THOMAS & I

The Frederiksborg Castle was no boring art museum to a young Mormon girl. The paintings covering the chapel walls strangely resembled prints I recognized from our sacrament meeting picture binder. “Children, look! I’ve never seen this one—I wonder why the Church hasn’t used this work—look at the detail in that face. Can you see how beautifully the light touches the folds of His robe? Look at the colored feathers in the angels’ wings!”

My mother’s passionate teaching and excitement for art and life still echo in my mind fourteen years later. I am transported by Carl Bloch’s paintings. Both to Denmark and now straight to my Savior’s side.

It is my sixth time seeing the Museum of Art’s exhibit and I still can’t keep my eyes off of the very first work in the exhibit, The Doubting Thomas. The detail in the Savior’s face captures my attention. Ten minutes have passed and I am still standing here.

I cannot leave because I am in the presence of the resurrected Lord. He stands before me in the midst of His apostles. His confident and humble presence radiates throughout the room. I feel his love.

The cello soars with my thoughts. The orchestra inside the speakers echoes in the open space, and I recall that I am standing in the Museum of Art. But it feels like heaven: the Lord is there and there are rays of light streaming from above. My eyes find the corner of the gray wall and I follow it upwards just to check—the rays are coming through a slanted glass roof. The heavens must have opened above the glass.

My surroundings entrance me as much as they did as a little girl in Denmark. I am encompassed with beauty. Once again, I have the opportunity to be facing the Lord.

His gaze looks down towards me, his eyes full of compassion. He reprimands, loves and forgives me as I stand there. I look up towards him again and am surprised that his gaze is not directed to me, but to Thomas. Robed in the red of guilt, pain and passion, he stoops downstage with his face almost in his hands, disbelieving his disbelief.

Pity fills my heart at his crestfallen state. His humble, repentant heart now recognizes the wrong in his stubbornness. I want to weep with him. After all, I stood in his place a moment ago.

Puccini’s “Oh Mio Babbino Caro” now wafts in from the heavens. The soaring melody encompasses my thoughts—I hum along, stifling the urge to sing operatic Italian. I never remained silent as a girl. Denmark’s chapels were only invitations for songs and my mother would sing aloud with me. This weeping song seems a propos for Thomas.

I can’t help but think—would I believe? Had I really been Thomas and heard of my beloved Lord being resurrected, perfected and glorified, would I have believed? He would have been my companion, the very same Jesus Christ….

I look up to Him again and Christ’s wounds are suddenly glaring at me. The scar on his chest is blood red like Thomas’s robe. It sings of the atonement and crucifixion so recently accomplished.

We are all promised a perfected, resurrected body. But He chose to keep his scars.
They remind me—and Thomas too. How dare I not believe? I can undergo a change of heart. My stubbornness can also melt into humility. I can fall at his feet and adore. He is there.
As a girl, my mother would have stayed with me there for hours and ponder over the beauty in this art. But my stay must close; I leave for a while. I’ll come back to be transported again. And Thomas and I can have another long talk.