Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.’ Thomas answered him, ‘My Lord and my God!’ Jesus said to him, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.’ -John 20: 27-29

Although it seems odd, after last week’s resurrection, with the bright, glowing light of the rolled-away stone and angelic apparition, we find ourselves, now, in Eastertide, back in the dark.  We find ourselves closed  in with the disciples, who are still hiding, still fearful, still locked up together even though they have experienced the resurrection and witnessed the risen Christ.  They remain behind closed doors, venturing out as needed, but furtively, carefully, it seems.

These ideas of light and darkness are traditional in Christian language, and have been used in just this way for centuries.  As Barbara Brown Taylor notes in a recent op-ed for Time Magazine, “From earliest times, Christians have used “darkness” as a synonym for sin, ignorance, spiritual blindness, and death.”  That’s precisely the darkness that these disciples are in, even after the resurrection. Which is, perhaps, normal, when the light doesn’t look like we expect it to.

Now, certainly, this metaphoric language of light and darkness is problematic: it has negative implications for those who are physically blind, as well as for people of color.  Both groups have felt the weight of being labeled inherently sinful, an experience that we need to state and have on the table, before we dissect the language any further.  For it is problematic language on another level, as well; Barbara Brown Taylor continues: “It divides every day in two, pitting the light part against the dark part. It tucks all the sinister stuff into the dark part, identifying God with the sunny part and leaving you to deal with the rest on your own time.”

It is easy – and done many times over, in our lives and in our tradition – to divide light and dark into God and non-God.  It is easy to see God, and feel the divine presence, only when life looks a certain way, only when that presence is expected.  So what do you do when you’re a disciple of the Risen Christ, but still feeling bereft of God?  When things didn’t go as you’d thought they should have?  When death and grief had been so present, and you are still trying to understand how they might be reversed, and what that might mean for you, hidden away in that room?  What do you do when fear still seems more palpable than joy?  How do you encounter God in that unexpected place, especially when you’ve made sure to lock the door?

How do any of us encounter God when we’ve locked the door for fear of the dark?

It is not surprising, that this metaphorical language of light and darkness should gain such traction within our religious traditions – for it is not just present within Christianity.  We humans are diurnal creatures, and our senses are made to best function in sunlight.  We tend to feel off kilter in the darkness; to be disoriented, less confident in our abilities, more aware of our limitations.  We fear the dark because it shows us as we really are: vulnerable creatures who are not as independent as we prefer to believe ourselves. We fear the dark because it renders us helpless, reliant upon one another for comfort and security.

When’s the last time you went out for walk at night, in real darkness?  No streetlights, no light pollution, no iPhone to light your way?  It’s disconcerting.  Even when our eyes have adjusted, we are less likely to see danger coming. Even if we are in familiar territory, we are more likely to trip, to walk into things, to get hurt.  And so our use of the metaphor seems reasonable: for how can God be someplace so inhospitable, so fearful to us?  How can we be sure where God is, if we don’t even know where we are?

Brené Brown is a  professor of Social Work at the University of Houston, who specializes in the study of  shame and vulnerability.  Part of her research regards those people who seem to have the ability to love wholeheartedly, fearlessly: across the board, such people tend to be confident, lacking in a sense of internalized shame, believing themselves to be inherently worthy of love.  All these are qualities – confidence, clarity, vision – that we tend to associate with light.  Brown asks the question, in an interview with Krista Tippett: “does this mean our capacity for wholeheartedness can never be greater than our willingness to be broken-hearted?”  In other words, our capacity to dwell in light can never be greater than our ability to endure darkness; to be vulnerable, even wounded, and to seek God in those places of fear and disorientation.  Our willingness to risk ourselves, to be heartbroken, to be courageous, depends entirely on our willingness to dwell in vulnerability: “think of the last time you did something you thought was really brave… as a researcher, 11,000 pieces of data, I cannot find a single example of courage – moral courage, spiritual courage, leadership courage, relational courage… that was not born completely of vulnerability.”

I wonder what Thomas would think of that.

Thomas, Jesus’ disciple, who is still sitting in darkness, fearful and bereft.  Thomas, who alone turned away from not one, but two chances at vulnerability; whose fear, whose wounds kept him not just from hoping for the promised resurrection, but even from belief in the testimony of his closest colleagues.  Thomas, who was called to be the first demonstration of courage in this post-resurrection ministry; who was called to faith; to believe despite darkness and disorientation; to strip away the confidence born of human senses and human judgment; to trust that God is equally present in our darkness; to see Jesus, even unexpectedly, even without seeing him.

Thomas was called; and so are we.

As we are reminded in this parable, we are called to be people who believe without seeing, without the necessity of light.  We are called to be people who believe from within the darkness, from a place of vulnerability; and then to believe in ways that make us vulnerable, that do not shut and lock the door on God.  We are called from that vulnerability to be people of courage; risking ourselves for the Gospel: the good news that is the light and life of the resurrection.

And that is hard. We see it in Peter’s speech to the crowd, on that Pentecost Sunday in Acts, where he is already back in the light, already in a place of power, already entirely dependent upon the confidence of human perception.  Just fifty days after the resurrection, Peter is already in the midst of the crowd, rather than on the margins where his Teacher spent so much of his own ministry.  I wonder what Thomas would have preached, in that moment.  I wonder what any of us would have done, or said; where we would have taken that light, and Spirit, and linguistic ability.

We, who are called to vulnerability, and to courage.  We, who are called to be the ones who see God in unexpected places; to hone our senses until we can have the confidence to walk in and with the dark.  We, who are called to walk in all those places of fear, of disorientation; places where we may stumble or where our hearts may be broken, and seek, there, the Christ who was raised in darkness of tomb.  For Christ’s return to the light did not heal his woundedness, or remove the vulnerability of his spirit, but touched and healed the woundedness of the fearful disciples.

We are called to find God in the brokenness from which we may be made whole; in the broken-heartedness from which we may love more fully; in the darkness in which we can find God’s light, even where we least expect it.

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