During a recent run, I was listening to a book and found myself stopping to ponder a piece of Scripture that perhaps no one would find worth pondering but me.

I don’t even remember the reason the author quoted the following section of John’s gospel, but I’ll never forget the lesson the Holy Spirit showed me in it.

Now Thomas (also known as Didymus), one of the Twelve, was not with the disciples when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord!” But he said to them, “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.” A week later his disciples were in the house again, and Thomas was with them. Though 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; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” Thomas said to him, “My Lord and my God!” (‭‭John‬ ‭20‬:‭24‬-‭28, emphasis mine)

It’s the oddest things that stand out to me, and in this passage, I couldn’t stop wondering why Thomas didn’t just stick his finger in the hole in Jesus’ side? I know, it sounds random, but if he was going to put his finger in the nail marks, why not just put the same finger in his side?

This post won’t give you an answer because I don’t have one, but asking that question made me realize that the wounds of Jesus are big enough to handle the doubts and questions we have about Jesus! The nail marks were bigger than the finger-sized doubt, but the bigger doubt represented by Thomas’ entire hand needed a bigger wound.

I don’t know what your doubts are, but I’m sure you’ve got them, and I’m even more sure that what Jesus accomplished on the cross provides more than enough room for them and evidence to overcome them.

So do what Thomas did — reach out to the very One you’re doubting and investigate who he claims to be. I have no doubt (pun intended) that you’ll say the same thing Thomas did when the wounds of Jesus swallowed up the doubts in his mind.

“My Lord and my God!”

My dad would have turned 84 years old today. There was a day when I would have expected someone that age to have already moved on to the next life, but nowadays, that number sounds younger and younger.

Clearly, I’m getting older. It was my use of the word “nowadays” that gave it away, right?

I am now the age that all those old people were when we threw surprise birthday parties for them. (Side note to anyone who might be curious: I’m expecting a Big 6-0 party in a couple of years.)

This morning, as I went out to get in my car on my way to a meeting, I heard helicopter rotors, and I immediately thought back to a Sunday that we gathered in a hospital parking lot. We were there to pray for my dad, and to yell out our love for him as they wheeled him out on a gurney and loaded him onto the helicopter that was taking him to another hospital, one he’d never walk out of.

I sat in my car this morning and cried. It’s weird how a sound can bring it all back, isn’t it? Sitting in the car, I told God that I really hoped my dad heard us that day. I’ve talked to God a lot since that day about my dad. I’ve asked God if there’s some way for Him to let my dad know how sorry I am for all the ways I made his life harder than it had to be.

Sure, I asked my dad to forgive me while he was still alive, but every so often I wonder if he really knew how really sorry I really was.

Helicopter sounds make me think of those lump-in-the-throat, one-sided goodbyes that feel so weighty; you know, the moments that make the words so very difficult to get out of your mouth.

“Dad, I … love you. I’m … sorry. I … don’t want you … to … go.”

I’m crying again, now, as I type those words.

The helicopter is long gone by now, both the one from this morning and the one from a few years ago.

My dad’s gone, too. We won’t be eating caramel cake tonight, and watching him laugh as he opens another Cracker Barrel gift card.

But we carry on, don’t we? We don’t act as if these days aren’t hard — after all, that would be disrespectful in light of the love we shared. But, we also don’t act as if these days are all we’ve got left. There are still so many good days. Days when helicopters don’t fly overhead, and when Tennessee beats Alabama, and when I pick up a Little Debbie Swiss Roll cake and eat it one layer at a time.

On those days, I feel him with me, encouraging me, leaning in close to me, and whispering in my ear, “I forgave you years ago because I always saw the man that you were becoming. Now go, be that man.”

Thanks, dad, for all the ways you impacted my life. The ways I saw before you left and told you about, but also for the countless ways I’ve seen since that I wish I had seen before you died.

Someday, we’ll have a conversation over lemonade and vanilla malts, and I’ll tell you all about it.

I’ve sat down multiple times to get this one out of me. I’ve written a few lines at a time, then put it away and wondered if it was just far too honest. Then I’d feel it tugging at me again, and so I’d open up my writing app and hack out a few more lines. I think once, I actually finished an entire paragraph before hitting the pause button.

It. Has. Been. A. Grind.

As I’ve been working on it, I’ve seen evidence of what I’m trying to say everywhere. Southern Baptists are in New Orleans drawing battle lines over who can and cannot preach. Women and men are trading genders and taking off tops on the lawn of the White House, and labeling anyone who disagrees with them all kinds of conversation-ending names.

And though I didn’t need it, more evidence of how quickly people can change their opinion of others was flashed in my face when heart-breaking news went viral on social media in my neck of the woods.

The particulars aren’t necessary, but the reality is that our world is a place of lines and edges. It’s a place filled with walls that separate, and ideologies that divide. People are constantly being pushed to and beyond the margins, and who is marginalized next has everything to do with who holds the power to push now.

Being marginalized no longer feels like a matter of if, but when, because the lines are constantly changing. And while we could spend our time talking about what it feels like to be pushed outside, my heart has been broken over how hard our culture makes it to show love to others who have been pushed out.

Our “all or nothing, cancel whatever is deemed unredeemable” culture doesn’t only kick people outside, but it throws away the key and leaves them on the outside looking in with no hope of being brought back into the fold. While they’re at it, they also kick the people out who love the ones they kicked out.

No wonder Jesus seemed more comfortable in the margins. He knew that was where He was headed from the moment He picked up a scroll and read from Isaiah during His first sermon.

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” (Luke‬ ‭4‬:‭18‬-‭19‬ ‭CSB, emphasis mine)

Jesus wasn’t kicked out by the insiders. He wasn’t canceled, or pushed to the margins. He went willingly because He loved the ones who were trying to survive there. He still does. This was His mission, and He knew what it would cost Him.

“He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him.” (John‬ ‭1‬:‭11‬ ‭CSB, emphasis mine)

The cost of loving the ones on the outside was rejection, but not just any rejection. He was rejected by His own.

That’s the weight I feel as I write this.

Honestly, it’s not hard to love the ones on the outside, but it’s hard as hell to feel judged by the ones on the inside for loving the ones on the outside.

And I do mean hard as hell, because only the pits of hell would make it hard to love the hurting.

Hell wants us to ignore them, shame them, banish them, and stereotype them.

Hell doesn’t want us to see them, reach them, hear them, or know them.

Hell wants us to forget that we are them.

Hell knows that loving them would open the door for the King of Glory to come in, and when He steps in, the ones on the outside are suddenly on the inside because His presence is what draws the circle around us.

Hell is content when we play it safe; when we echo the cries of those around us on the inside instead of ministering to the cries surrounding us on the outside. I say it’s time to make hell tremble. It’s time to pick up our cross daily, and follow Jesus wherever He leads and to whomever He leads, no matter what it costs.

We know there will be death. After all, Jesus was crucified outside the city gates, and as we follow His example and move to those on the outside, there will be a death of all that is no longer necessary in us and in the church. Relationships, hopes, agendas, pride. Many of these will die in the process, and we must learn to grieve the losses, but to grieve them with hope because the crucifixion wasn’t the only thing that happened on the outside.

So did the resurrection.

Photo by Alexandr Bormotin on Unsplash