Reach Out Your Hand

Feast of St. Thomas the Apostle

Today is the feast of my patron saint, St. Thomas the Apostle. The one people call “Doubting Thomas,” though that’s never sat right with me.

He’s been my favourite since I was a child. I never wanted the easy answers. I always wanted to know—and not just know in theory, but in the marrow and muscle of things. I wanted to touch what was holy and see if it still had wounds. I think that’s what Thomas was doing when he said, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands… I will not believe.” He wasn’t rejecting Christ—he was yearning for him in the most human way possible.

And Christ met him there. That is the miracle. Not just that Jesus was raised from the dead, but that he came back still wounded—and that he offered those wounds to be touched.

Sometimes I wonder how long Thomas had to sit with the pain of not having seen what the others had seen. A full week passed between the resurrection appearance in the locked room and the moment when Jesus came back just for him. A week of silence. A week of being the one who didn’t get the miracle. A week of not knowing if the others had seen a ghost or a vision or something he himself would never be given.

And yet, Thomas stayed. He didn’t run. He didn’t leave the room. He kept showing up.

That’s what makes him my patron. Not the doubt, but the honesty. Not the delay, but the staying with it. The aching desire to know for sure. The love that’s hidden in that kind of longing. He’s a saint for people who have been asked to believe in things that didn’t happen in front of them. For people who get mistaken for being cynical when really, they just care too much to fake it. For people who have stood in a church and asked, “Is it really you?”

There’s a kind of holiness in asking the uncomfortable questions. And I think Jesus knew that. Because when he comes back, he doesn’t shame Thomas. He doesn’t scold. He invites. “Put your finger here… reach out your hand.” He meets Thomas not where he should have been, but exactly where he was.

And that’s what I carry in me, as someone who bears his name. Jesus meets us where we are—not where we pretend to be. And he is never afraid of our need for realness.

I’ve come to believe that faith isn’t a straight line. It’s more like a spiral—sometimes moving forward, sometimes back, sometimes just circling around a question until one day, the silence breaks open and Christ says our name.

St. Thomas reminds me that those who question aren’t disqualified. They are invited closer.

He reminds me that Jesus still bears wounds—and lets us touch them.

He reminds me that staying, even when it’s hard, is itself an act of faith.

So today I give thanks for the friend who didn’t pretend. For the apostle who reached out with trembling hands. For the one who made the most daring confession in all of Scripture: “My Lord and my God.”

And I pray:
For those whose questions run deep.
For those who wait in the silence.
For those who are still hoping that Christ might come through the locked doors.
May we know that it’s okay to want to touch and see.
May we know that the Lord will meet us there.
May we have the courage to stay in the room.

St. Thomas, friend and patron, pray for us.

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Over the next few weeks, you’ll notice a change in how I sign my posts: from Sister to Brother Margaret-Thomas. Margaret-Thomas is the religious name given to me by my abbot when I entered the community — that hasn’t changed. What is changing is the way I’m choosing to live more openly into who I am, with the support of my abbot and community.

I know this might feel like a big shift to some. It is — and it isn’t. I’m still me, still following the call of Christ in the way I know how. This change is part of growing into the person God has created me to be.

I’m open to kind, respectful conversation. But as always, this space is one of welcome, not harm — hate and hostility have no place here.

Earlier posts may still carry my previous title, but going forward, I’ll be writing as Br. Margaret-Thomas. Thank you for walking this journey with me.

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