Peace Be Unto You: The Breath Between Doubt and Wonder

Introduction: The Quiet After the Storm

The worst had already happened.

The sky had gone black at noon. The earth had quaked. The temple veil had torn. Their teacher, both healer and prophet, the one who had called them by name, had been executed by the empire.

And now it was the first day of the week. The sun had risen, but they did not venture out. The room was sealed. The air thick with silence. Fear was their unwelcomed guest.

Sometimes, resurrection begins not with trumpets and hallelujahs, but with locked doors and trembling hands.

And then, a voice.

The Breath That Breaks Through: John 20:19–31

“Peace be with you.”

It was not just a greeting. It was an opening, a tearing of the veil between what they believed and what was now possible.

The door hadn’t opened, but there He was just as they knew him, yet different. Jesus. Still bearing the wounds of violence, but no longer ruled by them. He showed them His hands and His side, not as proof for the sake of certainty, but as invitation to enter the story again.

Then came the gift of breath.

He breathed on them. Not just air, but Spirit. The same breath that hovered over the waters at Creation. The same wind that filled the dry bones with life in Ezekiel’s vision. The same breath that makes clay human.

“Receive the Holy Spirit.”

But Thomas wasn’t there.

And when he heard about it, he didn’t pretend. He wanted more than secondhand assurances. He needed to touch, to see, to feel. And who can blame him? Who among us does not ache for a truth that is tactile?

And again, Jesus returns. Not to scold, but to invite.

“Touch. See. Believe.”

He meets Thomas in his longing, not to shame him, but to bless him and us with a deeper seeing: the kind of seeing that doesn’t erase doubt but holds it tenderly until it gives way to belief.

Let Everything That Breathes: Psalm 150

Where John gives us the quiet, intimate breath of Christ, Psalm 150 calls us into full-bodied praise.

Trumpet. Harp. Tambourine. Dance.

It’s as if the psalmist is saying: If you’ve got breath, use it. If your body can move, let it. If your soul has a song—even a broken one—sing it.

Let everything that breathes praise the Lord.

Because praise is not the absence of pain. It is the insistence that something deeper is also true. That joy and grief can share a room. That faith is not about certainty, but celebration in the face of mystery.

If John gives us the breath of Spirit, the psalm gives us breath as song.

Witnesses of the Uncontainable: Acts 5:27–32

And that breath of the Spirit propels the disciples out of their locked rooms and into public spaces.

In Acts, Peter and the others have been arrested, again, for refusing to stay silent. They are hauled before the religious authorities, accused of disturbing the peace.

But how can you not disturb things when resurrection is real?

Peter answers not with defensiveness but with clarity: “We must obey God rather than human authority.” And then he says it plainly: "Jesus, the one you killed, God raised."

The Spirit does not erase the wounds of history. It shines through them.

And the same breath Jesus breathed in that quiet room is now moving like whirlwind through the streets, through testimony, through courage, through trembling voices who can’t stop speaking the truth.

The One Who Was, and Is, and Is to Come: Revelation 1:4–8

Finally, comes the vision.

John of Patmos, exiled and alone, hears it echoing across time: “Grace to you and peace from him who is, and who was, and who is to come.”

Past. Present. Future.

The Jesus who stepped into that locked room is the same Jesus who now stands beyond time—Alpha and Omega, the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead.

But this is not a distant Christ, wrapped in glory and inaccessible light. This is the same one who was pierced. The same one who washed feet. The same one who still bears the scars of love.

He is not a myth to worship from afar. He is the Living One, with us, among us, and still breathing peace.

Conclusion: Between Lock and Lifted Hands

These readings stretch across space and time, from the hush of a locked room to the raucous clamor of tambourines; from fearful disciples to fearless witnesses; from breath to trumpet, from pierced hands to praise.

At the center of it all is Jesus—wounded and risen, quiet and bold, intimate and infinite.

And at the center of us is breath.

Not always steady. Sometimes shallow. Sometimes caught in our throats from fear or disbelief. But still there. Still moving.

What if this Sunday, we remembered that resurrection isn’t about escaping doubt, or dancing over death, or pretending we have no wounds?

What if it is this: that Jesus meets us right in the middle of our fear, our ache, our questioning, and breaths?

And what if we, like Thomas, could fall to our knees, not with all our questions answered, but with our hearts opened enough to whisper:

“My Lord and my God.”

Prayer

Risen One,
You come to us in locked rooms
and fearful thoughts.
You meet us where we are—
behind doors, within doubt, among shadows—
and You breathe peace.

Teach us to listen for the sound of Your breath.
To recognize Your presence not only in clarity,
but in questioning.
Not only in hallelujahs,
but in the quiet longing of our hearts.

Help us bear witness, not to our own certainty—
but to Your love
that still bears wounds
and still rolls stones away.

Let everything that has breath
praise You,
trust You,
follow You into new life.

Amen.