Like St Thomas, I had a doubt whether his feast was on 3rd July or today, 4th July, but it was on 3 July. Thank God, I am not a priest who celebrated the feast Mass today.
If there were social media in first-century Jerusalem, poor Thomas would never have recovered.
His notifications would have looked something like this:
Peter: “Jesus is alive!”
John: “Can confirm. Saw Him.”
Mary Magdalene: “Told you.”
Thomas: “Pics or it didn’t happen.”
And just like that, history crowned him with a nickname that has survived for nearly two thousand years: Doubting Thomas. It seems a little unfair.
Peter denied Jesus three times. The other apostles fled when things became dangerous. Yet somehow Thomas is the one whose mistake became his permanent surname. Imagine introducing yourself in heaven.
“Hello, I’m Peter.”
“John.”
“Mary.”
“And… I’m Thomas. Yes, that Thomas.”
Poor fellow.
But perhaps Thomas deserves less criticism and more gratitude. Without his doubt, we might never have received one of the most beautiful professions of faith in all of Scripture.
The Courage to Admit Doubt
Thomas wasn’t absent because he hated Jesus. He wasn’t plotting rebellion or writing angry blog posts about organized religion.
He was grieving.
His world had collapsed. The man he had left everything to follow had been crucified. Hope had been nailed to a cross. When the other disciples announced that Jesus had risen, Thomas simply couldn’t force himself to believe on borrowed testimony.
“I need to see.”
“I need to touch.”
“I need to know.”
There is something wonderfully human about that.
Faith is not pretending our questions don’t exist. Faith often begins by having the courage to bring those questions to Christ instead of running away from Him.
Thomas did exactly that.
Jesus Doesn’t Shame Honest Seekers
When Jesus finally appears, He doesn’t begin with, “Thomas, where were you?” or “You should have believed your friends.”
He simply invites him closer.
“Put your finger here.”
“See my hands.”
“Do not be unbelieving, but believe.”
What remarkable patience.
Jesus does not crush Thomas for his doubts. He transforms them.
It’s worth remembering that Christ is never intimidated by sincere questions. He is only saddened when we stop looking for Him altogether.
The Shortest Homily Thomas Ever Preached
Then comes one of the greatest moments in the Gospel.
Thomas doesn’t actually say, “Okay, now I believe.”
He says something infinitely richer.
“My Lord and my God!”
Five simple words.
No theological dissertation.
No carefully crafted creed.
Just astonished surrender.
In that brief confession, Thomas proclaims exactly who Jesus is, not merely a teacher returned from the dead, but Lord and God Himself.
The doubter becomes one of the strongest witnesses.
Funny how God often writes His best stories that way.
Every Mass Has a Little Thomas Moment
Here’s something beautiful that many Catholics have cherished for centuries.
As the priest elevates the Sacred Host and then the Chalice during Mass, many quietly whisper the words of Thomas:
“My Lord and my God.”
It isn’t part of the official liturgical text, but it is a beloved devotional tradition handed down through generations.
Think about that.
The very words spoken by the apostle remembered for doubting have become one of the Church’s most treasured prayers of faith.
Every elevation becomes another opportunity to echo Thomas’s confession.
The One whom Thomas touched with his hands is the same Lord whom we adore in the Eucharist.
What Thomas saw with his eyes, we receive by faith.
Faith Isn’t the Absence of Questions
Sometimes we imagine saints as people who never wrestled with uncertainty.
The Bible tells a different story.
Abraham wondered.
Moses hesitated.
Elijah despaired.
Peter sank.
Thomas doubted.
Yet God worked through every one of them.
Perhaps holiness is not having perfect certainty every day. Perhaps it is continuing to bring our imperfect hearts to the One who is perfectly faithful.
A Prayer for Modern Thomases
Most of us have a little Thomas living inside us. We ask why prayers seem unanswered. We wonder where God is in suffering. We struggle when faith feels more like fog than sunshine.
The good news is that Jesus still walks into locked rooms. He still comes to frightened disciples. He still speaks peace before He speaks correction. And He still welcomes those who come honestly.
So the next time the priest lifts the consecrated Host and Chalice high above the altar, borrow Thomas’s words. Quietly. Simply. Personally.
“My Lord and my God.”
Perhaps the Church has been teaching us something all along.
The disciple who once demanded proof now teaches every generation how to make an act of faith.
Not because he never doubted. But because, having encountered the risen Christ, he finally discovered that the greatest answer to every question is not an explanation, it is Jesus Christ.
