect ourselves or to wound others?

Or… 

Are they living stones… offered to God, placed carefully into something larger than ourselves? Because the truth is, home isn’t just where we feel safe. Home is where God dwells. Home is where God chooses to dwell, not in buildings alone, but in people... among people… in communities shaped by love and grace.

This is why the church matters. Not that it’s a perfect structure, because it’s not. Not that the people are flawless, because we aren’t. But because the church is how God uses us to build something. Slowly. Patiently. Stone by stone. A place where the broken are welcomed. A place where the weary find rest. A place where, even in the midst of pain, we begin to get a glimpse of what it means to belong.

Even Stephen, in his final moments, was not homeless. He looked up and saw the heavens opened and Christ standing at the right hand of God. And that was his home. And nothing, not even the stones that were being hurled at him, could take that away.

So perhaps home is not what we thought after all… Our home with God is not just a place we long for someday, but a reality we are invited to live into here and now. Every time we love as Christ loved, every time we forgive, every time we choose to build rather than destroy… we are in the process of becoming the very home our hearts have been searching for.

“Lord, you have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” And perhaps that rest begins when we finally place our stones in God’s hands and allow God to build.

4 Easter A 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III

Greeneville, TN

The Fourth Sunday of Easter

April 26, 2026

• Acts 2:42-47
• 1 Peter 2:19-25
• John 10:1-10
• Psalm 23

Today, we take a moment and step away from the familiar rhythm of resurrection appearances… Those wonderful encounters where Jesus meets his disciples in locked rooms, on dusty roads, and around shared tables. 

We know those stories too well... How Jesus is recognized in the breaking of bread... how hearts burn as he opens the scriptures... how fear slowly gives way to wonder.

Today, our focus is on the words of Jesus in Chapter 10 of the Gospel according to John. A passage that is unexpected in the Easter Season. And, if we're honest, a bit more puzzling at first hearing.

Jesus is addressing a group of folks in Jerusalem that includes both his closest followers and those who are suspicious of him. He is standing within earshot of people who have just witnessed conflict over authority… Of who has the right to interpret God, and who belongs in God's community, and who does not.

That's the scene we're in…and Jesus paints a picture for us… A sheepfold enclosed by a wall or pen. A gate that provides the proper entrance. A shepherd who enters through that gate. And other figures who try to get in by climbing over the wall. The listeners gathered there would have recognized this scene immediately. 

Sheep were often gathered into communal pens at night for protection. A gatekeeper would allow the legitimate shepherds to enter in the morning, and each shepherd would call his own sheep out of the mixed flock using his voice, and the sheep would follow because they recognized the shepherd's voice.

Here, Jesus doesn't begin with shepherding as we expect. He starts with a sheepfold, a gate, and the difference between those who enter rightly and those who do not. "Anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit." It's a striking image. There is this place where the sheep are gathered… a place of belonging, of relative safety. 

And there is a gate, a proper way in. The one who enters through the gate is the shepherd. The others… those who sneak in, who bypass the gate… come with very different intentions. Jesus is naming, right from the start, that not every voice, not every leader, not every influence that reaches the sheep is trustworthy. 

And that lands close to home. Because we live in a world full of entrances... full of voices trying to get our attention, shaping our thinking, claiming our loyalty. Some come openly, honestly, with care. Others slip in quietly, subtly, promising life but bringing something else entirely.

Jesus doesn't soften the language. He calls those who sneak in "thieves and bandits"... those who come not to care for the flock, but to take from it.

Then he says something even more intimate. Speaking about the true shepherd…He says, "The sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out." This is where the image deepens. The shepherd does not drive the sheep. He calls them by name. And they respond—not because they are forced, but because they recognize his voice. And he leads them… 

This is not about control. It's about relationship. And that's important to understand in a time like ours, when so much leadership (religious, political, and cultural leadership) relies on fear, urgency, and pressure. So many voices try to push us, to drive us, to tell us we must act now…  think this way… fear that group… and secure ourselves at all costs.

But the voice of Christ is different. It is known. It is steady. It calls rather than coerces. And, as the passage tells us, the sheep follow "because they know his voice." Not because they are naïve, but because they are familiar with the one who leads them… leads them to good pasture and still water…

That raises a hard but necessary question for us… How do we recognize that voice? Can we distinguish it from all the others? Because Jesus also says, "They will not follow a stranger… because they do not know the voice of strangers."

Yet if we're honest, we sometimes do follow strangers. We get pulled in by voices that sound convincing... voices promising security, success, or certainty. Voices that tell us we don't need one another. Voices that encourage division, suspicion, even hostility.

We see it playing out all around us… communities fractured, public trust eroded, people increasingly isolated even while we are more "connected" than ever. The noise is constant, and it becomes harder to tell which voices lead toward life and which do not.

And it's into that confusion that Jesus speaks again, with one of the clearest declarations in the Gospel: "I am the gate." Not just the shepherd, but "the gate.

"I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture." This is a shift in the image, but it's an important one. Jesus is not only the one who leads; he is also the way to life itself. He is the place of safety... He is the point of passage between danger and nourishment, between scarcity and abundance.

To say that Christ is the gate is to say that life, true life, is found in and through him. Not through the competing promises of the world, not through fear-driven self-reliance, not through systems that divide and consume... but through relationship with the one who knows us and calls us by name.

And then comes that line in the text that echoes so powerfully in our day and age… "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly."

There is no neutrality here. It's no secret that some voices... some paths... some ways of being in the world diminish life. They take. They erode. They isolate. They leave people more fearful, more guarded, and more alone.

But others, grounded in Christ, lead toward abundance. Not abundance as excess or accumulation of stuff, but as fullness - as enough… A life marked by connection, by purpose, by love, by a deep and steady trust that we are loved and we are held.

That kind of life is not always easy. It doesn't shield us from hardship or uncertainty. But it is real. It is sustaining. And it is shared.

Because the sheepfold is not a place for one sheep alone. It's a place where we are called together. In a moment when so many forces in our world encourage separation, drawing lines, building walls, defining who is "in" and who is "out," this passage reminds us that Christ gathers. Christ calls. Christ leads us not into isolation, but into a community shaped by his voice.

And that has implications for how we live. It means we should listen carefully... not just to what is loud or urgent, but to what is true. It means we test the voices we hear, asking whether they lead toward life or away from it. It means we resist the temptation to follow those who would exploit fear for their own purposes.

And it means we stay close to the shepherd's voice… through prayer, through scripture, through the shared life of the community… so that, over time, we learn to recognize it more clearly. Because the promise of this passage is not that we will never hear other voices. It is that we are not left to sort through them alone.

The shepherd calls. The gate stands open. Life, abundant life, is offered. And so the invitation today is both simple and demanding... To listen for the voice of Christ. To enter through the gate that leads to life. And to follow, not as isolated individuals, but as a people gathered, known, loved, and led.

For it is there, in that following, that we begin to discover what Jesus means when he says, "I came that they may have life, and have it more abundantly."

2 Easter 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The Second Sunday of Easter
April 12, 2026

• Acts 2:14a,22-32
• 1 Peter 1:3-9
• John 20:19-31
• Psalm 16

The disciples are hiding. The doors are locked. The room is tense. Fear has settled in. They have seen too much. They have lost too much. And now they do not know what comes next.

They are afraid... afraid of what might happen to them because they followed Jesus, afraid of being cast out, rejected, or even worse. And in many ways, that fear is not just theirs. It reflects the experience of the early Christian community... a people trying to hold onto faith while navigating tension, uncertainty, and even exclusion.

And if we’re honest, it reflects something in us too. Moments in us when faith feels fragile. Moments around us when the world feels uncertain. Moments when we are not quite sure what comes next. 

And into that space... into the fear and uncertainty... Jesus comes. Not by opening the door. Not by removing the threat. But by standing among them and saying, “Peace be with you.”

Jesus appears in that upper room, not once, but twice. Peace... not as the absence of trouble, but as the presence of Christ there, in the middle of it. And then he shows them his hands and his side. The wounds, the marks of his crucifixion, are still there. Still there, because the resurrection doesn’t erase what happened and what he suffered. It transformed it.

And then Jesus speaks the words that change everything for them: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” The story is not over. Their fear is not the end. They are being called forward. The same God who sent Jesus into the world in love now sends them into the world with that same love. And they are not sent alone.

Jesus breathes on them and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” The Ruach, the very creating breath of God... the breath that gave life in the beginning, is given to them again. And there in that closed-off room, they are refreshed, renewed. Re-created. Given what they need for what lies ahead of them. And part of what lies ahead is this: They are to go out into the world and “forgive.” Jesus says, “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven…”

This is not about pretending that harm doesn’t exist. It’s not a cover-up of the cruelty… It is about participating in the life of God. A life rooted in mercy, compassion, and restoration. We forgive because we have been forgiven. We extend grace because grace has been extended to us. And that kind of life is not easy. But it is the way of Christ.

Then our story from John’s gospel turns to Thomas. Thomas, who was not there the first time. Thomas, who missed the great moment when Jesus appeared to the others. Thomas heard the others say,  “We have seen the Lord.” Thomas must have felt left out because he wasn’t able to share in their experience. And still, he stays with them.

This made me ask: where was Thomas when the others were cowering in the room, hiding from the religious authorities? Where was Thomas, the one who boldly said, "Let us go too, that we may die with him," speaking of Jesus deciding to return to Judea? Where was Thomas? The scripture doesn’t tell us, but we can assume that he was bold enough to go out when the others weren’t. That he was willing to take the risk rather than hold onto his fear.

Thomas has been told that the Lord appeared to them when he wasn’t there, and this caused him to be unsure… And even in his uncertainty, Thomas remains there with them. Connected to them as part of the community.

A week later, Jesus comes to them again. “Peace be with you.” And this time, Thomas is with them. Jesus turns to Thomas and says, “Put your finger here… See my hands… Do not be unbelieving, but believe.” There is no shame in these words. Only invitation. And then Thomas responds with a confession that echoes throughout the ages: “My Lord and my God.”

Jesus then speaks to everyone who would come after those who are gathered there in that closed room, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” This is where we are – this is where we live. We have not stood in that room. We have not seen the nail scars in his hands and feet. We have not touched those wounds. And yet—we are here. We believe.

Each week… We gather. We pray. We share a sacred meal. We return. Even after the great celebration of Easter has passed. Why, because we know something in this story has claimed us. Claimed us in ways that we can’t always explain. We have encountered the living Christ in scripture, in sacrament, and in one another.

The Gospel lesson today ends by telling us why all of this has been written, “So that you may come to believe… and that through believing you may have life.” Not just any life. Abundant life. A life shaped by love and forgiveness. A life grounded in truth. A life sustained by the presence of God. But this life is not passive. It calls us to act. It calls us to follow Jesus into places we may not wish to go. It calls us to live as Jesus lived. To love as Jesus loved. And to walk in his way.

So what does that mean for us here, now? It means, like the first apostles, we are sent. Like the earliest and closest followers of Jesus gathered there in their fear, it sends us into a world that is still fearful, still divided, still searching. It sends us, not with all the answers, but with the peace of Christ. We are sent to embody love. Sent to practice forgiveness. Sent to be signs of hope in the places where hope feels pretty thin.

And when we find ourselves like Thomas, being unsure, with questions, with hesitation, with a longing for clarity... we know that we are not outside the story. We are right in the middle of it. And Christ meets us there. Speaking peace. Giving us comfort. Offering us presence. And calling us forward.

So, this season and always let us live as those who are sent. Let us love as those who are forgiven. And let us trust the presence of Christ among us, here and now. And with our lives, and with our hearts, let us proclaim: “My Lord and my God.”