The Wesley Foundation at UVA

“Inviting Doubt”

John 20: 19-31

Seeing as how you are college students, you probably know this already, but it is hard to make a college student squirm uncomfortably.  Y’all are used to graphic images and harsh language.  You’re at home on the internet.  The world you’ve grown up in and are maturing in is saturated with images, words, and social situations many people of my generation didn’t face until we were well into our 20s and 30s.

So I have to say I took a small amount of pride when I succeeded in making some of you squirm last year during our forum on doubt.  If you were here you may remember that I had found several paintings on the internet depicting the so-called Doubting Thomas story and I printed them out to pass around during part of our forum discussion.  Well, I could tell without looking where the Caravaggio was as it went around the room.  All I had to do was listen for the “oooughs” and the “Oh!  Disgustings!”

Caravaggio is the Italian painter from around 1600 who was known for his striking use of light and dark.  His painting, “The Incredulity of Saint Thomas” is his most copied painting and it’s this one that made some of us squirm.

In the painting, the risen Jesus has pulled aside his gown to reveal the gash in his side.  Thomas is bent over at the waist with his finger inserted into Jesus’ side up to the first knuckle.  Thomas’ forehead is wrinkled up, a look of curiosity and concentration on his face, and his eyes about 6 inches from Jesus’ wound.  Two other disciples are standing behind him, leaning in over Thomas’ bent frame, trying to get a better look.

It’s a startling picture.  Detailed and almost gruesome.  We hear in the scripture that Thomas wanted to put his fingers in Jesus’ wounds, but somehow most people don’t picture it this way.  He’s got his hand shoved into Jesus’ body and he’s poking and pulling the skin aside!

The way Caravaggio paints it, there is no place to hide.  All the light in the picture rests on Jesus’ white torso, so that your eyes are pulled to that hole and that finger, against your will, like gravity.  You want to get a better look at those other disciples – Who is that there?  Is it Peter in the back?—but you are helpless in the face of this masterpiece.  The finger, the wound, and that moment draw your eye to them over and over.

To be honest, Caravaggio gets it wrong.  At least so far as that very real finger-in-the-side part.  In John’s gospel Thomas never actually touches Jesus.  We forget that.

When Jesus comes back to the house a week after Easter, a week after appearing to the other disciples gathered there on Easter night, he comes right in, stands in their midst, and says, “Peace be with you.”  And even though he wasn’t there when Thomas was talking with the others that week…even though Jesus wasn’t there when Thomas laid out his demands for belief in the risen Christ…Jesus turns immediately to Thomas and says Put your finger here and see my hands.  Reach out your hand and put it in my side.  And, just like Mary Magdalene at the tomb last week when someone she thought was the gardener suddenly speaks her name, Thomas hears Jesus’ invitation and –without touching him  — Thomas knows and believes who Jesus is.  He proclaims, “My Lord and my God!”

Just like that.  Is that the way you remember it?

I didn’t.  I have to confess that I was surprised when I re-read this story recently.  I was surprised to read that Thomas never touches Jesus after all.  I was surprised to see that Jesus simply meets unbelief and mistrust and skepticism with peace and a holy invitation – an offering of himself, of his body.  But why should this be surprising?  Isn’t this what Jesus always does?

So Caravaggio gets the touch wrong.  As gripping as the scene is on canvas, it’s not exactly what transpired.  In the gospel, as soon as he hears Jesus’ invitation, Thomas erupts in his brief and potent confession of faith:  “My Lord and my God!”  What he thought he needed in order to believe is not what it took, after all.

But here’s where Caravaggio gets it right.  I haven’t really described to you what Jesus looks like in the painting.   Bathed in light, he stands at the edge of the scene, right hand pulling his clothes aside to expose his wounded side.  His head is cocked a little to the side and his gaze is downcast and gentle.  You know the look a proud and affectionate parent has when watching a beloved child try something new?  You know how such a parent looks pleased and protective and awed all at once?  Caravaggio’s Jesus looks a little like this.  His head is bent down above Thomas’ and he’s watching over Thomas lovingly.  And here’s the best part:  Jesus’ left hand is lightly gripping Thomas’ wrist, as if he’s encouraging and guiding Thomas in his exploration of the wound.  As if Jesus has said Come on and touch all that you need to in order to see and believe, and then on top of it, takes Thomas’ hand and guides him to the sweet spot.

This, Caravaggio gets right.  Brilliantly right.  Jesus is not a begrudging participant in his interactions with Thomas.  There is no exasperated sighing or rolling of the eyes.  Jesus never calls him a Doubting Thomas.  Jesus does not imply that if Thomas were a better apostle he would not need “hands on” proof.  Jesus doesn’t come back a week after Easter, offering greetings of peace to everyone except Thomas.  And he doesn’t put any conditions on what Thomas has said he needs in order to believe.  Jesus does not even wait for Thomas to ask.  Jesus simply offers Thomas what he is looking for, what he needs.

Even though the touch never happens in John’s gospel, we can believe Caravaggio’s moment because he shows us what John shows us:  what kind of God this is – One who graciously offers himself up to our feeble misunderstanding and reckless fumbling.  A God who doesn’t just stand in our midst while we struggle, but who takes our hands and guides us.

“Doubting Thomas” gets a bad rap for wanting exactly what the other disciples already received:  an encounter with the risen Christ.  Thomas unfairly gets the bad rap, but this we can say for him:  he knows enough about Jesus to accept nothing less.  What are you willing to accept?  Knock and it will be answered; ask and you will receive.

Why in the world wouldn’t you ask for what you want from the Risen One on whose lips even the sounds of our very names sound like invitations?

The Risen Christ comes into the locked and shut off places, granting peace, breathing into us the breath of new life, attentive to what we need, and – if Caravaggio is to be believed – graciously guiding our trembling and searching hands.  We believe; help our unbelief!  Can you hear the invitation?  Can you feel his hand on yours?  There is no doubt about it.

Thanks be to God!

© Deborah Lewis

Worship tonight @ 6pm.

Join us for worship each Sunday night in the dining room at the Wesley Foundation. Dress is casual and friends are welcome.

This is a student-led service, with musical worship team and weekly Communion. Come listen for God’s Word and your call.

Come as you are…leave a bit more.

Dinner @ 6pm, followed by forum @ 7pm. Check the “Thursday Nights” tab for specific weekly topics.

“What Do You Do with an Empty Tomb?”

John 20: 1-18

My friend Mike has very strong beliefs. He’s a lawyer who often works pro bono cases; he became a vegetarian even when he still wanted to eat meat, because he decided it was the right thing to do; he is active in his church, organizing Christmas plays and music and children’s Sunday school. In short, he is a person of conviction.

One of Mike’s most passionately-held convictions is this: At the movie theater, after the film, people should not be allowed to talk until they get to their cars.

This one may be right up there with vegetarianism. He absolutely abhors being subjected to the ill-considered, hasty comments of fellow moviegoers who begin jabbering before the credits roll and who prattle on all the way to the lobby. He feels that the only proper response to art – to cinematic revelation – is silence.

Today is a day for silence. It may be hard to hear it, to notice it, to observe it. But it’s true. Easter is all about the grand silence of the empty tomb, the life-transforming and life-giving emptiness of the tomb.

You may not have noticed this in church this morning. We tend to have “issues” with emptiness and with silence. We’d rather rush to restore the altar – swipe down the Good Friday black and swoop in with a truckload of lilies. No time or space for emptiness today!

I got an Easter card in the mail from a friend of mine one recent Easter, and it was sweet and thoughtful and cheery – and completely overdone. It was actually hard to pick out the cross in the picture on the front, festooned as it was in blooms and vines. If I were from another culture or another religion, I might gather from this card that Easter is a celebration of blooms. I might not have even noticed the cross.

Maybe there is something about silence, about that glorious emptiness, that feels too close to death for us. Maybe that’s especially so on Easter, when we celebrate the fact that death has lost its sting. We know it but we’re still trying to believe it – and lilies can seem so much more lively than an empty and silent tomb.

A former student once confided in me that he doesn’t particularly like being in church on Easter morning, that it feels too much like the tomb to him. He pointed out that when the resurrected Jesus starts appearing to people, it is outside – in the garden, fishing on the beach, walking on the road. Because of this, he craves worshipping outside. Outside feels more like Easter. (And there are 20 early rising Humpback hikers and campers who might agree with this.)

Maybe we’re onto something. After all, when the women arrived there that morning, Jesus was not sitting in the tomb, waiting to yell “surprise.” Why do you look for the living among the dead? The resurrected Jesus meets people not in the tomb but out in the world, in their lives – just as Jesus did before the crucifixion. And yet, Mary, the women, and several disciples have to go to the tomb before they can meet Christ anywhere else.

And here we are Easter morning (and night), standing at the gaping, silent mouth of the empty tomb. Faithful, fearful, and with a serious addiction to lilies.

One biblical commentary wonders, if there had been a surveillance camera in the tomb, what would it have recorded? Would it have shown Jesus getting up, neatly folding his burial garments, miraculously moving the stone, and going on his way? Would there have been a sudden burst of light and smoke which, when it subsided, showed a suddenly empty tomb and a missing stone? And do we really think it matters how it happened, rather than why? Do we really think the stone had to be rolled away in order for Jesus to escape death? ( ) What if the stone were moved aside not to let Jesus out, but to let the women in? ( )

Maybe, just maybe, we need that empty tomb more than we know. Maybe we need it more than we need the comfort of the lilies and the joyful noise of our triumphant singing. Maybe the stone was rolled away to invite us in to the awed silence that follows the defeat of death.

Mary Magdalene stands at precisely this spot – the threshold of the tomb – talking to someone she thinks is the gardener. Until she hears her name called. In the echo of the empty tomb, this man makes sudden sense and she hears her name on God’s lips.

I am not saying we should get rid of lilies or magnificent hymns (OK, maybe a few of the lilies). What I am saying is that perhaps the most fitting response to the glory of the empty tomb is silence. Perhaps we ought to wait until we get to the lobby, at least, before we start critiquing this passion film. Perhaps we ought to stand silently in the garden before we cover over the majesty and miracle of that emptiness with lilies and lutes.

If the stone has been pushed aside to let us in, then there is something in the emptiness and the silence that we need. If the stone’s been rolled away to let us in, shouldn’t we stand there quietly for a minute or two and wait to hear our names called?

Come now, to the edge of the garden and listen for what God is saying, echoed in the depths of that tomb. Love is stronger than death, passion fierce as the grave. God is stronger than death.

Look deeply into the place of death – and see that there is nothing there for us any longer. Don’t be afraid of the silence – it will not deafen you. Or the emptiness – it will not envelope you. The tomb cannot suck you in!

This emptiness of which we are so often afraid is a call home. A call back from the edge of death. The call of a mother gathering her children in for supper. Jesus isn’t in the tomb but we need to see it and experience it to believe it.

My friend Mike may have a point about movie theatres, but I am convinced his dictate is true for Easter. The only proper response to the empty tomb – to divine revelation in the resurrection – is silence and thankfulness and reverence. ( ) And maybe, eventually, a little verbal praise.

Thanks be to God!

(c) Deborah E. Lewis

“Hark, the Herald”

John 20: 1- 18

I was studying a painting by Giovanni Savoldo this week, called Mary Magdalene. She’s wearing a light, shimmery, almost silvery “hoodie.” You know how female Biblical characters are always represented, with long flowing robes, parts of which seems to drape over their heads? Well, she’s wearing one of those and sort of has one knee drawn up under her chin and she’s hugging that leg to herself, with her head balanced on her knee.

Her face is turned toward the viewer, her gaze unwavering, her expression serene and satisfied. She looks like she knows something and she makes me want to find out what it is.

Behind her in the close background of the painting is a gaping, black archway – a doorway into nothingness. Next to her there is a small pitcher, also shimmery in the light.

Behind her in the far background is the sunrise, just barely beginning to happen. Clouds are scattering on the horizon and the new light is reflecting on water, clouds, and sky. You can’t quite see the sun but this is the moment just before it emerges fully. It’s still a collection of bright light peeking out from the earth, about to startle us with its brilliance when it inches up past the horizon.

But perhaps the most interesting thing about this painting is that the shimmering light on her “hoodie,” the shimmery light on the pitcher, the light that illumines her face – none of it comes from the direction of the sunrise. In fact, the light cast on Mary comes from the opposite direction. It would be as if, sitting here on the top of Humpback Rocks, you were to turn your back to the sun but still your face would somehow be illuminated from a light source in the west.

Fascinating.

The verse that stayed with me as I was preparing for Easter this year was verse 18 from John’s Easter story: “Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, ‘I have seen the Lord’; and she told them that he had said these things to her” (John 20: 18). It’s the very last verse we heard this morning and it’s the word “announced” that did it for me. I could almost picture Mary blowing a trumpet before announcing to the other disciples what she had seen. “Hear ye, hear ye…”

She announced it. Announcing connotes proclamation, declaration, and publicity. This is something she has no doubt about and she is not seeking any approval or corroboration. She is simply telling it like it is. She is announcing it to the rest of the disciples – and they will be wise to listen.

As this verse played over in my mind the word “herald” came to me. Maybe that’s where I got the trumpet image. Here’s Mary, the herald. Hark!

Here’s Mary, who moments before was so scared and distraught with crying that she wouldn’t follow Peter and the other disciple into the tomb, but just stood crying outside in the garden. Here’s Mary, who through teary eyes fresh from hearing her name called, recognized Jesus where an instant before she had seen a gardener. Here’s Mary, fresh from a tomb which somehow gave birth to new life, ready to tell everyone that everything Jesus promised is already coming true. Here she is, the herald about to bring good news to the entire world.

Hark, the herald!

Charles Wesley wrote that well-loved Christmas hymn, “Hark! The herald angels sing.” If I could start us off on the right key, you could probably all sing along, at least through the first verse. But listen to the words of the final verse:

Hail the heav’n-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings
Ris’n with healing in His wings
Mild He lays His glory by
Born that man no more may die
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth
Hark! The herald angels sing
“Glory to the newborn King!”

Fitting for Christmas and Easter… Light and life to all He brings, Risen with healing in His wings.

I go back to the painting I spent time with this week. There is still the matter of that unexpected light, shining from a direction opposite the rising sun. Where is the light on Mary’s face coming from?

For all of us, who camped out and got up exceedingly early to be here on this spot to see the sunrise, what an odd notion that on Easter morning the brightest light comes from another direction. Or is it?

Easter morning changes the world as we know it. The last will be first and the first will be last. Death has no authority anymore. The sting is gone. The old rules don’t apply. Christ is risen and lives! Risen with healing in his wings!

No matter where we were last night, this is a new day! No matter that you were just crying in the garden, you are about to be the ambassador herald to the world.

Savoldo’s Mary – and John’s – looks like she knows something and she makes me want to find out what it is. Her face is lit up with it.

Like Mary, like Moses coming down from Sinai, will your face shine coming down from this mountain today? Will you announce with your face and the whole of your life that a new day has dawned?

Hark, the herald. Listen! Everything Jesus promised is already coming true.

Thanks be to God!

(c) Deborah E. Lewis

Worship tonight @ 6pm.

Join us for worship each Sunday night in the dining room at the Wesley Foundation. Dress is casual and friends are welcome.

This is a student-led service, with musical worship team and weekly Communion. Come listen for God’s Word and your call.

Come as you are…leave a bit more.

One of Wesley’s best traditions and a wonderful, awe-inspiring way to greet Easter morning!

We’ll leave from the Wesley Memorial church parking lot (next to the Wesley Foundation) at 5:30am sharp, drive up to the Blue Ridge Parkway, and then make the short (but very steep) hike up Humpback Rocks.

At the top we will watch the sun rise while singing in Easter and celebrating Communion together.

Wear warm clothes and sturdy hiking/walking shoes, bring some drinking water, and prepare to celebrate Easter as never  before!  There are usually pancakes to be had at the Tavern afterwards and we are done in time to make it to Wesley Memorial’s 11am service.

We gather in the sanctuary at Wesley Memorial (next door) for worship at the start of this Easter weekend.  All are welcome.

We are hosting a day of prayer on Good Friday from 7am - 7pm.  Begin in the church sanctuary and take a meditative walk around the properties as you follow our prayer guide for The Stations of the Cross.  Take as much or as little time as you like in prayer and reflection.  The pastors will be on hand for conversation, prayer, or just to say “hi.”

Tonight dinner is followed by a Maundy Thursday worship service in the sanctuary at Wesley Memorial, next door. Dinner is at 6pm; worship is at 7pm. All are welcome.