Feast of St Thomas, Apostle

This morning’s readings are about foundations—about what holds us up when everything else feels uncertain. They are about wounds and walls, about doubt and belief, about a Church built not on perfect people, but on people like Thomas.

We often call him “doubting Thomas,” but that misses the heart of the story. Thomas didn’t find it hard to believe because he was stubborn—he found it hard because he had loved deeply. And when someone you love dies, it can be hard to trust again. His words—“Unless I see… unless I touch… I will not believe”—are not about pride, but about pain.

This is the same Thomas who once said, “Let us go with him, that we may die with him.” He was ready to follow Jesus even when it meant danger. So when Jesus died, Thomas was broken-hearted. And like many who grieve, he needed something real. He didn’t want easy words. He needed to see. He needed to reach out and feel that it was true.

Jesus doesn’t scold him. He doesn’t push him away. He meets him. He invites him: “Put your finger here… Look at my hands.” And it’s in that moment of closeness, in that moment of honesty, that Thomas gives one of the clearest confessions in all the Gospels: “My Lord and my God.”

The other disciples saw Jesus. Thomas didn’t just see the Risen Jesus—he saw the marks of suffering that remained. And maybe that’s why, according to tradition, he went farther than any of them—journeying beyond the Roman Empire, into India. He didn’t bring a message of success or strength. He brought a message of mercy and truth. A story of a God who still carries his wounds and still comes close.

That’s the same message Saint Paul gives us in his letter to the Ephesians. The Church, he says, is not a stronghold for the perfect. It is a house built from the lives of apostles and prophets, with Jesus himself as the cornerstone. And Thomas, with his questions and his courage, becomes part of that foundation—not despite his doubts, but because of how he faced them.

This is the kind of Church we need today. A Church where people can be honest about their pain. A Church that welcomes questions. A Church where those who are struggling are not pushed away, but drawn close.

In Zimbabwe today, many people are carrying burdens. Young people who feel disillusioned. Families worn down by hardship. Communities still waiting—for fairness, for clean water, for simple dignity.

The Church must be a place where people are not asked to pretend. It must be a place where real wounds can be seen and cared for. A place where the Risen Jesus still says: come close, look, touch, believe.

The Psalm today calls all nations to praise God—not because everything is perfect, but because his love is strong and steady. His faithfulness lasts, even when everything else fades.

Ignatian prayer invites us to step into that upper room with Thomas. To hear Jesus’ voice. To see the marks on his hands. To let him come close. And then to ask: what might he want to show you today? What part of your life, your pain, your story, does he want to touch?

Because this Gospel isn’t finished. It continues now. In the home where someone is waiting for news from a hospital. In the township where people are still boiling water to drink. In the school where the fees keep rising. Jesus still comes. And he still says, “Do not be afraid. Believe.”

We do not believe because everything makes sense. We believe because we have seen enough to trust. We have seen kindness in hard places. We have seen hope rise again. We have seen people carry each other when no one else would.

And the Gospel calls us now: “Go into all the world and proclaim the Good News.” That’s not just a job for saints and scholars. It’s for people like Thomas. People like us. People who have seen something real—and who want to share it.

So let us go—not because we have it all together, but because we are held by God. Let us build—not because it’s easy, but because love is worth the work. And let us believe—not because we never doubt, but because we know Jesus meets us even in our questions.

This week, let us each ask:

• What part of my life still carries pain—and how might Jesus be meeting me in that place?
• Where is God inviting me to help build something good—in my family, my parish, my neighbourhood?
• Who around me needs a little hope today—and how can I quietly show them the love of Christ?

May the God who met Thomas in his questions meet us too—in our homes, our parishes, and our lives.

And may we walk this week with open eyes, open hands, and open hearts—ready to meet Christ, even in our questions. Amen.

In preparing this homily, I consulted various resources to deepen my understanding of today’s readings, including using Magisterium AI for assistance. The final content remains the responsibility of the author.