Thomas

by bean21

"Let me put my own finger into the holes left by the nails that were driven through His hands. Let me thrust my own hand into the gouge in His side made by a Roman spear. Without this, I will not believe."

The room was still and dark. All windows and doors were shut and barred. The two men inside simply sat and stared at the floor, breathing quietly. But the stone walls were not thick enough to keep out all the noise, all the chaos.

I sat in that room on that day and simply listened. Slowly I shook my head, disgust sitting heavy in my gut. He'd been gone for two days, and still they continued. The streets were filled with people of all backgrounds, ages, and stations, all screaming at each other. Debates, accusations, conspiracies, rejoicing, sorrow. Very little sorrow. Even after death, He still set the world on end.

"How did we come to this?" I whispered bitterly into the stifling silence of the room.

My lone companion lifted his head to look at me. I wondered numbly if my face bore the same pain that his did.

"I don't know," Matthew whispered back. "These last few days have felt like centuries."

Grunting my agreement, I stood and moved to the window. The noise increased as I got closer, two voices rising above the others. It was easy to make out their heated words. I listened, determining absentmindedly that the debaters were a young man and an older man, both educated. The young man was screaming his supposed evidence that this Jesus of Nazareth was a demon-possessed blasphemer. The frustrated older man defended Jesus' teachings and miracles. Both yelled and neither listened.

Not long ago, this kind of debate took place mostly in whispers. Now it was yelled in the streets for all to hear. Everything had changed so quickly. I knew even before the Passover that tensions were mounting. I tried to warn some of the others about it, even mentioned it to Jesus once or twice. But even I hadn't foreseen just how quickly it would all erupt.

"Why do they have to continue?" I asked, pounding the wall with my fist, too angry to care about keeping my voice down. "Why does it matter one way or the other now? Jesus is dead."

Against my will, the last words made my voice catch in my throat. Matthew walked over to me and placed his hand on my shoulder. We stood in silence. There was nothing to say.

For the thousandth time, my mind replayed everything that had happened in broken, shattered images. Preparing for the Passover. Constantly glancing at Jesus, trying to figure out if something was wrong. Watching in amazement as Jesus grabbed water and a towel and began to gently wash the filth off my feet. Trying to understand His strange actions and confusing words about betrayal and a new covenant. Trying to absorb His teachings about a Comforter and abiding and persecution. Hearing Him pray. Going to Gethsemane, trying to pray, trying to fight off the exhaustion of sadness and confusion. Then the torches, the soldiers. Judas. Peter cutting off the servant's ear and Jesus healing it. Jesus' utter calmness. Then fear – a gripping fear of punishment and death that made me turn and run as hard as I could away from the man I'd sworn to die for. Those long, nightmarish hours of fear, shame, uncertainty. John finding those of us he could and explaining through his tears everything that had happened, everything they had done to Him. Then there was nothing but overwhelming sorrow and emptiness.

Matthew and I stayed together in this room after His death. We didn't speak. We barely ate or slept. We wept. We tried to make sense of things that didn't make sense. And here we were, days later, still paralyzed.

"So what do we do now?" Matthew asked me softly.

I listened again to the angry voices outside, knowing it could only be a matter of time before the anger was directed towards us. I answered before I could stop myself.

"We wait to follow Him into death."

I caught my breath when I realized that I could think of nothing I wanted more.

...

Though it felt like days had passed, it could only have been a few hours later when the door rattled. I briefly wondered if we had been tracked down already and how long it would be before we died. Then the familiar voice on the other side of the wood interrupted my thoughts.

"Thomas? Matthew? Are you still here?"

Matthew glanced at me, then hurried to open the door, shutting it just as quickly after the visitor had stepped inside.

"James!"

I stood to greet him. Apart from Matthew and John, he was the first disciple I'd seen since Gethsemane. It hurt to see his disheveled, almost wild appearance and the dark rings under eyes that were red from weeping. And yet it was good to see him.

James sighed and sank onto one of the low couches that adorned the small room. "John said you two were here when he found you after . . . on that day. I was hoping some of the others might have joined you."

"No, we haven't seen them," Matthew replied.

"What are you doing here, James?" I asked slowly.

"Well, John, Peter, and I decided that it might be good if we were all together. All the disciples, I mean. That way we could know where everyone was and try to help each other in case, well . . ."

I nodded. "The religious leaders . . ."

No other explanation was needed.

"So I said I would try to find everyone," James continued. "The room the three of us are staying in has enough space for all of us. We hoped everyone could be there by tomorrow night. John and Peter wanted to come with me, but they're still too . . ."

James's strong voice faltered.

"Better to have just one go," Matthew said quickly, obviously trying to control the tremor in his own voice. "It will raise less suspicion that way. Now, where is this room?"

A part of me heard as James began to give Matthew directions, just as a part of me saw James leave moments later. But another part of me was busy trying to process emotions I hadn't even realized I was feeling until I'd heard James's plan. Several minutes later I turned to Matthew.

"I can't go," I said quietly.

He simply stared at me in confusion, as if the words I'd spoken made no sense.

"I can't go," I repeated more firmly. "Not yet."

"But, Thomas, you have to. You have to come with us!"

"No. You go, Matthew." I smiled wryly. "Admit it, you need the extra protection. The Jews would love to get their hands on the tax collector who followed Jesus. But I'll be fine on my own. Just for one more day."

"You're sure?"

"Of course. I just – I need some time alone."

I knew the answer wasn't enough to satisfy him, but thankfully Matthew let the issue drop. I had no words to explain to him that I simply couldn't face everyone again so soon. I couldn't stand to see the pain in my heart reflected on ten other faces. I couldn't see ten with uncontrollable rage toward the eleventh. I couldn't bear my own shame as well as my anger toward them for the way we'd all deserted Him. It would be too much.

Matthew left the following afternoon – the first day of the week. But I stayed, locking myself in with my sorrow and anger, feeling only alone, completely unaware that everything was changing.

...

It was the middle of the night when they came back. Under normal circumstances, I would have been asleep. Under those circumstances, I simply shifted my gaze from my feet to the door. The way they pounded on the wood made me think the Jews had sent a whole band of soldiers after me.

Then I recognized the voices calling my name, asking me to open the door. But I still wasn't ready to see them all yet. I considered pretending I wasn't there, seeing how long it would take before they gave up and left.

But suddenly an entirely new fear seized me. Why would they all have come? Why were they so urgent? What horrible new change of events could have occurred?

Reaching the door in two long strides, I quickly flung it open. They nearly fell on top of me, pressed as they were against the opening. As the men poured into the room, all ten of them began talking at once. I could make no sense of their words. I was too confused by their faces.

They all looked much as James had the previous evening – disheveled, wild, unkempt. Their eyes had the same dark circles, the same redness that comes with hours of weeping. But gone was the hopelessness, the despair. In its place was pure, consuming, radiating joy.

I couldn't comprehend it.

"Don't you hear us, Thomas?" Peter asked, his voice rising above the others. "We've seen Him! We've seen Jesus!"

The noisy room grew silent in an instant. Ten pairs of eyes watched me, waiting. Suddenly I felt the strange sensation of not being able to breathe. When at last I found my voice, I could only manage four words:

"What do you mean?"

With a smile of compassion, John laid his hands on my shoulders.

"We mean He's alive."

I staggered backwards, feeling like John had hit me rather than spoken to me. I knew what words he had said, but my mind was racing to make sense of them. For one brief, glorious moment, I considered the impact of those words and all they would mean. Alive. Not dead. Not gone.

Then the moment passed and my heart sank. It simply wasn't possible. There was no way He could be alive. I knew He was gone, and that wasn't going to change.

"No," I whispered.

Matthew stepped forward, looking at me with concern. "What's the matter, Thomas?" he asked quietly.

Somehow the kindness in his voice sent me over the edge. How could they speak so kindly and be so cruel at the same time?

"How dare you?" I blurted. "All of you! How could you say something like that to me?"

"You don't believe us?" Philip asked, eyes wide with shock.

"Of course not!"

"Please, Thomas, listen," Matthew continued, speaking softly but firmly. "Jesus came to us. He showed us His scars. He told us He would send us, like He had been sent. He told us to receive the Holy Spirit. It was Him, alive, with us. Why would we lie about this?"

"I don't know," I groaned. "Maybe you wish you could change what happened. Maybe you think pretending will somehow make a difference or give us some purpose to live for now. Maybe you're too blind or stubborn to accept the truth. None of it makes any difference."

"Thomas, you're not thinking clearly!" Peter exclaimed, an edge of frustration in his voice. "Just try to accept the possibility. Try to trust us."

"Trust?" I asked bitterly. "Why are any of us worthy of trust? We're the ones who swore to die for Him, then betrayed and abandoned Him! No, I don't think I can trust anymore."

"But think of the miracles He did," James continued. "Think of Lazarus. Think of all the things He taught us. He was trying to tell us what was coming."

My anger gave way for a moment, and suddenly I understood the deep pain that lay under it.

"But why –" I swallowed, trying to keep down my emotions. "Why wouldn't He have shown Himself to me?"

The question hung in the silence. Finally John sighed.

"I don't know."

I shook my head. "I haven't seen Him because He is gone," I said firmly. "No amount of hoping or trusting will bring Him back."

"Please," Matthew pleaded. "Please, Thomas, just try to believe –"

"No! You say He is alive? Let me see Him. Let me see the scars left by the torture He endured. Let me put my own finger into the holes left by the nails that were driven through His hands. Let me thrust my own hand into the gouge in His side made by a Roman spear. Without this, I will not believe."

...

I have never felt as utterly alone as I did the following days.

Jesus, the man I'd given three years of my life to following, was no longer with me. I tried to make myself accept the reality that I would never see Him again, but doubts plagued me. I was torn between wanting to believe that He might truly be alive and not wanting to delude myself into a false hope. All I knew for certain was that, either way, He wasn't with me. And that pain wouldn't go away, no matter what I believed.

The other disciples, the men I'd lived and fought and laughed with during the past three years, could not help me. They tried, but I wouldn't let them. For the first few days they visited me continually, either as individuals or in groups. They made sure I was eating and otherwise tried to take care of me. But every time one of them mentioned Jesus, which always happened eventually, an argument broke out. I had fought with these men a thousand times on a thousand different subjects, but never had I hated the debates so much. I even argued with Mary Magdalene and some of the other women when they tried to tell me what had happened. After the first couple of days, only a handful of the disciples continued to visit me. Even their visits were painfully stressed. As much as I wanted their comfort and help, I was too proud to listen. I simply couldn't accept the fact that either they were lying or Jesus was alive but had chosen not to come to me.

The days dragged on, a torturous mixture of confusion, anger, and sorrow. After five days, I knew I couldn't handle it on my own anymore. So I did the only thing I could think to do.

I prayed.

I prayed as He had taught us to pray. I prayed as I had never prayed before, pouring my heart and soul out like water before God, withholding nothing. As I prayed, I realized that I felt like I was being heard. Slowly and painfully, I began to address my anger, guilt, and doubts. I began to pray and think through all the things Jesus had taught us, trying to understand what He had meant. Although I still didn't know what to believe about His death, my overwhelming sorrow was gradually giving way to a consuming desire to understand what He had taught and who He had been.

Six days after the other disciples told me Jesus was alive, I sat down with Matthew, James, and Philip. They had come at my request, because I was ready to listen, rather than argue. I had them describe all the details they knew of His resurrection. We discussed His teachings, especially the ones we didn't understand or thought we may have misunderstood. We discussed the Scriptures, examining how they related to His teachings along with what they revealed about the Messiah. And we prayed together for understanding.

The next day, John joined us. He described going to the tomb with Peter and finding it empty, as well as telling us Mary Magdalene's report of her meeting with Jesus and the encounter of the other women with the angels. The five of us spent the entire day in discussion, study, and prayer.

On the following day, eight days after they first told me Jesus had risen, James asked once again if I would come to stay with the rest of them. This time I agreed.

...

Tiny slits of sunlight pushed through cracks in the bars over the window in the upper room. I wished I could open it to let in some fresh air, but we still kept the doors and windows shut and locked. After all, the Jewish authorities were far from happy with us, and that wasn't likely to change soon.

The eleven of us paced about, talking in hushed voices. It was awkward at first, speaking to those I had so recently argued with. I had been especially worried about seeing Peter, since the two of us had ended up screaming at each other the last time we spoke. There was no end to my surprise when he embraced me the second I stepped into the room. As I talked briefly with each individual, I realized that they were genuinely happy to see me. These were not the same men I had met a few years earlier. Then I realized that I was not the same, either. He had changed all of us.

I was just thanking James again for inviting me to come when everything changed.

It felt as if a breath of wind passed through the room, and immediately everyone fell silent. A sudden and overpowering feeling, a longing mixed with hopeful fear, seized my heart. Slowly I turned to face the center of the room.

His eyes were waiting to meet mine.

"Peace to all of you, my friends," Jesus said in His powerful voice, turning so as to meet the gaze of every man in the room.

Then His eyes were locked on mine once more.

"Thomas."

A sob racked my body. No one else could say my name so firmly and gently. No one else could say it with so much raw power and unmitigated love. I simultaneously wanted to run to Him in joy and shrink from Him in shame. But I was powerless to move. So He moved towards me.

"Put out your finger," He said quietly, "and see the scars in my hands." He pushed back His sleeve, revealing a large hole that passed through both sides of His wrist.

"Put out your hand, and place it into my side." He pulled aside His garment, revealing a gash above His ribs as long as my hand and clearly deep. It was surrounded by other deep scars that crisscrossed around His body like the cords of a whip.

"Do not continue in this unbelief," He whispered gently, stopping in front of me. "Believe now."

Overwhelmed, I dropped to my knees before Him. Finally, I understood. As my body shook with sobs, I choked out the only words I had to say, the words my heart was crying out:

"My Lord and my God!"

Then Jesus, my Master, Creator, and Redeemer, knelt and embraced me. In His arms, I felt His forgiveness and rejoiced in love so great the heavens could not contain it. I was filled with peace and joy greater than anything I had ever known.

"Thomas," He said, pulling me to my feet, "now that you have seen me, you have believed." His words were not rebuking or angry. They were loving and kind, if a bit sorrowful.

"But know this," He continued, smiling. "Happy are all those who don't see me and still believe."

He smiled broadly, wiped the tears from my face, and embraced me once again. I clung to Him, knowing with certainty that He was risen, that He had conquered death and was gloriously alive. I knew that He was both the Messiah I had waited for and the God I served. I knew that He had given me forgiveness. And I knew that I would love and serve Him with all my being.

I knew that I finally, truly believed.

...

A/N - Thomas has fascinated me for a long time! I like trying to imagine what Biblical "characters" (who I firmly believe truly lived) may have been feeling or thinking. This story is one of my attempts to look at what may have been going on, and so I necessarily add details, conversations, and events. Please, take a look at John 20 for yourself to see exactly what happened. I hope this story challenges you to look at God's Word in new ways, as well as to examine your own relationship with Jesus and beliefs about Who He is! God bless! He is risen indeed!