Confessing Thomas (John 20:24-31)

How Christ Invades Our Doubts and Gives Birth to Belief

One week ago, we stood in awe at the empty tomb. We sang with joy, “Christ is risen!” We celebrated victory over death, light breaking into darkness, hope defeating despair.

But now it’s a week later. And maybe the joy of Easter feels a little distant already. Maybe the songs have quieted, and the questions have returned. Maybe the same doubts that haunted you before are still there, just beneath the surface, whispering in the silence: Is it really true? Can I really believe?

You’re not the first to feel that way. You’re not alone in that struggle.

I remember vividly the long shadows of doubt that stretched across my own life. After losing my mother as a child, I spent much of my teenage years grappling with a kind of silent ache, questions I was too afraid to voice, but too honest to ignore. I believed in God—or at least, I wanted to—but I couldn’t understand why the world looked the way it did, why life could hurt so much if God were good and Jesus alive. I was angry, confused, and alone in my thoughts. And for a long time, I thought those doubts disqualified me from the faith.

But then I truly met Jesus, not the distant idea of Him, but the living Christ who comes into the very places we try to hide, who steps into our locked hearts, and breathes peace.

And that’s precisely what we see in Thomas.

We often label him Doubting Thomas, as if his story is one of failure. But I don’t think that’s fair. Thomas’s story is not about failure; it’s about remarkable grace. It’s about a Savior who meets us in our doubt and turns it into something far greater.

Today, we step into that locked room, where fear and confusion still linger, and we watch what happens when the risen Christ invades a heart full of questions and gives birth to belief.

Let’s open our Bibles towards the back of the Gospel of John, and see how the One who was wounded for us is still holding out His hands, calling us to peace, and leading us from wrestling… to worship.

The Display of Thomas’s Doubt

Now Thomas, one of the twelve, called the Twin, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see in his hands the mark of the nails, and place my finger into the mark of the nails, and place my hand into his side, I will never believe.” (John 20:24-25)

Thomas, one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. Just sit with that for a moment—he was not with them. The disciples, who had just endured the most traumatic days of their lives, were gathered together, clinging to each other in fear and confusion. Jesus had already appeared to them once, behind locked doors, breathing peace into their panic and showing them His hands and His side. But Thomas missed it.

He wasn’t there.

We don’t know why. The text doesn’t tell us. But we can imagine. Maybe grief had driven him to solitude. Maybe the weight of what he had seen—the cross, the death, the collapse of every hope—was too much to carry with others. Maybe he was afraid, not only of what the future held, but of what it meant to be part of a broken, disappointed group of followers who had given everything for a Messiah who seemed defeated.

Fear and doubt have a way of isolating us.

You know this. I know this. When life shakes us, when prayers seem unanswered, when pain feels too close, our instinct is often to withdraw, to hide, to step away from community, from worship, from the very people and places where faith can be kindled again. And in that isolation, doubt grows.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve met with people who tell me, "I just need some space from church right now. I’m not sure I believe anymore." But stepping away from the gathered people of God rarely leads to renewed faith. More often, it leads us deeper into silence and despair, because we’re missing the very thing we most need: the presence of Christ in the midst of His people.

Thomas missed the first appearance of the risen Jesus, not because Jesus was absent, but because he was. And his absence cost him a delay in joy. A delay in peace. A delay in assurance.

Let me ask you: Have you been spiritually withdrawing lately? Has doubt, fear, shame, or frustration caused you to step back from the body of Christ, from the encouragement of others, from the Word that can speak into your pain?

Doubt is a normal part of faith. But isolation is a dangerous companion to doubt. Because when we are alone in our grief, our fears seem bigger, our questions louder, and God seems further away.

Thomas wasn’t just doubting the resurrection; he was doubting hope itself. The other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord!" And yet Thomas couldn’t receive it. He had seen too much death and loss. The cross was too fresh. His heart was too raw. Pain is often the path to pessimism, and pessimism is often the path to cynicism, which is born out of the absence of hope.

“Unless I see in His hands the mark of the nails… I will never believe.”

Some of us are right there with Thomas. We are not antagonistic toward God, but we are weary. We are not rebels, but we are wounded. And like Thomas, we are waiting for something tangible, something real, something personal to stir belief again, to fan the flames of our faith, which right now may feel like barely glowing coals.

But the tragedy is that Thomas almost missed it. Because of his doubt, he stayed away.

Here’s the principle: isolation in our doubt keeps us from the presence of Christ, which is regularly revealed most clearly in the context of community.

Christ often shows up where His people are gathered, yes, even the broken, doubting, fearful people. If Thomas had been with them, he would have seen Jesus sooner. If we stay with the people of God, if we press into the Word and worship even when it’s hard, we might just find Jesus stepping into our doubts with peace.

Don’t let doubt drive you into isolation. Bring your doubt into the light, into the body, into the space where Christ is known to meet His people. That’s where faith can begin again.

The Gracious Initiative of Christ

Eight days later, his disciples were inside again, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe.” (John 20:26-27)

Eight days of waiting. Eight days of listening to the others speak with excitement about the risen Lord. Eight days of watching joy on their faces while his own heart remained heavy. Eight days of wondering why Jesus had come to them… but not to him. Eight days where doubt and longing tangled together, like a fog he couldn’t escape, a thirst that wouldn’t be quenched.

And Christ didn’t come right away.

That delay, that space of waiting, is deeply instructive. Jesus doesn’t rush to satisfy our demands. He doesn’t meet us on our timetable, and He doesn’t cater to our conditions. But his delays are never without purpose.

Because the longing that his delays create in our heart is not His neglect, it is often one of His greatest acts.

Jesus allows our hearts to hunger for Him, to ache for His presence, because longing prepares the soul for the kind of encounter that leads to the deepest worship. It’s in the waiting that desire is purified. It’s in the ache that we learn just how much we need Him, not just answers, not just signs or evidence, but truly need Him and Him alone.

For eight days, Thomas sat in the tension between doubt and hope. And maybe some of you have been sitting there even longer, wondering why Jesus hasn’t shown up yet, why the peace hasn’t come, and why the darkness still lingers.

But here’s the grace: even when Jesus delays, He is never distant. His silence is not absence. His timing is not neglect. He is at work in the longing, cultivating a deeper hunger, so that when He does reveal Himself, your heart is ready, not just for belief, but for adoration.

Because when the soul longs for Christ, and He comes, the satisfaction of His presence gives birth to the greatest worship.

Eight days later, the disciples are gathered again. This time, Thomas is with them. The doors are locked, just like before. Fear still lingers in that room. But praise God sealed tombs, and locked doors, and doubting hearts can’t keep Jesus out.

“Although the doors were locked, Jesus came and stood among them.”

There are no keys, invitations, or warnings. Christ enters the room because He is never hindered from reaching His people.

Let that settle into your heart. There is no barrier, no lock, no wall thick enough, no heart hard enough, to keep the risen Christ from stepping into your life. He comes unbidden. He comes unblocked. He comes with divine authority. There is nothing—no fear, no doubt, no circumstance—that can stop Jesus from getting to where His people are.

You may feel like you’ve closed the door. You may feel like your doubt is too strong, your heart too shut, your faith too weak. But locked doors don’t stop Him. The risen Christ moves past every obstacle. He comes for His people. He comes for you.

And when He comes, His first words are exactly the same as they were the week before:

“Peace be with you.”

Peace. The calling card of the risen Messiah.

Not condemnation. Not shame. Not, “Thomas, how could you?” Not, “You should have believed when the others did.” But peace.

This is who Jesus is. He doesn’t berate us for our weakness; He breathes peace into our unrest. He knows the storms that rage in our hearts. He knows the tension of wanting to believe and yet struggling to trust. And so, just as He did for the others, He speaks peace over Thomas.

And then, Jesus turns to him. Imagine the room at that moment. Thomas, eyes wide, maybe filled with tears, stunned that Jesus is there. Jesus, looking directly at him, not with anger, but with love.

“Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe.”

Jesus offers exactly what Thomas said he needed. He repeats Thomas’s own words back to him, as if to say, “I heard you, Thomas. I was there when you said it, thoughh you could not me see me. I know your heart. I know your struggle. And I am with you now closer than you can possibly imagine.”

He holds out His wounds. And those wounds—those scars—are not just marks of suffering; they are marks of perfect love.

Do you realize that? The risen Christ still bears the scars. The Son of God, glorified and victorious, chose to keep the wounds of the cross, not because His body couldn’t be healed, but because our hearts need to see them.

He holds them out, even now.

You see, God created our skin to scar for a reason. Scars are the body’s testimony that healing has taken place, but they also bear witness to what was endured. Jesus keeps His scars for all eternity so that we will forever know what love cost Him. So that we will forever be able to look upon his wounds and say, “That was for me.”

And that invitation He gave Thomas, He still offers to us: “See the wounds poured out for you and believe.”

Right now, He is holding them out. Through the Gospel, through His Word, through the testimony of this passage, the risen Christ is stepping into the locked rooms of our doubt, past the walls of hardened hearts, and offers Himself. His wounds are the answer to our fear, the proof of His love, the foundation of our faith.

He didn’t have to come back for Thomas. But He did. He doesn’t have to meet you in your doubt. But He will. He doesn’t have to show you His scars again. But He does. Because His love is patient, his grace is persistent, and His peace is for you.

Confessing Thomas

Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” (John 20:28)

What a moment!

Thomas doesn’t reach out his hand. He doesn’t touch the wounds. He doesn’t need to.

Standing face to face with the risen Christ, with the wounds of love still outstretched, doubt collapses under the weight of glory. Fear gives way to awe. And in that moment, Thomas, the skeptic, the struggler, the honest doubter, speaks the most powerful and profound words recorded from any disciple in the Gospels:

“My Lord and my God!”

Not just Lord. Not just God. My Lord. My God.

This is the highest confession of who Jesus is found in any of the Gospel accounts. It’s higher than Peter’s declaration, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” It’s more direct than any other. It is the climax not only of Thomas’s journey, but of John’s Gospel. The entire book has been moving to this point: that we might see Jesus, not merely as a teacher, not merely as a prophet, but as God Himself.

And notice something very important: Jesus does not rebuke him. He doesn’t correct him. He doesn’t say, “Now Thomas, let’s not go too far…” No, Jesus receives the confession.

Because it is true.

Jesus is Lord. Jesus is God.

What Thomas sees in that moment, we must see too. The one who was crucified is not just a man who suffered unjustly. He is not just a moral example. He is not just the founder of a religion. He is God in the flesh, the sovereign ruler of all creation, the One by whom and for whom all things exist—and the One who bears the marks of love for His people for eternity.

This is why the reality of Easter is not an annual, but daily celebration of the church. Because it’s not just about an empty tomb, it’s about the living Lord—worthy of worship, worthy of surrender, worthy of our everything.

And here’s the astonishing beauty of this moment: Christ turned Thomas’s greatest struggle into his greatest statement of faith.

Let that speak to you. Because it means there is no doubt too deep, no wrestling too hard, no wound too raw, that Jesus cannot meet and redeem.

Thomas wasn’t left in his doubt. He wasn’t shamed for his struggle. His honest wrestling became the very place where Christ revealed Himself most powerfully. His weakest moment became his strongest testimony. And that can be true for you.

Some of us think that our doubts disqualify us from worship, that we have to wait until we “have it all together” before we can lift our hands or speak His name in faith. But true worship often comes not from perfect certainty but from broken hearts that have seen Jesus—really seen Him, and can say, "Despite everything, despite my questions, despite my pain, You are my Lord and my God."

Thomas teaches us that the path from doubt to worship is not about suppressing our questions; it’s about bringing them to the wounded, risen Christ and letting Him transform us in His presence.

And don’t miss the personal nature of Thomas’s words. This wasn’t a theological statement abstractly spoken. It was personal. My Lord. My God.

Is He yours?

Because that’s the call of the Gospel, not just to believe that Jesus rose, but to confess that He is yours. Your Savior. Your King. Your Lord. Your God.

Christ is still turning doubts into declarations. He is still taking those who struggle and making them into worshipers. He is still standing in our midst, holding out His wounds, speaking peace, and inviting us to fall at His feet and say, “My Lord and my God.”

That is the heart of faith. That is the invitation today.

The Blessing for Us

Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of the disciples, which are not written in this book; but these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name. (John 20:29-31)

The weight of Thomas’s confession lingers in the air. The room, filled with the presence of the risen Christ, silent in awe. And then Jesus speaks again, not just to Thomas, but to us.

“Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

This is Jesus's final word in this passage, and it’s meant to carry across time, across centuries, across cultures, across your life and mine. Because Jesus is thinking of you here, he’s speaking of every believer who would come after Thomas, after the apostles—those who would not see with physical eyes but who would believe through the witness of the Word.

This is not a call to blind faith. It’s not some shallow beliefism that asks us to check our minds at the door and just “feel” our way into trust. No, this is a profound invitation to a deeper kind of faith. A faith not based on sight, but based on the sure Word of Christ, delivered through the testimony of the apostles, and made alive in us by the revelation of His Spirit.

Thomas believed because he saw. But Jesus says there is an even greater blessing for those who believe without seeing. And that’s us.

We don’t get to place our hands in His side. We don’t get to hear His voice audibly or see His face in the flesh, at least not yet. But we are no less blessed. In fact, Jesus calls us especially blessed, because our faith is born not from sight, but from trusting in the truth of who He is, revealed in His Word and confirmed by His Spirit.

This is why John, the writer of this Gospel, adds these words in verses 30 and 31:

“Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of the disciples, which are not written in this book; but these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.”

Did you catch that?

“These are written so that you may believe.”

The very purpose of this Gospel, and indeed of all Scripture, is that you might believe. That through the testimony of those who did see, of those who walked with Him, of those who saw His wounds and heard His voice, you might come to the same place as Thomas, and with whole heart and soul declare Jesus as “My Lord and my God.”

You see, faith is not less real because we do not see. It is, in fact, more refined. More dependent. More beautiful. Because it rests not on our feeble senses, but on the unshakable foundation of God’s Word.

And here’s the glorious reality: the same Christ who appeared to Thomas is revealed to us in the pages of Scripture. The same peace, the same invitation, the same wounds, they are made known to us through the Spirit, who opens our hearts to see and believe.

You have not seen Him, and yet you believe. And in that believing, Jesus says, You are blessed.

Not just a little. Not just marginally. You are truly, eternally, deeply blessed.

Because this faith is what gives life. Life in His name. Life that is eternal, yes, but also life that begins now. Life with peace, life with purpose, life with Christ.

So don’t think for a moment that your faith is second-hand. Don’t think that your belief is less because you haven’t seen what Thomas saw. You have the same Christ. The same Gospel. The same Spirit. And in believing, you have everything you need.

The Birth of Belief in the Place of Doubt and Fear

Thomas began this story in a place of absence: cut off from community, overwhelmed by loss, imprisoned in his own doubt. But he ends with a confession so profound that it echoes through eternity: “My Lord and my God.”

Friends, that is the journey of grace. From locked doors to open hearts. From silence to a voice trembling with worship. From doubt to belief.

And the same Jesus who stood before Thomas stands before you today—not with scorn, not with shame, but with scars that speak peace, and with a Word that calls you to trust. He steps into our locked rooms, the places we thought were too closed off for Him to enter. He comes through the walls of fear, the barricades of pain, the silence of unanswered questions, and He breathes peace.

Maybe you’ve been like Thomas. Maybe the joy of Easter last week didn’t erase the ache. Maybe your questions have lingered longer than you hoped. Maybe you’re still waiting for something solid to hold on to, to grasp, to touch.

Here is the good news: Christ does not wait for your perfect faith before He comes. He comes to give you peace so that greater faith may be born.

He is still showing His wounds to the world, not through physical touch now, but through His Word and by His Spirit. And He is still saying, “See what I’ve done for you. Hear my voice. Look to Me… and believe.”

Faith doesn’t mean never doubting. It means learning to bring our doubts to the One who was wounded for us, and letting His presence turn our questions into worship.

And when we do, when we bow, like Thomas, and cry, “My Lord and my God!”—faith is born in us, not as a fleeting feeling, but as the settled reality of a life surrendered to Christ.

So come. Come with your doubts. Come with your fear. Come with your questions and grief and weariness and carry them to Jesus. Because in the very place where you thought your faith might die, He is ready to birth something beautiful: a deeper, surer, richer belief than you’ve ever known.

The risen Christ is still here. Still invading the lives of doubters, and still saying: “Peace be with you.”