Of Doubts and Dogs: Finding God in the Unexpected

   

Second Sunday of Easter

(Divine Mercy Sunday)

27 April 2025

 

First Reading: Acts 5:12-16

Responsorial Psalm: Psalm 118:2-4, 13-15, 22-24

Second Reading: Revelation 1:9-11a, 12-13, 17-19

Gospel: John 20:19-31

 

Reflection

By: Therese B. Manio

 

It's easier to believe when something reaches your senses, when you've seen it, touched it, smelled it, or felt it deep in your bones. But what happens when the proof you crave never comes? What if you're standing in the middle of heartbreak, and nothing makes sense anymore? What if the silence is louder than hope, and all you're left with is the ache of absence? That's where we find Thomas, not as a skeptic, but as someone whose world just collapsed over the death of a loved one. And honestly, I get him. I think a lot of us do.

I've always found myself relating to Thomas. Not because he doubted out of arrogance, but because he needed something tangible, something real to hold onto when everything around him was falling apart. I imagine the silence after Jesus' death was deafening for Thomas. He had given his life to follow someone he believed in, and then suddenly, it seemed like all of that had come to nothing. It's not hard to understand why he needed to see the wounds.

In many ways, I've had my own "Thomas moments", times when I asked for signs, needed proof, and struggled with trust. One of those moments was when I received Magis in 2019, a shih tzu dog, into my life. He was my first pet, and I wasn't sure if I was ready. I just transferred to Laguna, living by myself, far from my family and friends whom I could easily call in case I need assistance or if she gets sick. My parents doubted my ability to take care of a pet which in a way added more doubts in myself. Could I be responsible for another life? Could I understand her needs? Could I be enough? I was filled with doubt. But as the days went on, Magis quietly taught me about trust, presence, and companionship. She actually took care of my mental health during the pandemic. She never made me feel alone, literally and figuratively. There were moments I cried in bed, she would climb, sit in my lap, or sleep beside me, which she would not do on usual days. Her quiet loyalty mirrored the presence of Christ in ways I didn't expect- faithful, unassuming, always there.

This week, as I grieve the loss of Magis and join the world in mourning the passing of Pope Francis, I'm reminded that faith is not always grand or certain, it is often lived in small, courageous steps. Pope Francis was a shepherd who walked with the wounded, spoke for the voiceless, and loved those on the margins. His legacy challenges us to keep believing even when the world gives us reason to doubt. Like Thomas, we are called to move from doubt to belief, from fear to faith, from self-preservation to radical love.

Pope Francis showed us what Magis truly means not just "more", but the greater good, the deeper yes, the love that risks. His passing is a profound loss, but his legacy lives on in every act of mercy, every choice to love beyond reason, every moment risks in reaching out those in the peripheries, the last, the least, and the lost.

Today, as I remember Thomas' story, grieve the loss of Pope Francis, and look down at Magis curled at my feet, I am learning that faith isn't always bold and loud. Sometimes, it looks like showing up, like choosing to love even when you're scared, like seeing Christ in the ordinary and letting that be enough.

Prayer

Jesus, in my moments of doubt, draw near to me as You did to Thomas. Help me to recognize Your presence, not just in the extraordinary, but in the quiet, ordinary places of my life. Teach me to believe that life can come from death, hope can rise from despair, and love is never wasted. Strengthen my faith to follow You with courage, one step at a time. Amen.

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