2nd Easter Year A
Margie Anne Prescott
In today’s Gospel, we find the disciples behind locked doors, paralyzed by fear. The world outside had become unrecognizable; the life they knew just a week ago had vanished. We often focus on the miracle of Jesus appearing, but we forget the heavy atmosphere of that room, the feeling of being trapped by the “what-ifs and uncertainty. When Jesus finally breathes peace into that space, Thomas isn’t there. He misses the moment. And when the others tell him the news, he doesn’t respond with joy, but with a demand for proof.
Faith means putting full trust into something you cannot see. It is daring to know there is something greater without having a tangible sign to hold. We like to say that Thomas is “doubting,” but if we are being honest, we have all been there. Growing up, faith confused me. I thought God was only real if He literally walked into my room or got me everything I asked Santa for. I know now that God doesn’t work that way, but like Thomas, I still find myself waiting for a sign. I know the Lord gives us “peace beyond understanding,” but knowing the truth and feeling it are two different things.
In Today’s Gospel, Thomas says, “Unless I see the marks in his hands… I will not believe.”
But notice what Jesus does. He doesn’t wait for Thomas to get it right, and He doesn’t punish him for wanting to be sure. He meets him exactly where he is, behind those locked doors. Jesus shows us that faith doesn’t mean having all the answers; it means being willing to stay in the room until He shows up.
I look around this church and I see a map of my life. I can still hear the sound of singing in Children’s Church with Mrs. Tiffany and the frantic race to see who could ring the bells first. I can hear the laughter in the parish hall, while stuffing my face with pancakes on Fat Tuesday. I still remember the taste of lemonade and goldfish by the fishpond, surrounded by people who love me most. In those days, God was in the laughter, the sugar, and the sunshine.
Eventually, the lemonade turned into Confirmation classes, and the race to the bells turned into acolyting. If I’m being honest, I started to acolyte for a simple reason: I thought it made the services go by faster! I was so desperate to grow up and finally be the “cool” older kid holding the processional cross. But now that I am the older kid, I’d give anything to go back to those lemonade Sundays.
What started as a way to pass time became the first moment I understood the weight of God. Watching new faces join us and familiar ones stay constant in the pews, I realized I wasn’t just “doing a job.” I was part of a family. Serving at the altar taught me that God isn’t just a thought; He is the gravity that truly holds this community together.
These past two years, I’ve served on the Diocesan Youth Department and led a spiritual retreat called Happening. Through those experiences, I realized God’s love isn’t just something we receive, it’s something we’re called to build for others. But I only knew how to look for that love because I had seen it here at Ascension first. Whether you realize it or not, every time you asked how school was going or simply gave me a smile, you were teaching me what community looks like. You all have been the “tangible sign” that Thomas was looking for.
Right now, I am standing at the horizon of change. As I look toward college, I’m filled with anxiety. The “What Ifs” are louder than ever. What if I’m alone? What if my faith doesn’t survive the move? In just a few weeks, the life I’ve known for eighteen years will change. I’m trading this sanctuary for a dorm room and these known faces for a sea of strangers.
But the beauty of the Gospel is that Thomas wasn’t wandering in the desert alone when he found his answers; he was in community. Every Sunday, we do the same thing. When we share His body and blood, we are “sharing the load” of our doubts. At camp, we sing a song that says: “We are pilgrims on a journey… we are here to help each other walk the mile and bear the load.” If my faith feels small one week, I am carried by the person kneeling next to me whose faith feels strong. In the bread and the wine, we get the sign Thomas was desperate for. We don’t just hear the truth; we taste it. How blessed are we to have a space of community every Sunday?
Jesus tells the disciples, “Peace be with you” three separate times. He says it because He knows their world is shifting. He says it to us, too. He knows our doubts and fears. They tell us that the Church is the “Body of Christ.” I used to think that was just a metaphor, but at Ascension, it is real. When I couldn’t see God’s hand, I felt it in the handshakes at the peace. When I couldn’t hear His voice, I heard it in our choir and the laughter in the hall while vesting to acolyte.
The miracle wasn’t just that Jesus came back; it’s that He stayed long enough for Thomas to reach out and touch Him. That is what you all have done for me.
I have to acknowledge the person who gave me the gift of Ascension. Thank you, Dad, for bringing me here, even on the mornings when I didn’t want to go. We went from me coloring in the pews to standing at the altar together, serving the Lord’s table. Serving by your side taught me the most important lesson of all: that faith isn’t a sudden burst of light or a mountain-top high. Faith is consistency. It is the quiet, steady act of showing up, over and over again, even when the “feeling” isn’t there. I am the person I am today because you stayed the course with me.
So, as I look toward college, I remember that I’m not leaving God behind in Montgomery. I’m taking the same God that gives us laughter in the acolyte room, pancakes on Fat Tuesday, and the incredible slide on Ascension Day.
I am going into this next chapter with a heavy heart, but a full one. There is alot of uncertainty but I know one thing for sure. I have spent eighteen years touching the love of God right here. This church has shown me that God isn’t a distant mystery; He is as real as the person sitting next to you.
When the world feels too big or the doubt feels too loud, I won’t have to look too far. Thankfully I know exactly the place . I’ll just have to run home to 315 Clanton Avenue.
Amen