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(Adapted by ChatGPT from the audio transcript)
On the topic of doubt, let me begin with a quick story—not about my doubt, but my child’s. I have twins, and one of them, almost every weekday, gets frantic about being late for school. This child—I’ll keep their identity anonymous—gets up on time, dresses quickly, and becomes very stressed if their sibling isn’t moving at the same pace. Many mornings, we experience a tearful, anxious moment of, “Why aren’t we in the car yet?”—even though the evidence shows we’re fine.
I have tried showing this child their report card, which lists tardies. Every time, it says: zero. I remind them, “Your dad gets you to school on time. Here’s the proof.” They see it, they nod, they believe it—for a moment. But then, the very next morning, the doubt returns: “Why aren’t we in the car yet?”
That’s doubt.
It’s tempting to move quickly to a common sermon theme: poor Thomas—Doubting Thomas. How many of us have ever been nicknamed for our least appealing quality? Doubting Thomas. It’s easy to criticize him. I’ve preached that sermon before—how Thomas gets a bad rap, how doubt is not only natural but necessary.
Every Wednesday at Decon/Recon—our deconstruction and reconstruction group—we talk about faith, questions, and doubts. Without doubt, there would be no need for such a group. The Episcopal Church is a good place for doubt. We don’t scold each other for wondering whether God really exists, or whether Jesus truly rose from the dead, or for questioning those points of theology that some Christians cling to rigidly. Here, it’s okay to say, “Maybe it’s true—and maybe it’s not.”
Thomas asked for evidence:
“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.”
When he was shown, he did believe. His journey through doubt led him to a deeper, stronger faith. Our faith is more meaningful when it comes through questioning, not just through inheritance. Faith that has been tested, stretched, and challenged can stand and walk on its own.
In my newsletter, I mentioned the movie Conclave. Without giving too much away: the Pope dies right at the beginning (not a spoiler!), and a conclave of Cardinals gathers to elect a successor. One of the main characters, Cardinal Lawrence, gives a sermon in which he acknowledges his doubts. He confesses that, while some in the conclave are considering him for the papacy, he himself is struggling—specifically, with prayer.
Earlier, it’s revealed that the late Pope also had doubts. Not about God, but about the Church. A heavy burden, especially for a Pope.
During his sermon, Cardinal Lawrence reflects that perhaps the most dangerous sin is the sin of certainty. That stuck with me.
We call ourselves people of faith. But so often, the church—capital “C” Church—has been more concerned with certainty than with faith. And certainty leaves no room for mystery, no room for wonder, no room for God to be bigger than our imaginations.
Yet, I want to depart slightly from Cardinal Lawrence’s conclusion. Faith is not the end goal; the one in whom we place our faith is. Connection with our Creator, co-creating with God, relationship, service—that is the point. Faith is the road, not the destination.
When certainty becomes the goal, we lose something essential. We build walls, exclude others, and divide ourselves into tribes. These are the byproducts of needing to be “right.”
When Jesus appears to Thomas, he does not say, “Good job doubting!” Nor does he scold. Jesus says, “Do not doubt but believe.” Some would take that as an argument against doubt altogether. But notice: Jesus invites Thomas to experience him.
“Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side.”
Jesus does not demand blind belief. He offers evidence. He invites an encounter.
Throughout the resurrection stories, we see the same pattern:
- Mary Magdalene mistakes him for the gardener—until he calls her by name.
- Two disciples walk with him on the road to Emmaus, talking for hours—until he breaks bread.
- Thomas demands to touch his wounds—until Jesus invites him to do so.
Each time, Jesus meets people where they are. He doesn’t demand immediate recognition. He offers experience. He invites them in.
And so, our faith, too, should take the shape of invitation and encounter—not rigid certainty.
The title of this sermon, QAF, is a nod to that. In a church planting group I led years ago, we hosted sessions called “QAF Sessions.” People would always ask, “What does QAF stand for?” It doesn’t stand for anything. It’s FAQ spelled backwards.
We live in an FAQ society: Frequently Asked Questions, with neatly packaged answers. The Church often operates the same way: you have questions, we have answers.
But what if we flipped it? What if we spent more time questioning answers than answering questions?
Maybe that’s the spirit of Christ at work in us: not a Jesus who demands blind allegiance, but a Jesus who says, “Come and see. Come and experience.” A faith that welcomes mystery, wonder, and journey.
This path is not one of easy answers. It’s a path that produces more questions than resolutions. But it’s the path of resurrection, the path from death to new life, the path we walk together.
So let’s keep questioning answers. Let’s keep journeying together, embracing the beautiful, difficult, thrilling mystery of resurrection life.
Amen.