I picked up my three-day-old daughter from her bassinet, but I couldn’t make her stop screeching. I bounced, rocked, and swayed. Twenty squats later, I began to question my competency as a parent. One of our visitors noticed my panic, disguised by confidence, and asked me to hand her over. In an attempt to reassure me, she observed, “Maybe you’re not soft enough.” Wait, was that supposed to be a compliment?
For a time, I assumed that I was biologically ill-equipped for gentleness. My daughter latched on to her mother’s body for sustenance, rendering me glorified waitstaff. I’m also prone to anger; I lose my temper and find it when it’s too late. I can play too rough and throw the kids too high in the air. But the first time my beard stubble gave my daughter goosebumps, I knew that gentleness and strength could be complementary.
Read more at Coracle
One of the first responses to resurrection was disbelief, but we’re critical when some prominent Christian doubts it. “Wait, you’re telling me that the man who was mocked, whipped, crucified and carried into a tomb appeared to the disciples?” Sounds like outdated metaphysics. Or, “God didn’t cure her cancer, but definitely will raise and reconstitute her on the other side?” Sounds fishy. Resurrection might be better swallowed as allegory.
Thomas is the saint we didn’t know we wanted, but desperately needed. Thomas returns to his frightened friends in their boarded up house after a walk through the park and says, “I don’t believe you.” Or more emphatically, “I’ll never believe you.” I mean Peter isn’t the most trustworthy guy, right? Neither is the church built in his wake (not always, anyway).
There are some things you have to see for yourself to believe. For instance, the Cubs won the World Series. Wouldn’t believe it, but I saw it. I’ve heard some rational stories about UFOs, but I’ve never seen any. I’m not saying it’s not true, but I haven’t seen it. So Thomas says, “Unless I see his hands I will not believe.” And the church breathes a sigh of relief. Thank God that there’s some skepticism in the Scriptures.
Who says doubt is the unforgivable sin? Politicians and pundits, of course. Other times, it’s the church--particularly the religious professionals. We're the worst. We can’t stomach doubt; it’s an assault on our authority, years of education, and vocation. We’re a people who need to be needed. Come sit at my feet and linger on these words of tradition-tested wisdom. You’re not allowed to disagree, after all, because I represent God. Let’s sing “Great is Thy Faithfulness” on repeat until you change your mind. The church has failed us, here, I think.
Doubt doesn’t bother me too much, anymore. I love a good doubt. Ever changed your mind about something? You can thank doubt for that. Galileo doubted that the earth was the center of the universe. Scientists are doubting that some cancers are incurable. Praise the Lord. The church doubted that women couldn’t preach. And lest we think that Scripture never doubts Scripture, Peter had a dream about Eastern Carolina barbecue (I assume) and began to reinterpret his entire tradition.
Our experiences shape what we believe, just as what we believe shapes our experiences. If there’s one phrase I’d love to hear more often it’s this: ‘I could be wrong, but this is how I see it. And I’m open to seeing more.’ The novelist Doris Betts writes that faith is "not synonymous with certainty...faith is the decision to keep your eyes open.” Then again, if we can’t be certain about anything, we should also doubt our doubts. God always surprises us.
Thomas kept his eyes open and that’s why the church calls him a saint. When Jesus finally appears to Thomas he greets him not with anger, but by saying “Peace be with you.” It’s an ancient Jewish greeting and blessing: Shalom. God be with you. Jesus gives the peace that passes all understanding, not as the world gives. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid. Jesus receives our fragile faith into his body and births wholeness.
Thomas got there, to a place of peace, even if it took him longer. “My Lord and my God,” he says. It's one of the strongest confessions in the Scriptures.
There’s a misunderstanding that faith is about mental assent, or what you think with your cerebral cortex. But faith is not about passing the Christianity quiz and believing is more than agreeing to a set of doctrinal statements or spouting off the right catechism. Passionate faith doesn't spring from coercion, but from discovery (or being discovered) after the hard work of asking questions, wondering, and lingering in the empty places.
In John’s Gospel, Jesus is less concerned with your mental acuity and more concerned with where you’re abiding, or making your home. There’s a union between the believer and the divine (and not just our brains). The major point is whether our lives become more peaceful, whole, loving after an encounter with Christ Jesus. And that's enough reason to stop policing church belonging.
Doubt isn’t as threatening as we fear. If Jesus rose from the dead, it will still be true whether or not Thomas believes it. Jesus doesn't wait for our validation. This is good news because I have more questions every day. But the questions no longer threaten my faith; they make it more fun and interesting. They’re pruning hooks that refine my deepest convictions. In other words, the beliefs sometimes change, but the trust doesn’t.
We’ve named Thomas “Doubting,” but the only nickname Thomas has in Scripture is “the Twin.” Apparently he had a brother, though his identity is one of the great mysteries. But maybe it’s an appropriate name for Thomas. Whose twin is he? The church tradition has said that it might be you. If you’re not sure you can stomach the entire Christian confession, then there’s good news: you have a twin. Are you keeping your eyes open?
Jesus' earliest followers didn't have uniform experiences of him. Neither do we. Methodists have long said that there are degrees of faith—certainty, uncertainty, and everything between. It's easier for some and harder for others. But Jesus reminds us that the only requirement is faith the size of a mustard seed, or rather a Thomas-sized faith.
Tradition says that Thomas went on to preach from Jerusalem to India, where he was martyred. That’s about the same distance Asheville, North Carolina to Portland, Oregon. Thomas dropped his seeds of faith the entire way and God watered them until they became churches. Your seed of faith might lie dormant for years; it may never germinate at all. That’s ok. Jesus says that a seed is enough. One day Jesus will stand before you and invite you to drop your seed of faith into his nail pierced hands. The seed abide will in Jesus, fill with life, and sprout into new creation.
Our Lady couldn’t breathe yesterday. This week, neither could Jesus.
No week is more fitting for a historic cathedral to be scorched from the inside out. On Friday, we’ll gaze at the ruins of Christ’s body—pierced, torn, and unable to breathe. The world was set ablaze. Jesus, whose body was the Temple of God, was gutted of everything. He was thirsty, but could hold no water. This was a God hollowed of God as he cried out “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”
Holy Week isn’t about a God who saves us from pain, but one who enters the fire and walks alongside of us.
What did we see when we watched Notre Dame bursting into flames? The loss of history? A God looking for vengeance on a corrupt Catholic Church or an indictment on a country’s secularism? I have no emotional attachment to the cathedral or immersion in French history, so I saw only the truth of our world: its fragility. Our most incredible accomplishments and cultural treasures are petals on dandelions. One small flame and a gust of wind and only a stem remains shooting from the ground, wafting in the breeze. Nothing gets out of life unscathed.
For he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust.
All around the world people, not just Christians, are left wondering, “Can these bones live?” It’s not only about Notre Dame, but our world and all that’s in it—our transient accomplishments, our broken systems of oppression, failing churches, our dried up lives. When we look at Notre Dame, we look in the mirror. We can rise to the heavens, enshroud ourselves with gold, layer on bulges of muscle—but we’re still bones.
What does God do with bones?
Ezekiel is some help, here. He prophesied during a time of great suffering, when his nation was stripped to the bone and their temple was in ruins. Then, he had a vision that he was taken to a deep valley, engulfed in bones. Each set of bones a person with a family, a story, a heart that beat with passions and dreams. Now, their histories are buried in the dirt.
The Israelites can't see beyond the death, but God sees a frame for re-creation. And God calls Ezekiel to preach to the bones. Flesh begins to wrap around the bones. Veins carry the blood throughout the body. Ligaments connect bones. Muscles move. The problem is that there is no breath. Ezekiel preaches again, this time he asks the ruach—the breath, the wind, the spirit—to come into the bodies. This is the same ruach that hovers over the water at creation, the same breath that fills the dirt and creates life, the same Holy Spirit prophesied by Joel. And the bones stood on their feet.
“You shall know that I am the Lord when I open your graves and bring you up from the grave. I will put my Spirit in you and you will live.”
Christians know what God can do with a large chunk of collagen and a good breath of air. This is why Catholics ran inside the scorching church to save morbid relics like someones tibia, molars, and another’s locks of hair—an inmate's crown of thorns. Churches with attached cemeteries will agree: bones make for great buttresses and gravestones are the best foundations. It's strange, but we believe a new heart can be placed in their shell.
What did we see when we looked at Notre Dame? Did we see Jesus?
The church helps tells the story of France, but part of the church's story is a crucified Lord. Notre Dame displayed theological might and awe inspiring beauty, but now there is weakness. This is Jesus. The humbled one found in the poor, the ordinary, the groaning, and burning world. Can his bones live? Despite the towering flames and the ashes, an empty cross shines, pumping light throughout the haze and the darkness of death. God’s no stranger to crosses. After all, Jesus is a carpenter who is particularly skilled with beams of wood.
The cross is a promise: God will blow away the smoke, pick up the dust, and breathe into it. Life emerges again. Not just for ancient cathedrals, but for all of us.
The Church calls it resurrection.
I like to win. Or, maybe it’s more accurate to say that I hate to lose. Regardless of what takes precedence, I’ve left behind a long history of holes in walls, Nintendo power cords yanked from the wall, thrown remote controls, and outstanding grudges. I’m a relatively peaceful person, but nothing turns me into the Incredible Hulk like a good competition.
My passion to win was imparted to me at an early age—possibly through my mom’s umbilical cord. Some families can play games with each other and have fun, though that’s a mystery. No one cries or flips over a table? Sounds boring. I learned to leave it all on the Monopoly board—Boardwalk or bust.
Competitions are a zero sum game. Look, there’s a scoreboard. Why do we keep score if it’s about effort? Unfortunately, I’ve internalized the reverse—why play if we’re not keeping score? Play is intrinsically good and it’s important to have fun, but it’s also true that winning increases my chances of having fun. I blame it on dopamine and genetics.
My extended family visited us one Christmas to celebrate Jesus and also to confirm who was the best at World Cup ’94 on Super Nintendo. My brother and I had adequate time to hone our digital soccer skills enough to beat our uncles and cousins. But after one day of losing, my uncle stayed up all night until he found a glitch in the game that supplied him a goal with every shot. The next day he was merciless.
My daughter, Eden, has inherited our original sin. She turns everything into a competition: cars at a stoplight, the ladder at the playground, ballet class (yes, it’s possible). Never mind that her competitors haven’t been informed of the contest. Their ignorance makes it easier to win.
We participated in a family 5-k last weekend, which I realize makes us look like ‘one of those’ annoying families that also eats avocado toast. After half of a mile Eden threw herself on the asphalt because we were losing to a lot of people, many of whom appeared very un-athletic. I told her that losing was ok because we’re trying our best. I didn’t believe it. We passed a few people and she called them ‘slow pokes’ under her breath. She is three years old. What can I say? It’s in our blood.
I don’t apologize for our family foible; maybe it’s an evolutionary advantage. Human beings are wired for self-preservation, after all, and it’s possible that our family wired a little tighter. I hope to raise a strong girl who’s not afraid to take on a boy in a footrace and later, challenge one for a job. Work hard, train long, be passionate. Take pride in hard-fought wins because our country doesn’t need more self-deprecating women. But squash out the competitive spirit and you might also repress intrinsic goods like passion and perseverance, which can be mobilized for goodness.
Paul uses competitive imagery to describe the Christian life: running a race, fighting the good fight, and training in righteousness. Not to mention he also tells the Corinthians that he beats his body to make it his slave, which is some intense training for Jesus. Paul calls the Philippians his joy and crown, which is an image of victory. He tells them that he strains forward to what lies ahead and pressed on towards the goal for the prize of the heavenly call.
In other words, competition finds a better shape with the right virtues and a proper finish line. The Latin etymology reminds us that the word literally means to ‘strive together’. What if I treated Christianity with the urgency of a race that might be lost? Worked out generosity like my biceps? Called my community my crown and joy?
Unfortunately, most Christians are satisfied with a participation medal.
On the other hand, I know the shadow side of competition all too well. Losing is a form of dying. When the basketball rolls around the rim during the last second of a basketball game tempting a win or loss, we hang in the balance between life and death, heart beating erratically and hands shaking until the basketball gods make the final call.i Is it possible to go through the seven stages of grief over a basketball game? Yes. It’s the death of the season and a relationship to a team. When Duke loses I blame the referees, sleep late, wake up in denial, and ultimately curse the Tarheels.
If you’re not careful, a loss can be the death of your identity. That same little voice that creeps in to tell me that I’m better than everyone else, won't hesitate to call me worthless. In Chariots of Fire, the Olympic runner Harold Abrahams said that “[I have] ten lonely seconds to justify my whole existence.” I get that. I’m not nearly as good at soccer as I was ten years ago. My legs don’t move as fast and the cocky eighteen year olds move past me with a smirk. If I’m not the best, then who am I really? Beloved. But that’s hard to accept when I’m on the ground with a cramp in my calf.
Sniders are a perceptive people, keenly aware of how we appear to others. This means we’re prideful. So here’s what I tell myself: value isn’t an accomplishment. Human beings have the propensity to create scoreboards out of about anything—the size of houses, posts on facebook, red letters on the top of a graded paper. It looks like a lot of people are winning life, and we can get jealous, but many of them aren’t even competing. Regardless, life isn’t a competition that can be won and lost. We all die regardless of how many victories we've accrued on earth.
This is why losing can be good: it exposes our limits. It may even bring relief. There was a moment in a high school when our soccer team finally lost in the quarter finals of the state playoffs. I punched a locker, went to sleep, and woke up relieved. The pressure was off. Thank God. We don’t have to be the best, which is good because it's actually impossible. We are creatures; not saviors. Every crown put on a human head is a crown on a lump of dirt.
In other words, our aspirations must be tempered by humility. Now, humility doesn’t mean thinking less of yourself, or even thinking of yourself less, it means thinking of yourself properly—dependent and in relation to God. All of our accomplishments are not our own, but they’re gifts of grace—unearned and undeserved, given to us from God and others. Not one of us is self-made.
In a different scene of Chariots of Fire, Eric Liddell says, “I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure.” When you compete, whose pleasure do you feel? This outlook strikes me as the kind of humility that will afford us the ability to compete without slipping into self-loathing or becoming intolerable to others. Laughing helps, too. Always laugh.
I’ve mellowed since I was eighteen, which means that no one has called me a jerk in some time. I’ve not stopped keeping score, but I do try to look at the right scoreboards. Now, this is likely attributed to maturity. But I also want to think that it’s grace making me more Christ-like. Jesus wasn’t much of a winner by our standards, unless he set out to get a crown of thorns. What does it profit to gain the world if you lose your soul? The exception was fishing; he always knew where to throw the net. Otherwise, Jesus tried to teach us that we win by losing. He said that the ones struggling at the back of the pack are the ones who are really out front. It all depends on where you place the finish line. And maybe the real finish line is sanctification, or transformation of the world into Jesus’ image.
Still, Jesus could get fairly competitive. He tells us that the widow who gives up two mites is winning. One found coin is worth more than the ones never lost. Jesus says he leaves the ninety-nine in search of the one that got away. He means to be all in all and I’m not sure he’ll stop competing until he is. After all, he is the Lord.
i. Lincoln Harvey makes this observation