Divine Mercy Homily

Today is Divine Mercy Sunday. Every year, the week after Easter, we’re invited to contemplate the painting that you see above. It represents a vision that Sr. (and saint) Faustina had, in the 1930’s. “Jesus, I trust in you" is often written at the bottom. When Pope (and saint) John Paul II designated today’s feast, very much with St. Faustina's vision in mind, he matched the feast with today’s Gospel. I’d like to do a close and careful reading of this Gospel, and maybe begin to understand why the Pope chose it.
 
On the evening of the first day of the week,
The evening of Easter Sunday, aka, last week.
 
when the doors were locked, where the disciples were, for fear of the Jews,
In a few weeks, the early Christians are going to die for Jesus. Everything will be different. They will be so emboldened and convicted in the resurrection that they are able to offer themselves as martyrs. But they haven’t had that transforming encounter with the risen Lord yet. At this point in the story, they knew his teachings, they thought he was wise, but they also thought he was dead, and so, naturally, they’re afraid, hiding. But today, that starts to change.
 
Jesus came and stood in their midst and said to them, “Peace be with you.”
Jesus will say this three times in today’s Gospel. At Mass, when the priest is in persona Christi, and he says “peace be with you,” we are having a dialogue with the resurrected Christ.
 
When he had said this, he showed them his hands and his side.
His resurrected body has a supernatural power, for it can pass through locked doors. But his resurrected body is also in visible, tangible continuity with his suffering on earth; his wounds are his identifying feature that make his identity known and credible. Catholic morality about the body – on sexuality, on medicine, on appropriate use of technology – hinges on this. Our bodies are our trues selves. We’re a sacramental religion – we believe the supernatural is present in embodied creation, through water and oil, bread and wine – and no less in the human body. For us too, our wounds are an inescapable part of our identity and how God reveals himself to us.
 
The disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”
It’s a reunion scene. I try to imagine the faces. The disciples joy and relief is easy for me to imagine; probably there are tears. Jesus’ face I find a little harder to imagine. He’s wishing them peace, a second time. I imagine something wise and knowing in his eyes. But how does “as the Father has sent me, so I send you,” fit into the moment? They’ve just gathered…and already he’s talking about sending. And how did the Father send him? He’s just been crucified. What does it mean for us to be sent in the same way that he was sent?
 
And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained.”
Think of all the things Jesus could have said. He is just back from being crucified; he could have been resentful, angry, disappointed; he could have asked accusingly “why did you abandon me?” Just the day before, he had descended into hell, and that morning, he been raised from the dead. Yet the first thing he wants to talk about is forgiveness. This scripture is the basis for the Catholic sacrament of confession. This divine mercy has been won at great cost. His forgiveness is not a divine shrug of the shoulders, an indifference to sin. He’s inviting the disciples into a mission, and he’s inviting us into the sacrament of confession.
 
Thomas, called Didymus, one of the Twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples said to him, “We have seen the Lord.”
I wonder how this scene went. The other disciples told Thomas “we have seen the Lord,” but did they tell him in a credible way? Why didn’t he believe? What sort of testimony did the disciples offer? Did they talk about Christ’s wounds, his forgiveness, and their new mission? Or was their attitude glib, triumphalist, and off-putting? I think about the witness that we offer – our parishes, our schools, our families – do we offer a credible witness? If a Thomas comes along, somebody who hasn’t seen Jesus – would he find our account of Jesus to be credible and trustworthy?
 
But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger into the nailmarks and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”
Thomas wants to hear about the body, about the wounds. Thomas stands for all who are truly wrestling, who are suffering, whose life hangs in the balance. He needs answers to the big questions, and he needs them to be solid. He wants to get to the heart of it. He wants to encounter the body and the suffering. Only at this depth is anything truly credible.
 
Now a week later his disciples were again inside and Thomas was with them.
A week later. A week after Easter. In other words, today. Now.
 
Jesus came, although the doors were locked, and stood in their midst and said, “Peace be with you.”
It is emphasized again: Jesus resurrected body is both spiritual and physical. The Word is flesh, while still being Word. And he’s still using that liturgical phrase about peace.
 
Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and put it into my side, and do not be unbelieving, but believe.”
For the second time, Jesus’ invitation to faith comes from being real about the body and suffering.
 
Thomas answered and said to him, “My Lord and my God!”
Thomas’s questions and wrestling are entirely appropriate. We too should be honest about our questions. That is why we have a theology Q&A box at school. That is why our parish clergy put their email addresses in the bulletin. If you have a question, if there’s something difficult in the faith that you want to work through, definitely, please, let’s get together one way or another. Questions are good, and Thomas is your patron. But also notice that, after the questions and honest wrestling, Thomas exclaims, “My Lord and my God!” Questions are not the endgame. They’re a stage on the way. The endgame is faith, trust that the encounter is real, an intimacy and recognition with God.
 
Jesus said to him, “Have you come to believe because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.”
On the one hand, we have not seen Jesus like Thomas and the disciples did. We have seen him pass through locked doors, we have not put our hand in his side, nor have we spent three years walking together in the hot Middle Eastern sun, speaking Aramaic face to face. Our experience is different. But on the other hand, in a few minutes, our priest will hold up the Eucharist, and he will say behold – see – the Lamb of God. We are people who profess to have seen Jesus. We profess he is visible in the faces of the poor that we serve, the lonely whom we befriend, the sick for whom we care. We profess that Jesus is present in all the sacraments, including confession and baptism. When we genuflect as we enter church, we profess he is present in the tabernacle. What do we think we are seeing? Do we believe? And for those who haven’t seen – those who don’t understand or share our trust in his sacramental presence – are we making a credible witness to them about what we’ve seen? Could someone look at us, and our lives, and trust that Jesus is real, that our vision is reliable?
 
Now, Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples that are not written in this book. But these are written that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that through this belief you may have life in his name.
“Through this belief you may have life in his name.” This conclusion links our trust in Jesus’ resurrection with our life, our vitality. How does this work? Well, consider what is killing us. John Paul II, the man who created this feast and selected this gospel, also spoke about “a culture of death.” What is that culture, and how is faith and trust the antidote? In the last few years, American life expectancy has declined. It used to always increase a little bit each year, but the last few years, we’ve regressed, and it’s not just COVID. Other western countries are back to their pre-COVID life expectancy, but we’re not. Sociologists these days speak of “deaths of despair,” a catch-all phrase for deaths from alcoholism, drug overdoses, and various types of violence. Also, there’s a documented decline in mental health over the last ten years, especially among young people, correlating with accelerating use of smart phones and social media. Families are feeling the stress; when people let their mask down, there’s a lot of anger, tension, and also a lot of lethargy. America is not doing great, if we’re honest.
 
But here’s the thing – “Jesus, I trust in you” is linked to life. Trust in Jesus is fertile, generative. A fresh start. Forgiveness. Mercy. It’s all there, laid out before us, if we believe and trust in him. Belief and trust that a different way of life is possible. How many ministries and projects we could launch and sustain if we understood what is at stake and if we trusted. How many grudges could be overcome, how many marriages could be saved, how many families could get a new lease on life, if we were better at confession, if we were more practiced in the art of asking for and receiving forgiveness. How many lives could be rebuilt if we believed that despair can be overcome, that the anchor of hope and possibility is real and trustworthy. “Jesus, I trust in you” – these are the words of life, and right now, as we enter into the Eucharist, we affirm this faith, this trust, this hope, this divine mercy.