Dig Deeper into this Sunday’s Gospel: Read John 20:19–31
There was a song when I was younger that stirred hearts, opinions, and—at least in my house—the rules. My parents wouldn’t let me listen to it, wouldn’t let me buy any music by the band, and would rush to change the radio station if it came on. Which, in 1989, it did—a lot.
The song? “Personal Jesus” by Depeche Mode.
I wasn’t drawn to the band necessarily, but in the whirlwind of my tween-dom, this song was everything. Was it the gritty pre-grunge sound that made it so appealing? Maybe it was the oft-misunderstood lyrics, or the rebellious thrill of watching the adults in my life get so worked up over it?
Decades later, the song has faded into nostalgia, but the phrase personal Jesus echoed in my mind as I read this Sunday’s gospel.
Jesus is personal.
That one truth could encapsulate His entire mission. He was sent by the Father to be with us, to be known. So deep was God’s desire to draw near to His creation that He sent His Son, who was one with Him in glory, to enter humanity and be one with us. Jesus, “the image of the invisible God” (Colossians 1:15), chose to breathe with lungs that could catch a cold, walk with feet that could blister, and love with a heart that could easily be broken.
And it’s this painfully personal Jesus that Thomas grieved.
We have labeled him “doubting Thomas,” but when I read his words now, I don’t just perceive skepticism—I feel a deep sorrow and grief.
Just days earlier, it was Thomas who bravely said, “Let us also go, that we may die with him” (John 11:16), when Jesus was returning to Judea to raise Lazarus from the dead. Knowing they were heading closer to danger, Thomas was ready to die alongside his Lord.
But when that moment arrived, Thomas, like the others, fled. And when the risen Jesus appeared to the disciples, Thomas wasn’t present. So when they shared the good news with him, Thomas didn’t just resist—it almost seemed as if he couldn’t allow himself to believe it.
“Unless I see the mark of the nails … I will not believe” (John 20:25).
Perhaps Thomas’ doubt lay not in the miracle, but in the mercy. How could Jesus still love him after his profound failure?
In times of fear, rejection, self-doubt, and shame, we may question our role in God’s narrative. Do we still belong? Do we wonder how Jesus can love us despite all of our sins?
To be honest, even after a fruitful Lenten season, these questions are the ones that linger in my mind, emerging unexpectedly, leading me into the darkness of condemnation.
Take heart, my friend, and let me remind you (and myself) of these truths: our Lord’s mercy is not earned. It is freely given.
“[H]e saved us, not because of deeds done by us in righteousness, but in virtue of his own mercy” (Titus 3:5). And, “nothing can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:38–39).
This isn’t just mercy. This is divine mercy.
In the gospel, Jesus doesn’t wait for His friends to come to Him. He enters their fear. Behind locked doors and into wounded hearts, our Lord brings peace, not condemnation. It is a peace the world cannot give, a peace that surpasses all understanding, a peace that He offers to us today, no matter how far we’ve run or how broken or disqualified we feel.
When He meets Thomas, Jesus doesn’t rebuke or scold him and doesn’t demand repentance. He encounters Thomas right where he is—in his pain, doubt, and brokenness—and gives him what he needs: an invitation back into relationship. Jesus simply invites, “Put your finger here … bring your hand and put it into my side, and do not be unbelieving, but believe” (John 20:27). He offers an invitation to mercy, to stop hurting and begin to heal. Jesus invites Thomas to come close, not because he has earned it, nor because his faith was perfect, but because it is who Jesus is.
Our Lord is personal, and He is close. He is patient and tender. He meets us not in the places we think we ought to be or where we pretend to be, but exactly where we truly are. His divine mercy does not erase our wounds; rather, it acknowledges, redeems, and transforms them into wells of grace. Jesus' resurrected body retained His scars; they were visible, not hidden or concealed. No longer signs of weakness and defeat, these scars stand as glorified emblems of His immense and victorious love. His wounds are proof that He understands pain and suffering, loss, and grief. Jesus understands because He willingly endured it all for our sake.
His life is a divine exchange for our freedom. This is divine mercy.
Let us challenge ourselves to fully embrace this truth within our hearts, allowing it to penetrate even the innermost parts that we wish to keep hidden. By opening our whole hearts to grace and mercy, we encounter a profound peace—a peace that transcends understanding and invites us into the mystery of our God and His divine mercy, a peace that cannot help but utter a cry of profound intimacy: “My Lord and my God!” (John 20:28).
Not the Lord, but my Lord. Not a God, but my God.
He is yours, and you are His.
Our Lord welcomes our questions and doubts without judgment. Our pain does not surprise Him. There's no need for us to tidy up our lives before approaching Him; He invites us just as we are—wounded, messy, ashamed, and broken. His arms are wide open to embrace us, His wounds still visible, His divine mercy, endless.
In His merciful heart,
Jeannine
Food for thought or journaling …
Consider the areas in your life where you feel unworthy, afraid, or ashamed. How might Jesus be offering you His mercy instead of judgment?
Come, Lord Jesus. In my fear and doubt, You come to me with peace. In my failures, You offer forgiveness. Help me to receive Your mercy with an open heart and to extend that mercy to others with compassion and grace. Breathe Your Spirit into me, so that I may be a vessel of Your love in my home, in my community, and in the world. Jesus, I trust in You. Have mercy on me, and on the whole world. Amen.
