Behind locked doors where fear and silence keep,
A truth too strange for trembling hearts to see,
Like steeples falling skyward in their sweep,
So Christ stood risen, wounds that set us free.

St. Matthew’s Lutheran Church stands in Charleston, South Carolina. If you’ve ever been there, Charleston, you know how the skyline is marked by church steeples rising in the distance. Among them all, St. Matthew’s stands out. Its steeple once reached nearly 300 feet into the sky a needle pointing heavenward.
It was built in 1840, in a time of prosperity but also a time shadowed by the sins of our nation: slavery, division, and the looming storm of the Civil War. Not far away, the first shots were fired at Fort Sumter. The war began there. Charleston was at the center of it all. You might think that would be the darkest chapter in that church’s history. But it wasn’t.

In 1965, at 6:50 in the morning, a fire broke out, likely from something as simple as a light left burning too close to flammable material. By the time anyone realized what was happening, it was too late. The flames consumed the building. The wind rose, and the fire spread with devastating speed. And then something unimaginable happened. The heat grew so intense that it weakened the great steeple. It broke loose, lifted into the air and then came crashing down like a dart, plunging deep into the street below. Can you imagine it? A steeple, meant to point to heaven, now driven into the earth.

The church was gone. Only the outer walls remained. The people of that congregation, leaders, clergy, faithful, were left to gather, quite literally, behind locked doors. In silence. In fear. Trying to make sense of what had just happened. How do you rebuild when everything you’ve built has been overturned? They left that fallen steeple embedded in the street for nearly a year. Why? Because people didn’t believe it. It was too strange, too impossible. So they left it there… so people could come and touch it. To see it. To believe it. It sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

“I will not believe,” Thomas says, “unless I can touch.” We often speak of Thomas as the doubter, but that’s not quite fair. Thomas was grieving. He had seen everything collapse. He had watched his Lord die. The cross had plunged into his world, and nothing made sense anymore. And then he hears: Jesus is alive. Too much. Too soon. Too impossible. Unless… he can touch.

That is why this story is given to us, not as a rebuke, but as a gift. Because we know what it is like to have our world turned upside down. We know what it is like when something we trusted, something we built, something we loved, falls. We know what it is to sit behind locked doors. In silence. In fear. Even as people of faith. And yet, what does Jesus do? He comes into that room. Not to shame. Not to scold. But to show His wounds. “Touch,” He says. “See.” The very wounds of death become the proof of life.

I think about that church in Charleston. After the fire, very little remained. But one thing did survive, a stained-glass window of the risen Christ. Barefoot. Wounded. Victorious. The grave clothes at His feet. Even in destruction, the image of resurrection endured. We know something about this, don’t we? We’ve had our own storms. Our own damage. Our own moments of gathering as leaders, praying, asking, What now? There are always voices in those moments: “Start over somewhere else.” “Take what’s left and move on.” “Play it safe.”

But there is another voice. A quieter one. A deeper one. The voice that says: Stay. Rebuild. Bear witness. Because the Church is not just a place of comfort. It is a place that teaches the world how to endure. Faith does not prevent the steeple from falling. Faith teaches us what to do when it does. There is a line I once read in a history of the Church in Florida, that unlike the great churches of the Northeast, we did not build tall steeples here. Why? Perhaps we feared the wind. Perhaps we feared the storm.

But I wonder… If sometimes, God allows the steeple to fall so that others might see, and come close, and touch, and believe. Because here is the truth: Christ still invites us to touch His wounds. Not physically, but sacramentally, spiritually, truly. When we hear His Word… When we come forward… When we hold out our hands in faith… He meets us. And in touching His wounds, we find that He has already touched ours. Yes, there will still be times when we lock the doors. When fear creeps in. When silence settles. But Christ does not remain outside. He comes. Again and again. And He speaks peace. So what do we do? We forgive. We release what we hold too tightly. We refuse to live only in what has fallen. Because Christ is always calling us higher. Not away from the wounds, but through them.

Behind locked doors, where silence and fear are kept,
A truth too strange for trembling hearts to see;
Like steeples falling skyward in their sweep,
So Christ stood risen, with wounds that set us free.