Easter 3A
May 4, 2014
Luke 24:13-35 (Road to Emmaus)
I had the
wonderful opportunity this week to serve as the chaplain for the Upstate New
York Synod Candidacy Retreat. Candidacy is the process that prepares people for
ordained or commissioned ministry in the ELCA. At these retreats, candidates
come to meet with members of the candidacy committee, and after a few grueling
sessions in which committee members ask the candidates often very difficult
questions about their mental and emotional health, their faith journey, and the
general state of their hearts as they prepare for a career serving the church,
the committee decides whether or not to pass each candidate on to the next step
of the process.
As you can
imagine, it is an often anxious and emotionally exhausting couple of days for
everyone involved. So my job, as the chaplain, is to plan worship, and
generally to be there for and with the candidates, to let them process how they
are feeling about everything with someone who has no role in making decisions
about their life.
I must say,
these two days were fascinating, inspiring and affirming. As I sat around with
various combinations of these candidates, all at different points in their process,
I heard some incredible stories. I heard about some of their favorite moments
and experiences with God, and some of the most challenging. I heard excitement,
and trepidation. I heard about some of the greatest joys in life. And I also
heard about some of the most heart-breaking brokenness.
And it was
the brokenness, the various struggles and hurdles that these candidates have
faced, that was so stunning to me. The sense of the journey they were on was so apparent to me in our conversations –
the hills, the valleys, the gorgeous peeks and views, and the devastating darkness.
And yet despite their trials, these determined people of God have continued on,
seeking ever to serve the Lord as a called and ordained minister of the church
of Christ.
All this was on my heart as I
prepared this sermon on the Road to Emmaus story. It too, is a story of a
journey, and one that takes place in the midst of a most dramatic time. It’s
important to understand where this story appears in the biblical narrative. In
the lectionary, we hear this story two weeks after Easter, after we’ve heard
about Jesus’ appearances to Thomas and the others. In the Bible, this actually
happens Easter afternoon, before anyone has seen the risen Lord. So they are
still deeply grieved, confused, shocked, you name it. All they have is the
women’s word about what happened, and Luke tells us they all believed this to
be an “idle tale.” So as far as they are concerned, their friend and teacher,
the one whom they had hoped would redeem Israel, is dead.
It is no
wonder, then, that Cleopas and his friend are getting the heck out of dodge,
heading a few miles down the road to Emmaus. We don’t know much about Emmaus.
There is no trace of it, we don’t know its significance, and it is not
mentioned anywhere else in the Bible. The thing we know about Emmaus is that,
though it may be nowhere special, it is at least several miles away from what
was for them an unbearable situation.
In that sense, I suppose, we know
exactly where Emmaus is, because we have all been there. We all have our Emmaus,
do we not? It is the place we go to get away from here. It is buying a new
outfit, or indulging in a glass of wine, or a candy bar. It is smoking too many
cigarettes, or driving too fast. It is losing yourself in a good book or your
favorite TV show. It is hanging out with friends, or working on your favorite
hobby, or even going to church on Sunday. Emmaus is not an inherently bad place,
you see – it is just a place that is different from here. In short, Emmaus is
where we go when we feel broken: when things haven’t gone the way we had hoped,
and we don’t know where else to go besides “away.” It is where we go to escape
whatever unwanted realities we may be facing.
But here is the beauty and the good
news of the Emmaus story: whatever realities we may try to escape, Jesus comes
along and walks with us. Cleopas and his friend are walking along, talking
about what happened (you see, even as they try to get away, they can’t get leave
behind their thoughts), and a “stranger” joins them. He walks with them. He
talks with them. And then he shares with them the good news, causing their
hearts to burn within them.
You see,
even though they don’t recognize Jesus, Jesus recognizes them, and knows what
they need. As Frederick Buechner writes in his famous sermon on this story, “I
believe that although the two disciples did not recognize Jesus on the road to
Emmaus, Jesus recognized them, that he saw them as if they were the only two
people in the world. And I believe that the reason why the resurrection is more
than just an extraordinary event that took place some two thousand years ago
and then was over and done with is that, even as I speak these words and you
listen to them, he also sees each of us like that… And I believe that because
he sees us, not even in the darkness of death are we lost to him or lost to
each other. I believe that whether we recognize him or not, or believe in him
or not, or even know his name, again and again he comes and walks a little way
with us along whatever road we’re following. And I believe that through
something that happens to us, or something we see, or somebody we know – who
can ever guess how or when or where? – he offers us, the way he did at Emmaus,
the bread of life, offers us new hope, a new vision of light that not even the
dark world can overcome.”
And this, of
course, is the stunning, surprise ending to this story – and the beginning of
the disciples’ new story of hope: when they sit down together and Jesus blesses
and breaks bread before them, suddenly they know he is with them, that he has
walked with them even on this journey, even in this brokenness. And this is
what we still experience today, when we come around this table, bless bread and
wine, give thanks for all that God has done, and come forward with our hands
outstretched.
There are times when I am
distributing communion, when I see one of your faces looking into mine and I
think about the brokenness you are facing at this moment in time. What a
privilege it is for me to then place that bread in your hand, and say to you in
all truth, “This is the body of Christ, which is broken for you, even today,
even right now, even in your own brokenness. The body of Christ, given for
you.” This truth sometimes hits me so profoundly that I find the words
difficult to get out without crying.
This is what
happens when we encounter such love, such grace, such hope. This is what can
happen when we share bread together on our journeys: our eyes, which had been
kept from seeing anything except our own grief and brokenness, are suddenly
opened to see the light of Christ, shining on our path. In response to this
recognition, the disciples, unable to contain their excitement, run to tell
others the good news. May we, too, be so bold.
Let us pray…
Merciful God, we come to you as broken
people, wanting to run away… but even when we do try to get away, you still
come to us, offering us your truth and your own broken body. Make us ready to
receive it with grateful hearts. In the name of the Father and the Son and the
Holy Spirit. Amen.
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