The Way of Honest Thomas

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Hey Friends,

I wrote this earlier in the summer but was never able to polish it off and get it posted. My apologies for my tardiness. I could not see my way clear to the finish line.

–A

Several years ago, I was out on a long, fast walk along a favorite stretch of river when I suddenly doubled over with a severe leg cramp that left me wondering if I was going to be able to make it home. I did not have my cell phone with me, averse as I am to being constantly connected to technology. The strange thing was I had experienced a similar, slightly milder cramp a few days before. Strange because I have been physically active since I was in college, through all kinds of weather, all over the world. Cramping so badly on a beautiful Spring morning did not make sense.

“I must need new shoes,” flitted across my mind, though that seemed unlikely; a few episodes with shin splints when I was a new runner taught me to be vigilant about good footwear.

I finally massaged the cramp out well enough to get to our house, half-limping as I went.

The next day, my husband called as I was carrying a heavy basket of folded laundry from the basement to the second story of our house. Nothing new about that, except when I answered the phone at the top of the stairs, I was breathing hard.

“What are you doing?” my husband asked. “Why are you so out of breath?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, “but I have been getting winded and tired carrying laundry upstairs the past few weeks.”

Those worsening symptoms, coupled with hundreds of truly awful sores in my mouth that came and went and came again, gradually alarmed me. And thus began a series of doctors’ appointments as I tried to figure out what was wrong. What was already scary was made that much worse because try as I might, I could not get a doctor to work with me. Every specialist I saw was invested in telling me what he or she thought the problem was; none asked if their diagnosis seemed a good fit for what I was experiencing, given how terrible I felt, how much weight I had lost, how often my mouth was filled with sores, how many times a night I was waking drenched in sweat, or how difficult it was for me to digest meals of any kind without severe abdominal pain.

I was not sure if I was leading the doctors on a wild goose chase or if they were leading me on one; all I knew was, I was not getting better. I needed appropriate meds. I needed a clear idea of what the problem was.

At the end of what turned out to be a long journey, I was given a decent report by a team of doctors at Mayo Clinic. “You may one day have a particular autoimmune disease,” they said. “But you don’t have it yet. Go home, get your hemoglobin levels built back up, which will take months, and monitor that severe stomach infection you had. Get well. And contact us if anything gets worse or changes.”

Discerning what plagued me physically was demanding; it took a lot of time and effort and emotional energy. Naming what plagues my soul has often required no less. Which brings me to the New Testament story of the often-maligned disciple of Jesus dubbed “Doubting Thomas.”

In case you don’t know the background: Thomas, one of the original twelve disciples of Jesus, was not in the locked and barred room the first time Jesus appeared before his followers – out of nowhere – risen, speaking, offering them peace, displaying his wounds. When his friends told Thomas what had transpired, he responded, “Unless I see the nail holes in his hands, put my finger in the nail holes, and stick my hand in his side, I won’t believe it.”

At first reading, Thomas’s comment strikes me as the proud, fighting words of a challenge. But when I put myself in his position, I see them as a confession of need. After all that he had witnessed as a follower of the One – the miracles, claims, crucifixion, death, burial, political and cultural upheaval – Thomas needed an answer. Was Jesus who He said He was, or was He like every other hollow god cast by the wheel of culture? My guess is Thomas’s turmoil had festered for some time. Given the right opportunity, it burst forth like a lanced wound.

Thomas’s honesty speaks to me, so much so that I think he should be renamed Honest Thomas. Forget the doubting. Thomas’s cry was from his heart. It makes me think of all we carry within ourselves, our hurts and pains and scars and fears. All our personal history and how we got to where we are. Thomas’s faith and my faith, his inability to believe and my inability are intertwined. His need to be seen and heard and healed is my need.

Eight days later, Jesus showed up again. Same room, same group of men, except this time Thomas was with them. The text says that after Jesus greeted everyone, he focused his attention on Thomas and said, “Take your finger and examine my hands. Take your hand and stick it in my side. Don’t be unbelieving. Believe.” (John 20: 19-27, The Message). It was more than enough to convince Thomas. He immediately believed, or maybe we should say he believed again, his faith reaffirmed and made new by the visible reality in front of him.

Thomas’s story begs fundamental questions: Can I honestly – courageously – name what is going on inside of me? Do I believe God can take it if I protest, plead, cry, shout, storm my deepest self to Him? Can God bear my brutal honesty – my failures, defensiveness, need to feel worthy, my pettiness and irritability, pride and jealousy? Can I?

Thomas’s shout to God was not sanctimonious or overly religious. His words were raw, a simple declaration that models the kind of honesty God wants from me. It is no use praying, “Please, God, change this or that situation,” when my real prayer buried underneath all my hurts and sorrow is, “I don’t believe You can change the situation or will change it on my behalf. And I am tired of waiting.”

Jesus met Thomas where he was. Will He meet me in my darkest places? Can He identify those parts of me I don’t understand, don’t like, and hide from others? Can I trust Him with the truth of who I am?

There is nothing formulaic about getting to the bottom of my soul. Sometimes I must dig and sift, and dig and sift again, before I can begin to understand the depths of my heart. Friends and family and professionals can help, but ultimately the work is mine to do. Being honest with myself and God is not easy. But it’s in those named, owned, surrendered places that I am met with the understanding, forgiving and compassionate mercy of God. His focus on me changes everything.

For years I fast-walked or jogged through the Midwestern town where we lived, my lips moving as I hashed out with God what I was struggling with. What I had to say one day was often not what I had said the day before. Then again, some of my struggles lasted for long periods of time – a lamentable, sometimes angry, questioning song on repeat. It was not always pretty.

I occasionally met people who would say, “Oh, I know who you are. You’re that lady I always see on the road.”

I’m pretty sure some of them thought I was crazy.

What my observers could not know was that an active, honest-as-I-could-make-it dialogue was going on between my heart and God. I was trying to express it all to Him, as much as I could. Those prayers and the work of God in my life allowed festering wounds to be cleaned and bandaged and the right medicine to be administered to my hurting soul. The process was occasionally excruciating – it is still sometimes painful – but it led to a kind of healing I never thought possible.

I’m still putting in the miles, often still praying as I go, and finding that more and more what flows from my heart is gratitude for the wellness of my body and soul.