Holy, Holy, Holy

The prophet Isaiah was called to the ministry in a unique vision, called a "throne theophany."  He records, "I saw...the Lord sitting upon a throne, high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple. Above it stood the seraphims: each one had six wings; with twain he covered his face, and with twain he covered his feet, and with twain he did fly. And one cried unto another, and said, Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory" (Isaiah 6:1-3).

The scene filled Isaiah with a profound sense of unworthiness, and he cried out, "Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts" (v. 5).  Wishing he could join in the praises sung by the angels, but realizing his unworthiness to do so, it was the uncleanness of his lips he lamented.  And then a strange thing happened.  One of the angels broke from his worshipful reverie and flew to Isaiah, "having a live coal in his hand, which he had taken with the tongs from off the altar: And he laid it upon my mouth, and said, Lo, this hath touched thy lips; and thine iniquity is taken away, and thy sin purged" (v. 6-7).  His sins remitted, his iniquity cleansed, Isaiah's lips were opened, and he could, like the angels, converse with the Divine.

This experience stuck with Nephi, who quoted Isaiah at length, both in his public discourse and in his religious writings.  He spoke boldly about the need to follow the Savior's example of baptism, linking the angel's act to this ordinance by proclaiming that after baptism "cometh a remission of your sins by fire" (2 Nephi 31:17).  And then, like Isaiah, "can ye speak with the tongue of angels, and shout praises unto the Holy One of Israel" (2 Nephi 31:13).

I think that the reason for this is twofold--first, baptism cleanses us so that we are worthy to join in the angels' praise.  But secondly, and perhaps more importantly, the effects of baptism elicit praise from us--that is, the cleansing effect of the Atonement that becomes active in our lives because of our obedience, repentance, humility, and faith sweeps away our guilt and fills us with joy, peace, and love, which causes us to praise the goodness of God.  Amulek declared, "now is the time and the day of your salvation; and therefore, if ye will repent and harden not your hearts, immediately shall the great plan of redemption be brought about unto you" (Alma 34:31).  Mormon counseled, "baptism cometh by faith unto the fulfilling the commandments; and the fulfilling the commandments bringeth remission of sins; And the remission of sins bringeth meekness, and lowliness of heart; and because of meekness and lowliness of heart cometh the visitation of the Holy Ghost, which Comforter filleth with hope and perfect love, which love endureth by diligence unto prayer" (Moroni 8:25-26).

With baptism for the remission of sins, and the accompanying refining presence of the Holy Ghost, we become both worthy and eager to join the "numberless concourses of angels" that Lehi saw, "in the attitude of singing and praising their God" (1 Nephi 1:8).  Alma, beholding the same scene, remarked, "my soul did long to be there" (Alma 36:22).  Rising from his coma, Alma praised the Lord, proclaiming that he had "been born of God" (v. 23).

Moroni's closing words invite us, having been cleansed, to join in the praise of God's power, "Yea, come unto Christ, and be perfected in him, and deny yourselves of all ungodliness; and if ye shall deny yourselves of all ungodliness, and love God with all your might, mind and strength, then is his grace sufficient for you, that by his grace ye may be perfect in Christ; and if by the grace of God ye are perfect in Christ, ye can in nowise deny the power of God" (Moroni 10:32).

I have experienced a portion of God's limitless power, transcendent grace, and infinite love, and I, like the prophets before me, cannot deny the power of God.  I know that the same God who created the universe and its inhabitants, who daily grants them life and breath, has redeemed all mankind who will return and repent and exercise faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, who came "not...to condemn the world, but that the world through him might be saved" (John 3:17).  The cleansing He offers and the holiness He imparts through His infinite Atonement are the greatest gifts in creation.  In the times I have known that priceless joy, that sweet release, I, too, have felt to shout praises to the Holy One of Israel.

Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord God Almighty.  Truly, the whole earth is full of his glory.

What He Had Promised, He Was Able Also To Perform

The apostle Paul spent much of his epistles speaking about the law of Moses and the grace of Christ.  He, like Abindai before him, strove to convince his people that, while the law of Moses was good, created as a "schoolmaster to bring us to Christ" (Galatians 3:24), it was only through Christ, and not the deeds of the law, that salvation could be obtained.  It was a strange position for a man like Paul to take.  By his own admission, he kept the law with exactness, and had honored it throughout his life, "after the most straitest sect of our religion I lived a Pharisee" (Acts 26:5).  Said he, "If any other man thinketh that he hath whereof he might trust in the flesh, I more: Circumcised the eighth day, of the stock of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, an Hebrew of the Hebrews; as touching the law, a Pharisee; Concerning zeal, persecuting the church; touching the righteousness which is in the law, blameless. But what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ. Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ, And be found in him, not having mine own righteousness, which is of the law, but that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of God by faith" (Philippians 3:4-9).

As a man who had lived his whole life striving for one brand of righteousness, Paul was now bailing out of the old way, counting it "loss for Christ."  How very odd!  What seems even stranger is his insistence that he's discovered a new brand of righteousness, which he calls "righteousness which is of God by faith [in Christ]."  But what does it mean to be righteous by faith?

To Paul, it doesn't seem to mean that we should abandon righteous acts.  "What then?" he asks, "shall we sin, because we are not under the law, but under grace? God forbid" (Romans 6:15).  Nor does it mean that verbal proclamation of Jesus as Lord is sufficient for salvation: "Not every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven" (Matthew 7:21).

Paul says that Abraham, the father of many nations, was made "righteous by faith."  But Abraham lived before the Law was given--and yet we regard him as patriarch and claim his promised blessings as our own.  In what way, therefore, was Abraham righteous?

"For what saith the scripture? Abraham believed God, and it was counted unto him for righteousness... Cometh this blessedness then upon the circumcision only, or upon the uncircumcision also? for we say that faith was reckoned to Abraham for righteousness.  How was it then reckoned? when he was in circumcision, or in uncircumcision? Not in circumcision, but in uncircumcision... Therefore it is of faith, that it might be by grace; to the end the promise might be sure to all the seed; not to that only which is of the law, but to that also which is of the faith of Abraham; who is the father of us all... Who against hope believed in hope, that he might become the father of many nations, according to that which was spoken, So shall thy seed be" (Romans 4:3-18).

Abraham "against hope believed in hope."  "And being not weak in faith, he considered not his own body now dead, when he was about an hundred years old, neither yet the deadness of Sara’s womb: He staggered not at the promise of God through unbelief; but was strong in faith, giving glory to God; And being fully persuaded that, what he had promised, he was able also to perform.  And therefore it was imputed to him for righteousness" (v. 19-22, emphasis added).  Abraham was counted righteous because he heard the word of the Lord, and acted on it, going into a strange land, "hoping against hope" in the promise of a child in his old age, his wife long past her childbearing years, traversing the mountain with his son Isaac, not understanding God's requirement to sacrifice him, but "Accounting that God was able to raise him up, even from the dead" (Hebrews 11:19).

But Abraham did not act blindly, Paul says.  Abraham's righteousness--and, by analogy, our righteousness--isn't a measure of blind obedience to a list of rules.  Abraham obeyed because, as Paul put it, he was "fully persuaded that, what [God] had promised, he was able also to perform."  Abraham's belief in God's power and promise was not a passive declaration of testimony--it was a fire that burned brightly, that spurred him to action.  He believed God when God promised him a land, a posterity, and an eternal priesthood--and his actions were based on that faith--his was righteousness, not by law, but "by faith in Christ."

I believe it works the same way with us.  God is not interested in our obedience for its own sake--because He enjoys collecting a host of automatons.  Rather, He wants us to understand and embrace His power as we learn how to use it.  He wants us to trust Him in our joys and in our extremities, to rely on his promises--even against hope, to believe in hope.  He wants us to be fully persuaded, as was Abraham, "that what he has promised, he is able also to perform."  When we are filled with that certainty, our righteousness will come by faith, and not by law.  It will flow out of us in love, not be squeezed out by coercion.

Our faith in God's ability and determination to keep His promises then becomes the motivating principle for our actions.  Our righteous works flow from that belief--after all, why would we bother praying unless we believed that God was able to keep His promises to answer those prayers?  Why bother repenting unless we believed that God was determined to keep "the covenant of the Father unto the remission of your sins?" (Moroni 10:33).  Why would we share the gospel with our neighbors unless we believed that God was able to keep His promises to send His Spirit to testify of its truthfulness?  All of our good works thus find their most natural basis in an understanding of God's character, power and fidelity--an assurance that what God has promised, He is also able to perform--in our lives, and in the lives of those we love.  Thus the salvific "righteousness by faith" is not a mere belief, but is a faithfulness conditioned on a belief, or a certainty, that God is able to keep His promises, that God will keep promises--and therefore, that when we keep our promises to God, we can with surety look forward in faith to a better world.

Or, as Ether put it, "Wherefore, whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world, yea, even a place at the right hand of God, which hope cometh of faith, maketh an anchor to the souls of men, which would make them sure and steadfast, always abounding in good works, being led to glorify God" (Ether 12:4).

Behold, How He Loved Him!

For some reason, I wandered over to my friend’s apartment that night.  Her bedroom had a strange feeling about it--she was reading a book in bed, and greeted me when I came in, but I knew that something was off.  Slowly, and with some encouragement, she admitted what was wrong, and spoke of the pain that had filled her soul for so long in secret, and I was overcome.  Quietly, deliberately, she admitted what she had long suspected--that I, too, had gone through what she was experiencing right then.  I confirmed her suspicion, and then I cried with her, in remembrance and in love, with an empathy that only a person who had walked that path could fully feel.  That night, we bonded over painful experiences we shared, and our burdens were lightened as we bore them together.  She may have been mourning, but at least we could mourn together.

During a difficult time in my life, I once went to the temple, seeking some peace. Looking for clarity, I asked to speak to the temple matron, who proceeded to put me in my place so forcefully that I can only describe her words as spiritual abuse. To be so violated in a place where I so wanted to commune with God's holiness was scarring to me, and I fled from the temple, weeping and utterly alone.

For some reason, I decided to go up and sit by the Christus, hoping that the familiar words of my Savior would offer some sort of salve. By this point, I had dried my tears, but I'm sure my bloodshot eyes gave away my grief. A sister missionary saw me up there, sitting alone.  I don’t know what went through her mind as she sat beside me, but I knew that her words were exactly what I needed to hear.  She didn’t pry, or exhort, or even comfort, in the traditional sense.  She didn’t say, “there, there,” or even ask what was wrong, and I never told her.  Instead, she told me about her life, in some of its most painful and personal details, and then spoke words of such tenderness that to this day I get weepy when I remember them.

She spoke from experience about the love of God manifest in sorrow.  She told me that I was important to God, that I was the one He was thinking of right now, that I was the one He was weeping for. That as my heart broke, His was also breaking. That whatever the reason for my hurt, whatever my heartache, He had experienced it all so He could succor me. He had atoned for me—not just for my sin, but also for my pain. She said that He longed to hold me.  Once again, I was overcome.

Her words that day, and her gentle tears, combined with her testimony of the Savior’s tears, spoke peace to my heart.  Though she didn’t know me or anything about me, she mourned with me as I mourned, and I was lifted.  She demonstrated wisdom and empathy beyond her years, and I rejoiced that the God I worship had sent one of His angels to make manifest His love in my grief.


Jesus arrived in Bethany too late.  Having taken his time in getting there, He had missed the death of Lazarus, had missed even the opportunity to comfort his sisters in their grief.  Hearing that He was close, Mary ran to the outskirts of the town to meet Him.  “Then when Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw him, she fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died.”

“When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, he groaned in the spirit, and was troubled.”  Looking out on the burial place, John records in utmost simplicity, “Jesus wept.”

“Then said the Jews, Behold how he loved him!”  (John 11:32-36).  

Other bystanders were confused, wondering why the man who healed so many sick people could not bring Lazarus back from the dead.  And indeed, Christ would do just that in a moment, but for now, he wept.

I suppose there are many reasons why Jesus wept that day.  The most personally compelling is that He wept out of love.  Certainly He loved Lazarus, and missed his companionship, but even beyond that, He had perfect empathy for the grief-stricken Mary and Martha.  He wept because those He loved were sorrowing.  He didn’t say, “there, there, don’t worry about all this, I’m going to bring him back.”  For a moment, for a beautiful, transcendent moment, He just wept.  He mourned with Mary and Martha and their family and friends, legitimized their grief, shared their sorrows, and demonstrated His deepest love.

When we are baptized, we covenant to do many things differently, to change the way we interact with our fellow men and women, to witness of Christ by behaving as He would behave, becoming willing to take upon us His name.  King Benjamin tells us that to “come into the fold of God, and to be called his people,” we must be “willing to mourn with those that mourn” (Mosiah 18:8-9).  Comforting those who need comfort is on his list, too, but first, we are called to simply mourn.

What a strange idea--to be commanded, not to bring more joy into the world, but to share in its sorrow!  In this radical formulation of our duty, mourning takes on a sacred character.  It becomes a ritual obligation, not just an occasional happenstance of life.  It colors all our relationships, which must now be close enough that we are driven to mourn when another sorrows, not just to bring casseroles.  The Lord commands in no uncertain terms, “Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die” (Doc. & Cov. 42:45).  He commends those who noticed that He was in prison, “and ye came unto me,” not, “and ye organized a jailbreak to get me out”  (Matthew 25:36).

In the moment before the miracle, before Lazarus came forth or the daughter of Jairus rose, before Thomas could touch the Risen Lord, before things fall into place for us, before our hearts are filled with the peace of God, there is always that moment, often more than a moment, when we need the companionship of a covenant community, joining with the Savior, weeping with us.

When we see our calling in this way, “coming unto” those in grief, “weeping for [their] loss,” and mourning alongside them take on new meaning--they become required by covenant, not just occasioned by the vicissitudes of life.  Grief becomes, not just understandable, but holy. And, in this moment, shared grief is shared holiness.  Perhaps the miracles, when they come, are made even more miraculous because we shared in the grief that preceded them.  Or perhaps, as I suspect, shared grief makes us more like the Savior, who shared all mortality’s pain, knowing our burdens perfectly so He can carry them perfectly, mourn them perfectly, and give us perfect relief.

We worship a crucified Lamb, a suffering servant, a forsaken Redeemer.  Perhaps, then, when we mourn with those that mourn, we are the closest we can come to stretching forth our hands to touch the face of God.


Picture from http://radrevolution.blogspot.com

Boldly Before The Throne of Grace

On the Day of Atonement, the high priest stood alone in the temple.  The priests and the people waited outside the tabernacle as he killed the bull, the rams, and the goats, and offered them upon the altar, pouring out the blood.  He alone bore the sacrificial blood beyond the veil into the Holy of Holies, sprinkling it there upon the mercy seat to atone for the sins of the people, the smoke from the incense he held shielding him from God’s view.  

On that day, and that day alone, the high priest spoke the ineffable name of God, and confessing the sins of the whole people, performed the rituals necessary to cleanse them and the temple in which they worshipped.  His was a weighty responsibility, and in order to perform it, the high priest was required to be clean, inside and out.

Reflecting on this yearly ritual on Yom Kippur, which Jews all over the world will observe again this week, Paul observed that Jesus was the “great high priest, that is passed into the heavens,” and therefore urged his readers to “hold fast our profession.  For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities, but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin” (Hebrews 4:14-15).  What a startling idea--that Jesus, the high priest of our religion, was tempted like we are, lived in a mortal body like we do, experienced the joys and sorrows and trials and pains of this life that we live, and did so without sin.  

Sometimes I find it hard to relate to the idea of Jesus, to the idea of a God-made-flesh, to understand exactly how far the “condescension of God” extends in the Incarnation of Christ.  (1 Nephi 11:16).  Sometimes the question “What Would Jesus Do?” is a real puzzle for me, not something that fits on a keychain.  Sometimes I think, “I don’t know what Jesus would do.  Besides, Jesus was...well, Jesus was God.  I think He’s sort of in a different category from me.”  But Paul’s words ring out in answer--Jesus was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin.  As the great high priest, He knows perfectly our struggles because He was one of us, He was one with us, he chose to “take upon him [our] infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities” (Alma 7:12).  

Because of that great gift, because of the actions of our great high priest, Paul urges, “Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:16).  Even the ancient high priest, when he came before the mercy seat, did so timidly, in fear of the Lord, performing the ritual quickly and then leaving just as quickly.  But Paul enjoins us to come to God boldly, to pass through the veil into the presence of God, to go no more out.

“But Christ being come an high priest of good things to come...not...by the blood of goats and calves, but by his own blood he entered in once into the holy place, having obtained eternal redemption for us” (Hebrews 9:11-12). Paul ties each object in the temple to Christ--first, the high priest, now the sacrificial blood that the high priest sprinkles on the mercy seat to atone for the people.  Christ’s blood, he says, which Christ Himself “offered without spot to God” can “purge your conscience...to serve the living God” (Heb. 9:14).  

Being purged by that blood, Paul further urges us to have “boldness to enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus, by a new and living way, which he hath consecrated for us, through the veil, that is to say, his flesh” (Hebrews 10:19-20).

Christ the high priest.  Christ the blood of the sacrifice.  And now, Christ the veil of the temple.  The veil itself, the heavy curtain that separated the people from the presence of God the Father, the gate by which the high priest entered His presence, was a representation of the flesh of Christ.  Consider that powerful symbol for a moment.  Consider that it is only through the name of the Son of God that we approach God and can be wrapped in the arms of His love.  Recall that when we ask for knowledge from God, we ask through Jesus Christ, and the Father answers us in the name of His Son.  Through His flesh, His blood, His Atonement, we enter into the presence of God.  Through the marks on his body, the symbols of His great and last sacrifice, we are allowed to reach out and embrace the divine.  Through the power of those same holy wounds we are protected from the power of the destroyer, shielded from destruction in this day and at the last day.  Now, and at the hour of our death, it is Jesus who holds the keys of death and Hell, and Jesus who bids us “knock, and it shall be opened.”

“Wherefore we receiving a kingdom which cannot be moved, let us have grace, whereby we may serve God acceptably with reverence and godly fear:

“For our God is a consuming fire”  (Heb. 12:28-29).

Temple Recommend

I had to leave an event early this evening because of a prior commitment.  As I was leaving, a friend asked where I was going.  

"I have a temple recommend interview at the stake center," I said.

"Oh," he said.  "Well, I hope you get recommended!"

"Oh, I hope so,too!"  

We both meant it as a joke, but for some reason his words have stuck with me.  I really did hope so, because it really is an honor to be recommended to worship in the house of the Lord.  It's a privilege and a joy to go to the temple.  A busy schedule these past two months has prevented me from making the drive, and I have felt the loss.  Lately I have found myself yearning for the familiar peace I feel only when clothed in white, standing in a place filled with the holiness of the Lord's presence.  The temple has become a place I dearly, dearly love.

"“Every temple that this church has built has in effect stood as a monument to our belief in the immortality of the human soul, that this phase of mortal life through which we pass is part of a continuous upward climb, so to speak. And that as certain as there is life here, there will be life there."

--President Gordon B. Hinckley

Let This Cup Pass From Me

The Passover meal being ended, Jesus and His disciples walked across the city of Jerusalem, and descended from the Temple Mount deep into the Kidron Valley below.  Peppered with tombs of figures both famous and obscure, the dry riverbed received the blood of the sacrificial animals killed in the temple above it.  Though it was a festival night, and the moon shone full, the depth of the valley and its placement between two steep mountains ensured that it was always in shadow.  Jesus and His disciples were walking "through the valley of the shadow of death" (Psalm 23:4).

From there, they made their way to a place called Gethsemane (whose name comes from two Hebrew words, meaning "oil press"), at the foot of the Mount of Olives (Mark 14:32, Luke 22:39).  It was a place with which they were very familiar, for "Judas...knew the place, [because] Jesus oftentimes resorted thither with his disciples" (John 18:2).  Leaving most of the company at the garden's edge, Jesus took His dear friends and companions, Peter, James, and John with Him, and went further into the garden.  He pled with them to stay awake and pray, needing their companionship and love in this time of greatest sorrow, needing their witness at this time of greatest love. "And he went a little further, and fell on his face, and prayed, saying, O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt" (Matthew 26:39).

Latter-day Saint theology attributes rich meaning to the Agony of Gethsemane: we believe that Christ's Atonement began there, that in His prayer, Jesus struggled not only with fear of His impending death, but also with the weight of the sins of all mankind.  We understand that His suffering in Gethsemane was salvific, that the weight of the world, the heavy burden of the aggregate agony of the incompleteness of fallen man caused Him to sweat blood, and that in that blood, we are redeemed (Luke 22:44).

We also understand that in some way, incomprehensible to us, Christ experienced the weight, not only of our sins, but also of our sorrows, our ills, our infirmities.  This He did out of magnificent love, that He might be perfectly prepared to comfort and heal us in all things.  Alma prophesied that Christ would "take upon him [our] infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.  Now the Spirit knoweth all things; nevertheless the Son of God suffereth according to the flesh that he might take upon him the sins of his people, that he might blot out their transgressions according to the power of his deliverance" (Alma 7:12-13).  Here was the condescension of God perfected in lowliness and love, that Christ would suffer so that He might know by experience--according to the flesh--the depth of suffering of His creations, not only for their ultimate salvation, but also, most poignantly, so that He could succor His children according to their infirmities.  He experienced the depth of human sorrow, made suffering holy by taking it upon Himself, and learned according to the flesh every terrible truth of the human condition, descending below all things that He might be in and through all things, the light of truth (see Doc. & Cov. 88:6).

Christ's prayer in Gethsemane, next to the Our Father, is perhaps the most iconic prayer ever uttered. "Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done" (Luke 22:42).  I find this portion of the narrative singularly moving, for in it, I get a glimpse of the humanity of Christ. Up until this point, Christ had never experienced a distinction between His will and the will of His Father.  As a young boy He chided His mother, "wist ye not that I must be about my Father’s business?" (Luke 2:49). When questioned by the Jews, He insisted, "My doctrine is not mine, but his that sent me" (John 7:16), and "I do nothing of myself; but as my Father hath taught me...I do always those things that please him" (John 8:28-29).

His agonized prayer that the cup might be removed from Him, then, represents the first time that Jesus experienced a distinction between His will and His Father's will.  He wanted something different from what He knew God wanted, and yet we believe that He was without sin.  This suggests to me an enormously reassuring doctrine--that it is not a sin to want something different from what God wants.  Furthermore, I am comforted to know that Christ experienced this difference of will, and the pain and separation from God that inevitably comes with it.  He thereby opened the gate so that mortals like me, who will readily admit a deficit of understanding of the divine plan and a difference of will, might still boldly stand in the presence of God and find peace in His grace. He was obedient in all things to the Father, but in this deeply human moment, where Christ was driven by the very human desire to avoid the wrenching pain that descended upon Him, I learn that "we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities, but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin" (Hebrews 4:15).  I cease thinking of my Savior as ontologically different from me, as wholly other, and I understand that Christ fully embraced my humanity in order to give me His divinity.

Great is the Lamb.

My Lord and My God

I am a bit of a scripture nerd.  So all this week, I have been excited for today, because today, a week after Easter, commemorates the day when the apostle Thomas gained his own witness of Christ's resurrection.

It must have been an excruciating week for Thomas. Something (we don't know what) had kept him away from the upper room where the other disciples had assembled on Resurrection Sunday. When he returned, "The other disciples...said unto him, We have seen the Lord" (John 20:25).  But Thomas could not wrap his mind around the idea, and he refused to believe.  And why should he?  Nothing like this had ever happened before.

I've wondered about what life must have been like for Thomas that week--unable to understand, unwilling to believe what he could not see.  Despite the disciples' insistence, "he said unto them, Except I shall see in his hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and thrust my hand into his side, I will not believe.  And after eight days again his disciples were within, and Thomas with them" (v. 25-26).  Jesus appeared to the assembled disciples, and gave Thomas a second chance, an opportunity to witness the miracle for himself.  "Then saith he to Thomas, Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands; and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side: and be not faithless, but believing" (v. 27).  Thomas, moved and humbled, cried out, "My Lord and my God" (v. 28).

"Jesus saith unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed" (v. 29).  I am one of those who have not seen.  And yet I believe.  In the spirit of Christ's admonition, on this Sunday I would like to share some of the things that I believe.

I believe in God.  I believe that I have Heavenly Parents who love me, who created all things in heaven and in earth, who have all wisdom and all power, both in heaven and in earth.  I believe that man cannot comprehend all the things that God can comprehend (see Mosiah 4:9).  I believe in my Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.  I believe that He was born of a virgin, laid in a manger, and raised by a carpenter.  I believe that He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried.  I believe that on the third day he rose again according to scripture.  I believe that He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father, and that one day He will come again to judge the living and the dead (see the Apostle's Creed).

I believe the He is my Savior, that His Atonement covers my sins and heals me and makes me whole.  I believe that His grace is sufficient for me and for each one of you, and that as we come unto Christ, we can be perfected in Him.  Because His grace is sufficient--it is enough (see Moroni 10:32).  I believe that Christ is a God of second chances--that He will never abandon us, that those who seek Him diligently will find Him, and in Him will find rest, and have life more abundantly.

Unlike Thomas, I have not seen.  And yet I believe.

Click here for more on the story of Thomas.