There are those moments wherein which someone says something so striking and so compelling that you have to sit with it for a while and let it wash over you. I had a moment like early in the COVID pandemic, when the clergy of the Diocese of Kentucky had our first Zoom call with Bishop White in which he informed us of his intent for a pastoral directive to cancel in person worship until further notice. The moment came near the end of the hour-long call when Dean Matt Bradley, of Christ Church Cathedral in Louisville, named that our experience of this time of Easter 2020, in the midst of that pandemic would likely be the closest many of us would ever get to how that first Easter felt. The fear, the apprehensive joy, and the confusion about the future are all things which those first disciples felt. And every Easter since I have thought about that first pandemic Easter and how we were all unsure what would come next. For the disciples, though they were in a locked room, Jesus appeared to him and showed them his wounds; they were understandably fearful, we know that feeling, too. Jesus comes not only to the disciples, but comes back to show Thomas, who needs to see and touch to believe.
I wonder if Jesus came this second time, appearing in this locked room for Thomas because he knew that sometimes the good news is hard to believe, especially when you are scared. Jesus comes and shows Thomas what the other disciples already had the chance to see: that Christ’s wounds are real, that his pain and suffering, even after the resurrection are tangible. Maybe Christ did this because he knew that hope is often hard won, and is worth what it takes to help someone believe.
This exchange between Jesus and Thomas shows us that God is with us in both our doubts and in our faith, just as God was with Thomas. And maybe Christ came again for Thomas because he knows that believing is relational; to believe in something is not to check a box and once believed, always believed. No, rather, it is something that is fluid, that grows; belief is something that can survive literal death, and still be a foundation upon which we will allow ourselves to be changed by the hope of the resurrection.
When we are so changed, we are tasked with going out and spreading this Good News of God in Christ, even in the midst of a chaotic time. I know that we are tasked to do so, because even as the disciples were huddled together in a locked room eight days after the resurrection, Christ comes and tells them to go out.
In the midst of their grief, fear, and confusion, Jesus comes to them and helps them to believe and reminds them that the Holy Spirit has given them all that they need to minister to the people, even as they stand in the middle of an unknown path ahead. My siblings in Christ, there is little more to celebrate in the midst of this season than the unrelenting hope of the resurrection. A sort of hard-won hope that sticks in your heart and helps you to persevere when things fall apart. This is the what I mean when I say unrelenting hope of the resurrection.
And I know it’s unrelenting because I have been through difficult times, and yet that hope it still there. I have seen whole communities have everything torn away by a natural disaster, and yet that hope is still there. I’ve seen it time and time again. Our faith is one that finds hope in the crucified and resurrected Messiah and shares it with the world. Our faith is one that is changed by the unrelenting hope and joy of the resurrection; our lives are ones that will be changed by this great Easter joy that we so boldly proclaim in a time that doesn’t offer much joy.
We are no less tasked with sharing this Good News than the disciples and Thomas. But we can do it; I know we can do it. Because our faith is strong, and our hope is hard-won, too. I want to leave you all with a Blessing from writer and theologian Kate Bowler, who is a professor at Duke. After being diagnosed with advanced cancer in her early 30s, her work at Duke Divinity took a turn from research to work that tends to reach a broader audience as she has shared her journey with grief and joy.
So, Jesus, wasn’t that illegal
for you to break the seal
the Roman guards put there?
Bursting the bonds of death itself
to come again, larger than life?
And was it wise to present yourself
first to the women,
so lowly in social standing their word meant nothing in court?And why did you keep appearing suddenly
to the huddled believers
behind locked doors for
fear of their enemies,
scared out of their wits to hear you say,
“Peace be with you!”?And isn’t it the case that they were
never the same again,
these ordinary people
who had been so cowed,
receiving your Holy Spirit,
emboldened to begin the work you
set in motion,
speaking life and health and peace
to all who would listen?This is what our newborn church
looks like: Blessed.
Blessed in our fear and inadequacy.
Blessed by your faith in us.
Blessed that we received,
by your own hand, the gift of hope—
the beginning of the end of sin
and of death.
We follow you as best we can
along that downward path
with all the humility we can manage.
You came back to us.Alleluia.
Alleluia.
Alleluia.
A sermon for Easter 2A – April 12, 2026 on John 20: 19-31, delivered to the people of Christ Episcopal Church in Harlan, Kentucky.
Becca Kello 