Thomas: my hero

I have always liked Thomas. Yes, I mean “Doubting Thomas” – the one who didn’t believe his ten companions when they declared they had seen the risen Jesus.

In fact, among Jesus’ disciples, Thomas is my hero.

And I like him because he was the Doubter. The Bible, of course, doesn’t give him this label; history did. His biblical nickname is Didymus, the Twin. But he did doubt what everyone else seemed to believe so easily.* I understand this.

In a religion defined by believing, doubt is a really big problem. We know people who are forgiven terrible sins – liars, adulterers, thieves, gossips, even murderers. But what do you do with those who doubt? Where do they fit into the family of God?

I can understand why Thomas would finally dismiss the other ten as delusional. Did they forget their own fragile reliability? Did they forget that the bigger the crowd the easier it is to sell a big lie? Did they forget that they had locked themselves in a room for fear?

It annoys people sometimes, but I also remember those kinds of things.

I remember when people declare that something must be a “God thing.” I remember when it turns out later that it probably was not a “God thing.” I have learned to dislike that language. It makes me cringe.

I remember praying and hoping – and things didn’t turn out the way they were supposed to. Yes, I’ve seen miracles, I’ve seen prayers answered, but I also remember when miracles didn’t happen when I think they should have. Some people seem to easily forget that. I can’t.

I remember the stories coming back from the Toronto Vineyard church, of fillings turning to gold, of barking worship, and I remember the parades of pastors and leaders drawn in by its spell. It makes me a little jaded when I hear about the next really big thing that “God” is doing.

Thomas I can understand and because of that I like him – a lot.

But I also like Thomas because of his humanity. Like the rest of the disciples, he didn’t remember Jesus’ words. For a man who remembers things, he somehow forgot some very important details. Jesus had prepared Thomas for what happened, but “Thomas Of The Good Memory” forgot.

And in the heat of his argument, Thomas did something else I understand only too well. He went far too far in driving home his point. “Unless I put my finger where the nails were,” he said, “and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”

Sure he didn’t believe the ten. Why would you?

But did he really want to stick his fingers into the nail holes and his hand into Jesus’ spear wound? No doubt he silenced the ten with his retort. What could they say to such a graphic declaration?

Thomas won the argument but left himself exposed and he knew it the moment he stepped out of the room.

The test of Thomas’ extravagant rhetoric came a week later, when Jesus did meet him. “Thomas, put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side.” The text leaves no doubt. Against all the testimony of painters and sculptors, Thomas’ hand and fingers came nowhere near those wounds. Thomas’ argument was exposed for what it was: the shifting shadow of far deeper and more complex battles of the soul.

I like Thomas. Maybe he is the twin, the alter ego, to those millions of Jesus followers over two thousand years who have that combination of doubt and passion, careful memory and forgetfulness, isolation and need for companionship that Thomas had.

These are the reasons I like Thomas, but none of these make Thomas my hero.

No, the power of Thomas’ story is less about what Thomas did than what Jesus did. Jesus came back for the Doubter, for Thomas, for the lost sheep that found itself outside the fold. Doubt had taken him away, but Jesus went looking for him.

Jesus goes out of his way for his lost sheep, even doubters. And I like to think, especially doubters, because Jesus came back for me.

I like Thomas for who he was, and the notion that he might be my twin resonates with my romantic side. But I admire Thomas for what he did.

When Jesus came back for him, when the proof stood there before his eyes, Thomas’ declaration was short and unequivocal: “My Lord and my God!”

That’s an example to look up to.

* Read the account in John 20:24–29.

James Toews is pastor at Neighbourhood Church, Nanaimo, B.C.