Easter 3A
April 23, 2023
Luke 24:13-35
INTRODUCTION
Today’s readings are a nice follow-up to last week’s readings. First, our lesson from Acts is, in fact, the conclusion of Peter’s sermon of which we heard the beginning last week. Peter, it turns out, the guy who is too quick to speak and frequently puts his foot in his mouth (I really relate to Peter in this way!), is quite a persuasive orator. As a result of his powerful Pentecost sermon, 3000 people are baptized. Woosh!
And our Gospel reading brings us back once again to Easter evening, several hours after the women have come to say Christ is risen (a story which the disciples dismissed as an “idle tale”). Remember last week, we heard John’s version of what happened that evening, that Jesus appeared to the fearful disciples in the locked upper room and breathed his Holy Spirit on them and gave them his peace. Luke tells a different story, about Jesus appearing to two disciples (not a part from the usual 12) as they walk the road to the nearby town of Emmaus. It’s a very different sort of appearance from what John tells, but it has some very wonderful details and things to hold onto. One of my favorites is that the disciples observe that their hearts “burned within them” as Jesus opened the scriptures to them. So, as you listen, notice where Christ is warming your heart this day. What stirs you? What is speaking to you in a way you need to hear? Let’s listen.
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| Road to Emmaus by He Qi |
[READ]
Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia! Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our risen Lord and savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
The Road to Emmaus is simultaneously one of the saddest and one of the funniest stories in the Bible. First, the sadness: obviously, that is the state of the disciples who are getting the heck out of dodge (aka Jerusalem) and heading to a place that isn’t here (aka Emmaus). We get that – we’ve all been in situations where we just can’t with this anymore, and we just have to escape to… somewhere else, somewhere that isn’t here. As they go, they are talking to each other, trying to make sense of the craziness that has just ensued: the worst possible news (that Jesus, who was supposed to redeem Israel, was crucified), followed by the best but completely unbelievable news (that he was risen from the dead). That was the story the women were telling, but it didn’t seem possible. In their confusion and grief, Jesus comes among them, but they don’t recognize him – perhaps they are blinded by their own grief. Luke tells us that they were “looking sad,” in case it wasn’t obvious enough before. And then, as they share what has been going on, they utter these sad words: “but we had hoped.” Preacher and author Barbara Brown Taylor comments that, “Hope in the past tense is one of the saddest sounds a human can make,” and I agree; indeed, most of my own saddest moments are a result of my hopes not coming about, of expectations unmet. And this particular hope was, for the people of Israel, a really big hope, with really high stakes, that did not seem to have come about.
Yes, it is certainly a sad scene.
And yet, look at all the humor in it:
along that ironically, they are the only ones there who don’t know what’s going on here! Then as they sit down and eat together, and Jesus’ true identity is revealed in the breaking of bread – no sooner have they figured it out than POOF, he disappears, apparently into thin air. I mean, if you picture it, it’s pretty funny, right?!
A lot of both the humor and the sadness revolve around this strange fact at the beginning, that the disciples’ “eyes were kept from recognizing him.” I have so many questions about this. Like, what was keeping their eyes from recognizing him? Was it their grief? We know what that’s like, to be so sad, so absorbed in our own pain, that we can’t bring ourselves to see anything beyond it with any clarity. Was it that they simply weren’t expecting to see Jesus, and so why would it occur to them that this was him? Like when you randomly come across someone you know while traveling, and at first you just can’t believe this person would be standing before you, so you assume it must be someone else. Or was the force keeping them from seeing Jesus for who he was God himself? If so, for what purpose? Was God in on some divine practical joke on these unassuming disciples?
And then there is this detail, which I only just noticed this week. Luke tells us not that they were kept from recognizing him, but that their eyes were kept from recognizing him. Like, they did not consciously realize it was him in the moment. And so, a comically ironic conversation ensues. But I wonder if Luke is also indicating that while their eyes didn’t recognize him, some part of them did know it was Jesus, because then later in the story, as they reflect back, they realize, “OH! Were not our hearts burning within us as he opened to us the scriptures? We should have known!” You see, their eyes had been kept from recognizing him, but the eyes of their hearts, as the letter to the Ephesians calls them, had indeed recognized him for exactly who he was. Or maybe you’re more familiar with the old camp song using that image: “Open the eyes of my heart, Lord. Open the eyes of my heart: I want to see you. I want to see you.”
And I do – I do want to see Jesus. Like the disciples on the road to the Emmaus, we do want to see Jesus. And in reality, he is always there, coming alongside us as we journey through life’s sad and happy, even funny moments. But we are often too preoccupied with whatever we are doing, or absorbed in our grief, or focused elsewhere – and so our eyes are kept from seeing him.
But here is one thing I love about this story – that later, and then in hindsight, the “eyes of their hearts” come through for them, and they realize it was Jesus with them all along. The tip off was the breaking of bread, that quintessentially Jesus act of feeding and being in fellowship. And then in retrospect, they realize what the eyes of their hearts knew all along: “Were not our hearts burning within us as he opened to us the scriptures?”
I love this because this is so often how it is for me. I miss Jesus in the moment more often than not, I’d say. But when I look back over the events later, viewing them through the eyes of my heart, I am able to see that Jesus had come alongside me over and over again. He showed up in the sadness and grief, and in the irony, and in the joy and the belly laughs. He showed up in the journey, and the fellowship, and the shared meal. He certainly showed up in the study of scripture and in the holy sacrament (though I’m at least better at recognizing him there the first time around!). He is there, every single time.
How about you? Are your eyes kept from recognizing Jesus with you in all these moments? Do the eyes of your heart ever find him there later, perhaps when you recall that your heart was burning within you?
I had a spiritual director who was always asking me, after I’d ramble on about this or that thing that had recently happened to me, “And where did you see God in that?” And I’d have to stop, rub the eyes of my heart, and take a closer look… and sure enough, there he was. Why is this so hard to do the first time around?
I wonder if it is hard because we simply aren’t practiced at it? We have gotten so good at relying upon ourselves and our own good sense, that we forget to watch for Jesus walking right there beside us. We seldom take the time to look back over our lives with a heart eye toward God. What would happen, I wonder, if we took the time to practice this more? Strengthen those heart eye muscles. Maybe we commit to, every day, even just for a week, sitting with a friend, a spouse, or even a journal at the end of each day, and reflect back: where did I experience God’s presence with me today? Try to find him in something good (a shared laugh, a helpful stranger, a meal), and in something less good (a deep breath during an anxious moment, patience you didn’t know you had during an argument, a lesson learned from a mistake).
Once we strengthen those muscles, I suspect it will get easier for us to see Christ coming up beside us on our journeys, not only in the usual places we encounter on Sunday morning – the study of scripture, and the holy meal – but also anytime we share our stories of sadness or joy with one another, or gather to break bread, or extend an invitation to a stranger, or accept one.
And as we notice Christ’s presence with us, may we also, like Cleopas and his friend, be inspired to run and share the news of new life with those whom we meet.
Let us pray… Open the eyes of our hearts, Lord. Open the eyes of our hearts. We want to see you – along the way, in joy and sadness, every day. When we feel the familiar warmth of your presence, help us to call it what it is, and empower us by it, so that we would share your love with all the world. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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