Scripture: Luke 24:13-35
(13) Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about
seven miles from Jerusalem, (14) and talking with each other about all these things that
had happened. (15) While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and
went with them, (16) but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. (17) And he said to
them, "What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?" They stood
still, looking sad.
(18) Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, "Are you the only
stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these
days?" (19) He asked them, "What things?" They replied, "The things
about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the
people, (20) and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to
death and crucified him. (21) But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes,
and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. (22)
Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning,
(23) and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had
indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. (24) Some of those who were
with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see
him."
(25) Then he said to them, "Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to
believe all that the prophets have declared! (26) Was it not necessary that the Messiah
should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?" (27) Then beginning with
Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the
scriptures.
(28) As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if
he were going on. (29) But they urged him strongly, saying, "Stay with us, because it
is almost evening and the day is now nearly over." So he went in to stay with them.
(30) When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and
gave it to them. (31) Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he
vanished from their sight. (32) They said to each other, "Were not our hearts burning
within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to
us?"
(33) That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the
eleven and their companions gathered together. (34) They were saying, "The Lord has
risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!" (35) Then they told what had happened on
the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.
-Luke 24: 13-35
Like the fog that envelopes Pasadena these spring mornings and then disappears in the
warm sun, Christ's appearance in Luke's Gospel is equally fleeting and elusive. Jesus
walks with the disciples and disappears. He breaks bread with them and the minute they
recognize him, he disappears into the mist.
In our own stories, we know what it is like, at least for a moment, to behold our true
love standing before our eyes and whispering, "I love you" only to hear a few
months later, "Hey Mark. Did you take out the garbage? Have you called the baby
sitter?"
We may prepare for years for a career that fulfills all our wishes only to discover
that at least 20 percent of it is drudgery. We may reach retirement and finally have time
to enjoy our mate, and then illness or injury impedes our plans or death takes him or her
away. No sooner do we realize that our true love or our most fervent hope is within our
grasp, then it disappears into thin air.
Why is it that we can't hold on forever to things we hold most dear? When things are
good they should stay put. Remember when the children used to jump into bed with you and
squeal with delight instead of finding you a public embarrassment? "Don't change!
Stay with us! Stay put!"
Or remember the high points of your own spiritual journey. Remember the mountaintop
retreats where you first felt so close to God. Remember the sacred moments when you felt
palpably in the presence of the Holy: the birth of your baby, the conversation with a wise
mentor, the miracle of knowing Christ's love. Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen
indeed! With brass and full choir, lilies and bells and the sanctuary packed so that in
your heart joy and singing reach up to the roof and the heavens beyond.
We know what it is like to reach the pinnacle of the mountaintop. Except it is not
always like that. Why can't it always be like that? Why do we have to come down off the
mountain to the valley of the shadow of the mundane? Why can't things stay put?
The disciples had the same question. They wanted Jesus to stay with them. They wanted
him nearby to provide answers to their questions, to provide healing to their hurts, to
calm fears amid an anxious and uncertain world. They had a Lord they could see and hear
and touch. For three years that's the way it was and they liked it that way.
And that's the way we like it, too. We like our children to remain small, our mate to
always be strong, the church to remain the same and our future to stay certain and secure.
We want our God to be clear, tangible, with skin and flesh and bone. Don't change. Stay
with us. Stay put.
But he died. He went away. And though he appeared to some of them, it wasn't the same
thing as it used to be.
"They have taken my Lord away and I do not know where they have laid him,"
wept Mary outside the tomb." When she sees the risen Christ in the garden, she does
not recognize him.
When Peter encounters the stranger along the shore, he does not recognize the risen
Christ. So, too, when two disciples are walking the road to Emmaus, the foreigner who
joins them is not recognized.
Such ambiguity is created with this resurrection. Such anxiety! Where can the disciples
now turn for guidance? Who will tell them what to do next? Who will keep their feet from
stumbling? Who will give them certainty in an uncertain world?
In the face of such anxiety, humanity has turned to all kinds of frightening
certainties. "We have objective truth," they say. Fundamentalists of every
stripe and hue in the face of anxiety have codified and literalized their own petty
bigotries and puny thoughts and sought to impose their hate on others. Even we who think
of ourselves as more open-minded desire certainty, even as we live amid shades of gray.
How can we live in the face of ambiguity without the head and heart of the Master
telling us what to do, what to believe, what to think? There he goes walking through
closed doors and out the other wall. Stay with us. Stay put. Stay the way we thought you
were.
But that's not the way Christ left us. He went away and the way he comes again is not
the way we expect. In the face of our anxiety, we say, "Stay!" But he says,
"Follow!" "Leave your nets behind and follow me." He heads on out into
the world filled with ambiguity, heartache and uncertainty, looks over his shoulder and
says, "Follow me." He plunges into the sea of humanity, a crowd so thick with
need, that we lose track of where he has gone.
We search every face in the off chance that we might see his face amid the crowd. We
search and search until we wonder if we are simply lost, wanting to go back, wanting to go
back to a time when we thought life was secure, certain and clear.
These are our choices. It seems that we can beg of life to stay put and try to box God
into what was or we can choose to follow him. We can choose to live in our memories, our
nostalgia and our grief. We can utter emphatic protests of certainty. We can try to stay
put.
Or we can go after him. We can plunge into the crowd right behind him. We can call out,
"I will follow you wherever you go, wherever you take me." We plunge into the
crowd and we catch a glimpse of him here and there in the face of a stranger on the road,
a man walking along the beach, a gardener tending his plants. If we persist and we begin
to see with his eyes and feel with his heart, we will see him in every face we see. If we
are steady, we will see him and begin to handle each person with exquisite care, just in
case it is he. Along the way we mend the hearts of the sad. We feed the souls of the
hungry. We welcome the stranger into our homes and our hearts, because, there is a good
chance, it is him. You can never be sure.
Of course, the problem with this approach is that you can never be sure. It's a lot
easier to post the Ten Commandments, to define clearly who is righteous and who is not.
It's a lot easier in an uncertain world of mounting anxiety to strike out with moral
clarity and stay put.
What if his eyes are brown and his skin is olive and he lives in a Palestinian refugee
camp? What if he is Muslim? What if he sits in a wheelchair at the street corner begging
for another coin? What if he is coping with mental illness? Is his complexion smooth or
winkled or scarred? What if he is in the sister long scorned or the brother with the
grudge? Chances are that in looking for him, we may see him. We may see him, a little bit
of him, in everyone.
The problem with this approach is that the whole human race may begin to bear
resemblance to the resurrected Christ. Then we will be given the choice whether to stay
put or to follow and join him in a new world of messy compassion and risky love. We may
follow him into a new world where healing is in our hands and hope is born on our feet,
for we bear the marks of his life and the courage of his death. Suddenly he appears, even
in us, his disciples, resurrected and raised. Amen.
