2nd Sunday of Easter 2026 - "Do not be unbelieving, but believe." (John 20:27)

Brothers and sisters, we meet Thomas today at his worst — and perhaps at his most relatable. The other disciples have rushed to him with the most extraordinary news in human history: We have seen the Lord. And Thomas, grieving, shattered, perhaps feeling the fool for having followed Jesus, draws a hard line. Unless he sees the wounds himself, he will not believe.

Let's not rush to judge him too quickly. Thomas loved Jesus deeply enough that earlier in John's Gospel, when Jesus announced He was going to Judea where enemies waited, it was Thomas who said, "Let us also go to die with him" (John 11:16). I don't believe that his doubt is the doubt of a cold heart, but of a broken one. He had given everything, and it had seemed to end on a cross. I'm sure we can all identify with some form of disappointment and regret.
Then Jesus comes. Notice what He does not do. He does not scold Thomas in front of the others. He does not withdraw His offer. He comes through locked doors — the same mercy that walks through every locked door and wall we build around our wounded hearts — and He offers Thomas exactly what Thomas asked for: "Put your finger here and see my hands." The Risen Lord meets us in our doubt, not despite our doubt.
And Thomas, overwhelmed, does not need to touch anything. He simply falls to his knees: "My Lord and my God!", probably the most complete confession of faith in all four Gospels. The man who doubted most completely believed most profoundly.
But here is what we must not miss: that encounter changed Thomas forever. And it changed all of them. Look at what we heard in the First Reading, from the Acts of the Apostles. These are the same men who, just weeks before, were cowering behind locked doors for fear — the very same fear the Gospel describes. Now look at them: They devoted themselves to the teaching of the apostles, to the communal life, to the breaking of bread and to the prayers. Awe came upon everyone, and many wonders and signs were done through the apostles.  They are no longer hiding. They are in the temple, in the streets, in homes — proclaiming openly, healing boldly, sharing everything they have. Fear has become fearlessness. Doubt has become witness.
What happened? The mercy of the risen Jesus happened. He breathed the Holy Spirit upon them. He said peace to people who deserved none. He showed His wounds not as accusation but as invitation. That mercy — experienced personally, especially by a doubting Thomas — became the fuel of apostolic boldness.
This is the pattern of Divine Mercy, a feast we celebrate today. God does not wait for us to be certain before He comes to us. He comes to us in our uncertainty, in our locked rooms, in our wounds, and He shows us His own. And when we finally say — even trembling — My Lord and my God, something is set loose in us that no locked door can contain.
St. Peter puts it beautifully in the Second Reading: although you have not seen him you love him; even though you do not see him now yet believe in him, you rejoice with an indescribable and glorious joy. That is Thomas's testimony handed down to us. We are the ones Jesus speaks of when He says, "Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed."
So we need to ask ourselves what locks are still on our doors? What doubt, what grief, what disappointment makes us say, I will not believe unless...? Bring it to the risen Lord. He is not offended by it. He walks right through it. His mercy endures forever — the refrain of today's Psalm — and it is strong enough to turn our doubt into testimony, our fear into witness, our broken faith into the boldest proclamation of your life: My Lord and my God.
Say it. Mean it. And then, like the apostles, go and live it.

Peace.
​Deacon Michel