Thomas Didn’t Get It

“How is this night different from all other nights?” The youngest child in a Jewish family asks this question on the night of Passover.

We could ask a similar question on Divine Mercy Sunday—why is this feast any different? We’ve just celebrated so many—a literal Holy Week, and then an eight-day-long Easter. So why yet another feast?

God’s answer plays out the in the story of Thomas.

Holy Thursday had happened—Thomas was there when Jesus gathered the Twelve, washed their feet, fed them with His Body, and foretold the death He was about to die for them. Good Friday had happened—Jesus had hung on the cross. Thomas—like all the others save John—was absent; likely hiding in fear. Holy Saturday had happened—in prolonged grief and waiting, the world sat silent.

And then Easter Sunday. Jesus had risen from the dead—had astonishingly appeared to Mary Magdalene, then to disciples on the road to Emmaus, and to the other apostles in the locked room. Death was defeated; mourning turned to joy!

But Thomas didn’t get it. Literally.

He was not there in the room when Jesus appeared to the others. We don’t know where he was or why. But we know that although all the events had taken place—the price paid, the Paschal lamb resurrected–he had not been part of it. He was not convinced by what the others said, was not changed, was not healed. He still could not, would not believe—unless and until he himself touched the wounds of Christ.

Today we are Thomas. The events have taken place, the witnesses have spoken—but we need our own personal encounter with the wounds of Christ in order to be changed, to make Easter real in our own hearts, and to RECEIVE the gift of resurrection for ourselves.

Jesus asked Saint Faustina to have this feast instituted as a special day in which the floodgates of mercy would be open to all who approach. Yes, the graces were already merited, already offered. But this is our renewed chance to come and to claim them for ourselves.

Jesus asked for a new image of His Divine Mercy. So that like Thomas, we might see Jesus stepping toward us. He invites me to look at His heart, pierced not just for a generic humanity, but for me personally. He invites me to stand in that space before him, so that the rays of light—white and red, for the blood and water which flowed forth from His side, might fall on me personally.

He wants each of us to receive all of the graces He already merited for us, which He longs to pour out on EVERY one of us. And He makes a startling promise: when we approach with trust the “Fountain of Mercy” on this special feast, we will receive complete remission of both sin and punishment.

What does this mean? What do we do next?

The first part involves getting our sins forgiven in the sacrament of Confession. It is easy to look at this as a burden—something we must “do” to earn the reward. But rather, all we need to do is to bring to Jesus—through the priest—those things that we want Him to take away. We name them; He forgives them. It is like bringing a list of debts owed, and whatever is on our list, He marks “paid.” There is no sin too big—in fact, Jesus promises that this feast is especially for the most hardened of sinners! “The greater the sin, the greater the right to my Mercy.”

And this Sacrament of Reconciliation is more than the cancelling of debt, more than moving us from the “naughty” to the “nice” list. The forgiveness of our sins removes from us the restraint, the awkwardness, the walls between us and Jesus that would keep us from truly receiving His love.

The truth is that even in human relationships, when there is unhealed hurt between us, we hold back or even hide from each other. Jesus does not do this. Rather, He points to His heart, which is pouring out mercy for us, so that we might be willing to show Him our hearts, and what it is that we need and want healed.

The heart of this feast of mercy follows this forgiveness—it is to be united to Jesus not only spiritually but bodily, in Holy Communion. The same wounded body that Thomas sought to touch with his own hands, comes even closer to us in the Eucharist. The God who came down from heaven to be one with us, now condescends even further—coming into our very bodies.

When Thomas puts his finger into the wounds of Jesus, he suddenly recognizes Him. “My Lord, and my God!” Thomas exclaims. But is not his own identity also restored? As we take into our bodies the wounded yet resurrected Body of Christ, our own wounds begin to heal, our own resurrection begins.

The promised grace of Divine Mercy Sunday is more than a plenary indulgence—it has been likened in grace to a second baptism. To be theologically precise, baptism is a once-for-always sacrament. But Jesus makes all things new, and this grace extraordinarily renews our own baptism.

 

 

Image Credit: Caravaggio, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons