READING:
John 20:19–end
 

Overcoming Fear

Fear is so debilitating. It closes us in, shuts us down, narrows our vision. Sometimes fear is so intense that we can’t even breathe normally. If we’re wearing a Fitbit-type watch, it may send us a message as our heart rate rises and breathing becomes shallow: “You seem to be in a stressful situation. Find something to help you relax.” If only it were that simple.

Frightened

On the evening of that first Easter Day, fear is the air the disciples are breathing. They are huddled in a locked room—not just physically enclosed, but spiritually confined. The trauma of Jesus’ arrest and cruel death is still fresh in their minds. They do not yet know how to live beyond it. They also fear the religious authorities might come for them next—after all, they were known followers of that man. The doors are locked out of fear, and their hearts are more tightly shut.

And then—Jesus comes and stands among them.

Not with condemnation. Not with triumph. Not with explanations. But with a word: “Peace be with you.”

This is where resurrection begins—not in a burst of divine glory, but in a room thick with fear. Jesus doesn’t rebuke them for hiding. He simply comes to be with them in their fear. He breathes peace into the situation. He shows them the wounds of his crucifixion. The risen Christ still bears the marks of suffering. This is not a resurrection that forgets the pain of the cross; it is a resurrection that transforms it.

As real as their fear had been, so too is the peace that Jesus brings by coming alongside them. The peace of the Risen Christ is not comfort alone—it is something much deeper. It is a gift. A gift of a new reality—a re-creation. “Peace be with you,” says Jesus. An ordinary greeting of the day becomes extraordinary when spoken by him. When Jesus breathes on them, it is as though Genesis is happening all over again. A new humanity is being formed—one not defined by fear, but animated by the Spirit.

In this Gospel reading, we are reminded that this is how God works. God does not stand at a distance, waiting for our belief or readiness. God comes through locked doors—especially the ones we’ve sealed shut. The breath of Jesus doesn’t merely calm nerves. It changes consciousness. It moves us from ego—fear, control, needing proof—to soul—presence, peace, trust.

…then we read about Thomas.

Often labelled “the doubter”, perhaps he is simply the one honest enough to say aloud what all the others felt. He does not want second-hand resurrection—he longs for encounter. And Jesus meets him exactly there—not to rebuke him, but to invite him to come closer: “Put your finger here. See my hands. Reach out and touch.” It is through the wound that Thomas comes to faith. “My Lord and my God!”—the Gospel’s clearest confession of Christ’s divinity, born not of certainty, but of intimacy.

Resurrection does not erase suffering or pretend it didn’t happen. It dignifies it. When Christ appears before the disciples in that upper room, he does not hide his wounds. The body of the Resurrected Christ is not whole and unblemished. Rather, Christ shows them his wounds—he offers them. He says, “Here is where I was broken—and still am. Here is love, still wounded, still alive.”

I wonder how you are hearing this account of the Resurrection today? What draws you in? What speaks to you, I wonder?

A famous painting

There is a famous, centuries-old painting by Caravaggio called The Incredulity of Saint Thomas (1601–1602). It is one of the most gripping and visceral portrayals of the resurrection encounter between Jesus and Thomas. Set against a dark, undefined background, the painting draws us into a moment of intense intimacy and raw humanity. Thomas, brow furrowed in astonishment, leans in to examine the wound in Christ’s side, his finger guided by Jesus himself. Two other disciples peer over his shoulder, their faces marked by awe and searching curiosity. Jesus, calm and composed, bares his side with a quiet authority, allowing his wound to be touched—not as an act of rebuke, but of gracious invitation.

This painting is not a sanitised depiction of faith. It is earthy, tactile, and almost unsettling in its realism. Caravaggio does not shy away from the bodily nature of resurrection. The risen Christ still bleeds. His wounds are not hidden—they are the very means by which belief is born. This moment, painted with such careful detail and psychological tension, invites us to understand resurrection not as escape from suffering, but as its transformation. The pain is not undone; it is glorified.

Christ does not remain distant. He meets Thomas in his doubt. He does not shame or reject him, but takes his hand and guides it to the place of greatest vulnerability. This is not a gesture of proof so much as a gesture of love. “Here,” Jesus seems to say, “touch the place where I am still broken—and know that I live.” In this act, the wound becomes not a symbol of defeat, but a doorway to belief.

This painting speaks powerfully to our own journey of faith. We, like Thomas, often long for encounter with God—for something we can see, touch, feel. Caravaggio’s painting assures us that God does not recoil from our searching. Instead, the risen Christ invites us to bring our doubts to his wounds, and in doing so, discover that even in the brokenness of our situation, there is life.

Resurrection today

This is Resurrection today: not the denial of fear, but the overcoming of it through the presence of the God who comes among us. Faith is not the absence of questions. It is the courage to touch the wound and still say: “My Lord and my God.”

picture on top of this post:
The Incredulity of Saint Thomas by Caravaggio