Pieces of the Puzzle

It might feel a little strange to talk about belief so soon after Easter.

Just days ago, churches were filled with celebration. The message was clear and joyful: Christ is risen. The tomb is empty. Hope is alive.

And then, almost immediately, the tone shifts.

The Gospel reading that follows Easter each year brings us to a different place—not celebration, but doubt. Thomas, one of Jesus’ disciples, hears the good news of the resurrection and responds honestly:

“Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” (John 20:25, NRSV)

It is a jarring transition. But it is also deeply honest.

Because Easter does not remove life’s questions. It meets us in them.

Faith Begins Not with Certainty, but with Trust

Christians have been wrestling with belief from the very beginning. One of the earliest summaries of Christian faith, the Apostles’ Creed, begins simply:

“I believe…”

Not “I understand everything.”
Not “I have no doubts.”

Just: I believe.

But what does that actually mean?

In everyday language, belief often sounds uncertain—like a guess or an opinion. “I believe it might rain,” or “I believe that team will win.”

Biblical faith is something deeper.

The book of Hebrews describes it this way:

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1)

Faith is not about having every answer. It is about trust—trust in a God who is present, even when life is unclear.

To say “I believe in God” is not just agreeing with an idea. It is placing trust in a relationship. It is choosing to rely on God’s presence, grace, and promise.

The Risk of Trust

Trust always involves some level of risk.

To trust is to place weight on something beyond personal control. It means stepping forward without complete certainty.

That is why belief can feel difficult.

It is easier to keep faith at a distance—as something to analyze or discuss. But when belief becomes trust, it becomes personal. It begins to shape choices, relationships, and daily life.

To say “I believe in God” is not just saying something about God—it is saying something about how one chooses to live.

It means trusting that:

• God is present, even in uncertainty (Isaiah 41:10)
• Grace is real, even when it feels undeserved (Ephesians 2:8–9)
• New life is possible, even in places that feel like endings (Romans 6:4)

A Faith That Makes Room for Doubt

This is where Thomas’ story becomes so important.

Thomas is often labeled “Doubting Thomas,” but that misses the point. He is not cynical—he is honest.

He voices what others may have felt but did not say.

And yet, he does something crucial: he stays.

He remains with the community of disciples.

A week later, Jesus appears again. And instead of rebuking Thomas, Jesus meets him in his doubt:

“Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” (John 20:27)

Thomas responds with one of the clearest declarations of faith in Scripture:

“My Lord and my God!” (John 20:28)

This moment reveals something essential:

Faith is not the absence of doubt.
It is trust that grows through encounter.

When Doubt Is Part of the Journey

Doubt is often treated as the enemy of faith. But Scripture tells a different story.

A desperate father once said to Jesus:

“I believe; help my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24)

That is not failure. That is faith in motion.

Questions, uncertainty, and even struggle can be part of a growing, living faith. Trust deepens over time, shaped by experience, reflection, and encounter with God.

There is space for questions. There is room to grow.

Living by What We Cannot Yet See

Faith calls people to trust beyond what is immediately visible.

As Paul writes:

“For we walk by faith, not by sight.” (2 Corinthians 5:7)

This is not blind optimism. It is trust grounded in who God has already shown Godself to be—Creator, Redeemer, and the One who brings life out of death.

The resurrection is not just something to believe intellectually. It is something to live from.

It means hope is not empty.
It means endings are not final.
It means God is still at work—even when it cannot be seen.

Faith Is Something We Practice

In the Wesleyan tradition, faith has always been understood as more than agreement—it is trust in Christ that shapes a life.

Faith grows through grace:

• Prevenient grace: God is already at work before we respond (1 John 4:19)
• Justifying grace: trust in Christ restores relationship with God (Romans 5:1)
• Sanctifying grace: that trust continues to shape daily life (Philippians 1:6)

Faith is not a one-time statement. It is something practiced over time.

It grows through ordinary, steady rhythms:

• Prayer
• Scripture
• Worship
• Acts of love and service

These practices form a life of trust, even when certainty feels out of reach.

We Do Not Believe Alone

Although the Creed begins with “I,” faith is never meant to be lived in isolation.

Scripture reminds us:

“And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds, not neglecting to meet together…” (Hebrews 10:24–25)

Faith is strengthened in community.

There are seasons when belief feels strong, and seasons when it feels fragile. In those moments, the community carries faith together.

Thomas encountered Christ not on his own, but among others.

What Trust Looks Like in Everyday Life

Faith is not just something spoken—it is something lived.

It shows up in quiet, ordinary ways:

• Choosing forgiveness over resentment (Colossians 3:13)
• Practicing generosity instead of scarcity (2 Corinthians 9:6–8)
• Holding onto hope in uncertain times (Romans 15:13)

Sometimes, trust looks like continuing to show up—even with questions.

Sometimes, it looks like praying honestly.

Sometimes, it is simply taking the next faithful step.

Beginning Again with “I Believe”

In the end, belief is not about having everything figured out.

It is about relationship.

Thomas’ declaration—“My Lord and my God”—is not just a statement. It is personal. It is relational. It is trust.

And that is where faith begins for everyone.

“I believe” may be spoken with confidence.
Or with hesitation.
Or even with questions.

But it is enough.

Not because everything is certain—
but because Christ is present.

And that is where trust begins.

When the Ending Isn’t the End

We all know what it feels like when something ends.

A relationship ends.
A job ends.
A season of life ends.
Sometimes, a life ends.

And when those moments come, they can feel absolute. Final. Like the road has simply… stopped.

There are times when there is no clear next step — only grief, silence, and the quiet realization that something cannot be put back the way it was. In those moments, it’s easy to tell ourselves a simple story:

This is how it ends.
This is where it stops.
There is nowhere else to go from here.

That’s exactly the kind of moment the Easter story begins in.

Showing Up When the Story Feels Over

(Matthew 28:1–10)

In the Gospel of Matthew, a group of women go to Jesus’ tomb early in the morning (Matthew 28:1). They are not expecting a miracle. They are not anticipating resurrection. They are simply showing up to grieve.

They bring spices. They bring love. They bring the quiet faithfulness of people who don’t know what else to do — so they show up anyway.

They expect a sealed tomb.
A still body.
An ending.

But instead, they hear words that disrupt everything:

“He is not here; for he has been raised” (Matthew 28:6).

The Power of Interrupted Expectations

(Matthew 28:5–7)

The Easter story doesn’t begin with belief — it begins with interruption.

The women come expecting death, and instead they are met with something entirely different. Their assumptions are overturned. Their expectations don’t just shift — they collapse.

The angel tells them:

• “Do not be afraid” (v. 5)
• “He is not here” (v. 6)
• “Come and see” (v. 6)
• “Go quickly and tell his disciples” (v. 7)

And then this surprising promise:

“He is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him” (Matthew 28:7).

How often do we look for hope in places that can’t hold it?
How often do we expect life to come from what has already ended?

We tend to look for God where we last experienced certainty. But Easter suggests something deeper:

New life rarely shows up where we expect it.

When Endings Become Beginnings

(Psalm 118:22–24)

If the cross were the end of the story, then the answer to life’s hardest question —“Is this it?”— would sometimes be yes.

But Easter offers a different word.

The psalmist writes:

“The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone.
This is the Lord’s doing…
This is the day that the Lord has made” (Psalm 118:22–24).

What looked like rejection becomes foundation.
What looked like an ending becomes a beginning.

This doesn’t erase grief or minimize loss. The tomb was real. The sorrow was real.

But Easter insists that those places are not the final word.

We Are Still on the Way

(Matthew 28:16–20)

One of the most surprising parts of the resurrection story is this: it doesn’t resolve everything.

When the disciples meet the risen Jesus, Scripture says:

“When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted” (Matthew 28:17).

Even here — even now — faith is still unfolding.

And then Jesus gives them a familiar word:

“Go therefore and make disciples of all nations…” (Matthew 28:19)

Not “stay.”
Not “you’ve arrived.”
But “go.”

The resurrection is not a finish line. It’s a sending.

And it comes with a promise:

“I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

Where Do We Find Hope Now?

(Matthew 28:7; 25:35–40)

If the message of Easter is that life continues beyond the worst moments, then the natural question becomes:

Where do we look for it?

The angel says, “He is going ahead of you” (Matthew 28:7).

Which means we encounter the risen Christ not only in sacred spaces, but out in the world — in what comes next.

Jesus once taught:

“Just as you did it to one of the least of these… you did it to me” (Matthew 25:40).

So hope shows up:

• In acts of mercy
• In quiet courage
• In forgiveness that felt impossible
• In the presence of someone who refuses to leave

Sometimes, the clearest glimpse of new life comes through other people.

The Next Chapter

(Isaiah 43:18–19; Philippians 3:13–14)

Easter doesn’t just tell a story — it asks a question:

What comes next?

The prophet Isaiah writes:

“Do not remember the former things… I am about to do a new thing” (Isaiah 43:18–19).

And Paul echoes this movement forward:

“Forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on…” (Philippians 3:13–14).

The next chapter may not be the one that was planned.
But it is the one unfolding now.

For some, it begins with healing.
For others, with trust.
For others, simply with showing up again.

Not Alone on the Journey

(Matthew 28:20; Acts 2:42–47)

One of the quiet threads running through the Easter story is this: no one walks it alone.

The women go together.
The disciples gather together.
And the early church becomes a community that shares life, faith, and resources (Acts 2:42–47).

Whatever “next” looks like, it isn’t meant to be carried in isolation.

And the promise at the heart of it all remains:

“I am with you always” (Matthew 28:20).

There Is More to the Story

So if the question is:

Are we there yet?

Easter’s answer is:

No.

But that “no” is not a dead end.
It’s an opening.

It means the story isn’t over.
It means there is still more ahead.

More healing.
More hope.
More love to be lived.

The road continues.

And somehow, even after the hardest endings, new life still finds a way to meet us there — often where we least expect it.

Holy Saturday

“I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits, and in his word I put my hope. My whole being waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning…” ~ Psalm 130:5–6

Yesterday, everything came to a stop.

The cross.

The final cry.

The stillness that followed.

And today—silence.

Holy Saturday is the day we rarely know what to do with. There is no action, no movement, no clear next step. Jesus is in the tomb. The disciples are scattered. Grief is fresh, and hope feels uncertain.

All through Lent, we have been asking: Are we there yet?

And again and again, the answer has been no.

But today, the question shifts.

Now it feels like: Was that it?

This is the space in between—between what has happened and what has not yet been revealed. And if we are honest, this space is not unfamiliar.

We know what it is to wait.

To sit with unanswered prayers.

To carry grief that does not lift overnight.

To live in moments where nothing seems to be happening, and yet everything feels different.

Holy Saturday reminds us that faith is not only lived in moments of clarity or breakthrough. Sometimes faith is simply staying.

Staying when there is nothing to fix.

Staying when there is no clear direction.

Staying when God feels quiet.

Because silence is not the same as absence.

There are no recorded words from Jesus on this day. No miracles. No explanations. And yet, the story is not over.

God is still present—even in the silence.

That may be the quiet invitation of this day: not to rush ahead, not to force meaning, but to remain. To trust that even when we cannot see movement, God is still at work in ways we do not yet understand.

We know what comes next. But today is not about arriving there early.

Today is about honoring the in-between.

So if this day feels heavy, or uncertain, or unfinished—that may be exactly where you are meant to be.

Not at the end.

Not yet at the beginning again.

But held in the silence in between.

Good Friday Reflection

When “Are We There Yet?” Finally Feels Like Yes

There’s a question that shows up in more places than road trips and restless kids: Are we there yet?

It’s the question beneath our timelines, our goals, our expectations. It lives in career plans, relationships, faith journeys, and quiet hopes about how life is supposed to unfold. We keep expecting to arrive—at clarity, at peace, at some version of “everything finally makes sense.”

And yet, again and again, the answer seems to be no.

Not when we reach something we thought would satisfy us.
Not when we follow the right path.
Not even when we do everything we were told should work.

Over time, that repeated no begins to teach something we may not have wanted to learn: life is less about arriving and more about continuing—walking, staying, trusting, even without resolution.

But there are moments when the question shifts. Moments when “Are we there yet?” feels less like impatience and more like a quiet, uneasy recognition:

This might be it.

When the Road Runs Out

There are seasons in life when movement stops.

No more options to weigh.
No more strategies to try.
No clear next step forward.

It can come through loss, failure, grief, or simply the slow realization that something will not turn out the way we hoped. A relationship cannot be repaired. An opportunity is gone. A version of the future quietly disappears.

These are the moments when it feels like the road has run out.

And standing there, it can feel like arrival—but not the kind anyone would choose. Arrival at an ending. Arrival at something final.

The Pressure for a Different Ending

When we reach those places, something in us resists. We look for a way out, a last-minute reversal, a breakthrough that will change the story.

We tell ourselves: Surely something will fix this.
Surely this isn’t how it ends.

We expect resolution. We expect power. We expect a visible turnaround that makes everything make sense again.

But not every moment meets those expectations.

Some moments don’t resolve on command. Some situations don’t reverse. Some endings remain endings—at least for now.

And that can feel like failure. Or absence. Or silence.

The Strength of Staying

But there is another way to understand those moments—not as failures, but as places where something deeper is revealed.

Not the power to escape.
But the strength to remain.

There is a quiet kind of courage in staying present when everything in you wants to run. In not numbing out, not turning away, not pretending the pain isn’t real.

Staying in a hard conversation.
Staying with grief instead of rushing past it.
Staying in uncertainty without forcing false clarity.

This kind of staying is not passive. It’s not resignation. It’s a form of faithfulness—to the moment, to the truth, to love itself.

Because love, at its core, does not disappear when things get difficult.

When “Not Arriving” Becomes Something Else

For most of us, not arriving feels like disappointment. We want resolution. We want to get somewhere solid.

But what if those unresolved places are not the end of the story?

Not because everything is suddenly okay.
Not because the pain disappears.
But because presence remains.

Even in the places that feel final, something—or Someone—can still meet us there.

And that changes things.

It doesn’t erase the difficulty. It doesn’t tie everything up neatly. But it means that even at what feels like the end, we are not abandoned to it.

Holding On in the Dark

One of the hardest human experiences is feeling alone in suffering—especially when answers don’t come.

And yet, even in those moments, many people find themselves still reaching out. Still hoping. Still, somehow, holding onto relationship—whether through prayer, reflection, or simply the refusal to shut down completely.

That matters.

Because it suggests that even when meaning is unclear, connection is not entirely gone.

Even when the road ends, something remains.

Not the Final Word

There are moments in life that feel final. Heavy. Unresolved.

Moments where the most honest thing to do is not to explain or fix—but simply to acknowledge: This is hard. This hurts. This doesn’t make sense.

And to stay there, without rushing past it.

But even then, there is a quiet possibility worth holding onto:

What feels like the end may not be the final word.

Not because we can already see what comes next.
But because endings, in ways we often only recognize later, are not always where the story stops.