Master Class on the Emmaus Road

Luke 24:13-35

That same day two of his disciples were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem and they were talking about all the things that had taken place there. Suddenly, Jesus himself came near and went with them but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. He said to them, “What are you discussing as you walk along?” They stood still, looking sad. Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him saying, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know about the things that have taken place there in these days?” Jesus said to him, “What things?”

They said, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in word and deed before God and all the people. And about how our chief priests and leaders had him handed over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped he would be the one to redeem Israel. Moreover, some women from our group went to the tomb early this morning and when they did not find his body there, they came back and said that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some men from our group went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said, but they did not find him.”

Jesus said to them, “How foolish you are and slow of heart to believe all that the prophets had declared. Was it not necessary for the Messiah to suffer in this way and then enter into his glory?” Then, beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted for them the things about himself in all the scriptures.

When they came near the village to which they were going, Jesus walked ahead of them as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay here with us. For the day is almost over and night has come.” So Jesus went in and stayed with them. While he was at the table with them, he took bread, broke it and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him. And he vanished from their sight.

That very hour, they got up and returned to Jerusalem. They found the eleven and their friends and they were saying, “He is alive and he has appeared to Peter.” Then they told them about what had happened on the road and about how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

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I love this walk to Emmaus story. It might be one of my favorites and I’ve talked about it before as a microcosm or a snapshot of our faith’s journey in the world because it just holds so much emotion and theology and references to the Scriptural narrative. I mean, we don’t get to hear it all, but we’re told that Jesus interprets for his friends the things about himself in ALL of Scripture, it happens just after the resurrection, and right before “he is made known to them in the breaking of bread.” There’s just so much to chew on and to choose from and to wonder about in this story.

Again, all of this takes place just after Easter’s resurrection with these two sad, broken, pitiful souls leaving Jerusalem with their tails between their legs, spiritually decimated by what they witnessed on Good Friday and because they hadn’t yet heard the rest of the story.

And then he shows up, unannounced and unrecognizable to their weary eyes and broken spirits. Maybe Jesus was in disguise, afraid of what might happen if the wrong people recognized him. Maybe their eyes were swollen shut and filled with tears. Maybe they were all wearing masks, covering their mouths and noses, to keep from spreading a virus, who knows?

Whatever the case, they tell this supposed stranger what they know and how they feel about all that had just happened to their friend, Jesus, from Nazareth – how he was crucified, died and was buried, even though they thought he was going to be the one to redeem Israel; to fix everything and save the day. And then he tells them what he knows – and what they should have remembered – if they’d been paying attention: all the prophecies and predictions and promises about the coming of the Messiah, from throughout the Hebrew Scriptures. And then they invite him over for dinner and ask him to stick around for the night, rather than to keep walking to wherever he may have gone next.

And that’s when they recognize him – at the table… over dinner… in the breaking of the bread and, presumably, in the sharing of some wine. Jesus breaks bread with them and they finally see him for who he is – their Messiah, their salvation, their forgiveness, their redemption, their reason for living in this life and for the next.

But I want to back up for a minute – or maybe about seven miles, according to the story – and I want to wonder, in a different way, about this bit of Luke’s Gospel and this experience with Jesus, outside of Jerusalem, with those two, otherwise unknown disciples. I don’t want to wonder so much about the broad scope of this story and all it may have to say about the sweeping narrative of Scripture or about how it may apply to the grand experience of our faith’s journey. I don’t even want to talk about what I THOUGHT I was going to talk about today – how it speaks to the significance of Holy Communion for the practice of our faith. I’ve done that before a handful of times, and we’ll share communion later, because of it.

But I found myself wondering instead, this time around, about the simple act and example of patience, humility, and compassion Jesus showed to those disciples on the road that day. And how that’s a pretty practical, holy lesson for all of us, still.

See, these two friends Jesus meets on the Road to Emmaus weren’t part of the original twelve, closest followers of Jesus. All of them, those twelve, I mean – minus Judas Iscariot, of course – were holed-up in a room somewhere, back in Jerusalem. So these two – Cleopas who isn’t mentioned anywhere else in all of Scripture and his pal who isn’t even worthy of a name, apparently – couldn’t have been a part of that inner circle.

So maybe these two are followers on the fringe; late-comers to the Jesus movement. Maybe they didn’t get to sit at the table with the cool kids, like Peter, James, John, or Mary.

Maybe these two weren’t all-in on this Jesus of Nazareth thing, yet … you know, they’d been curious, found him interesting, showed up to check things out, but hadn’t made an offering, or signed up for a class, just yet. Maybe they weren’t full-on Partners in Mission.

Maybe they were from Emmaus, and maybe Emmaus was on the wrong side of the tracks, full of subsidized housing or something…  maybe they drank too much…  maybe they voted differently than the rest of the disciples…  maybe not everyone approved of their relationship or their living arrangement or whatever.

The point is, they weren’t part of the movers and shakers in Jesus’ core of disciples – or they would have been in Jerusalem, and we would have known their names. But they were just as broken and dismayed by the hopes that had been dashed. They were just as lost and alone and afraid of what they’d witnessed and they were just as unsure about what was coming next. And Jesus showed up for them, just as surely as he did for the eleven, back in Jerusalem.

And this is what I love about the Jesus I see on the Road to Emmaus this time around: just like he did for Mary outside the tomb… just like he did for Peter, sometime before he set out for the Emmaus Road… Jesus shows up for those on the fringes; on the outside; for the “least of these,” you might say. And so should we.

If I were Jesus, I might have gone to have a word Pontius Pilate. I might have showed myself to the Chief Priest. I might have made myself known to the soldiers who crucified me. I would have certainly surprised the hell out of Judas and asked him if his little deal with the Devil was worth it, in the end.

But, true to form, Jesus goes after the lost and alone and broken. And he doesn’t dance or gloat or boast. He very literally, simply walks with them. He listens to their struggle and he hears about their sadness. He tells them what he knows. He reminds them about who they are and of what they believe, deep down in their heart of hearts. And he let’s them remember… and see for themselves... and then he feeds them, just like he had always done and just like he promised he would do.

And that’s how, ultimately, they come to see, again, clearly, what God had done – and was willing to do – for them.

So what if this is nothing more than a Master Class in evangelism and outreach for us in these days after Easter? What if this is God, in Jesus, showing us what it looks like to share grace and good news – no gloating… not boasting… no rubbing their noses in what people don’t know or understand or believe or want, even.

Just walking alongside people who are hurting and lonely and searching for love and purpose in their life…

Just listening to their story. Just acknowledging their struggles and their celebrations. Just sharing in their uncertainty and grief and questions.

Just staying with them – even when we have other places to be or better things to do, sometimes.

Just breaking bread and sharing wine and letting God’s mercy and grace do the heavy lifting of revealing the love we already know and have already received in more ways than we can count.

So, let’s go after the lost and alone and broken with this good news, in a new way, this time around. I mean I love you all – don’t get me wrong – and I’m under no delusion that we have all of this figured out or that there aren’t plenty of lost, lonely, broken souls in our own inner circle. But there is a world full of people whose names we don’t know, yet, who feel lost and hungry for something more than what the world is feeding them.

And we have the Bread of Life to share. We have grace upon grace to offer. We have roads to travel that others refuse to walk. And we are the Body of Christ in the world, you and I, believe it or not. I can make that pretty hard for people to see sometimes, to be honest. But it’s true.

But it’s also true that God’s love will be made known through the bread we break, when we share it freely… God’s love will be made known through the forgiveness we offer… God’s love will be made known through the new life and second chances we promise… God’s love will be made known when we walk this walk with patience, humility, and compassion… and God’s love will be made known when we look for and learn from Jesus who walks with us and shows us this kind of love, every step of the way.

Amen

Easter's Last Word(s) - John 20:1-18

John 20:1-18

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them, “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him.” Then Peter and the other disciple set out and went toward the tomb. The two were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first. He bent down to look in and saw the linen wrappings lying there, but he did not go in. Then Simon Peter came, following him, and went into the tomb. He saw the linen wrappings lying there, and the cloth that had been on Jesus’ head, not lying with the linen wrappings but rolled up in a place by itself. Then the other disciple, who reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the scripture, that he must rise from the dead. Then the disciples returned to their homes.

But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). Jesus said to her, “Do not hold on to me, because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord”; and she told them that he had said these things to her.

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One of my boys came home from school on the last day before we started cancelling everything for the sake of “social distancing,” thanks to the Corona Virus pandemic (we weren’t even calling it a pandemic then, yet) and said one of his teachers told his class this would be something their generation would always remember – that every generation has something like it – which sparked a conversation about other historical events that are critical to the collective memory … the collective identity of every generation.

For me, there are a few that stand out… One was the Space Shuttle Challenger exploding in the sky in January, 1986, while, it seemed, everyone in the country was watching, because there was a civilian school teacher on board.

I was just coming back from lunch in 6th grade, in Novi Middle School, and one of my teachers, Mrs. Wainwright, had tears in her eyes as she corralled a handful of us into her classroom and let us watch the aftermath of that on the news.

Another life-changer was the massacre at Columbine High School, in April of 1999.

It’s hard to imagine now that there was a first time for something that is far so sadly and frighteningly common-place these days.

Of course 9/11 was huge, just about two-and-a-half years later.

Christa and I had lived in Indiana, for just over a month. Cross of Grace didn’t exist yet, technically. Our headquarters was in my guest room, so I was working in my boxer shorts (kind of like I did every day last week), and I called Debbie Searfoss to ask her something trivial, I’m sure, about the bulletin for the coming Sunday. And she told me I better stop working on the bulletin and go turn on the news. Most of you know the rest of that story.

Before all of that, for my parents’ generation, it was the assassination of John F. Kennedy, in Dallas, November 22, 1963.

I grew up hearing that “everyone” remembers where they were when they heard that news. I believe the same is true – or should be – about the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., outside the Lorraine Motel, in Memphis, in April, 1968.

My grandmother talked about the attack on Pearl Harbor, in December of 1941, in the same way – with a wistful sense of nostalgia, full of emotions and memories deep and overflowing with patriotism and pride and sadness and regret.

So it’s strange to be living in the midst of something that has been likened to all of that, something a generation will remember for all kinds of reasons: for missing a spring season of sports; for missing a final quarter of school; for missing proms, perhaps, and graduation ceremonies, maybe; for missing Easter worship and dinner with the family; for all that this isolation and social distancing entails; and for missing the chance to be at the bedside of a loved one who’s sick, if not dying, from this disease.

And all of it – from the bombing of Pearl Harbor to the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., to this year’s COVID-19 pandemic to the Spanish Flu of 1918 – all of it marks us and motivates us with the fear of dying and the need to keep death at bay.

And we should do that, don’t get me wrong. God doesn’t wish for us to live our lives as though we’re on a Kamikaze mission for Jesus – like we should just throw caution to the wind and let the chips – and our own lives – fall where they may. So we should keep our distance. And we should wash our hands. We should wear our masks. We should do what the scientists suggest because they know more than most of us about why we should keep our germs to ourselves.

But Easter’s good news is a reminder that we don’t need to do any of this just because we’re afraid. Jesus showed up – was crucified, died, was buried and then raised, again – to show us that, no matter how strange and uncertain and scary things get, death never gets the last word.

Even when it comes by way of an assassin or a terrorist or military foe, death never gets the last word.

Even when it comes by way of cancer or heart disease or COVID-19, death never gets the last word.

Even when it comes to a police officer, killed in the line of duty, like did for Breann Leath in Indianapolis this week, death never gets the last word.

Even when it comes by way of a car accident, or an overdose, or by suicide, death never gets the last word.

It may change everything for some of us on this side of the grave. It may rearrange our lives. It may reorganize our priorities. It may hurt like hell and break our hearts into a million little pieces and we may never be the same again, because of it. But death never, ever gets the last word.

And I think the problem is, we haven’t really had a chance to say that to one another yet, where this virus is concerned, because we haven’t been able to be together as we would like – and as we’re used to and as we expect to be – in times of struggle, suffering, and sadness. That’s what makes this viral pandemic and all of this “social distancing” so strange and new and hard so much of the time.

See, I think the thing about all those other, historical, generational time-stamps that make them so memorable, so connective, so transforming was the unified response of the generation that experienced them. Like I said, I remember being very carefully herded into a classroom with some friends when the Space Shuttle exploded. I remember gathering in the grass on the lawn of the seminary to talk about what was happening at Columbine High School with some friends. Christa and I went to a community prayer service at the Methodist Church on the night of 9/11. Everyone who lived through it remembers JFK’s funeral processional. We know about our nation’s response and shared sacrifice in the war after Pearl Harbor.

But here we are, trapped in our homes – unto ourselves – separated from each other, thanks to a virus … this small, microscopic, invisible, threat – which is technically and potentially deadlier than any of the events that stick into our collective, historical memories.

We can’t gather en masse for prayer vigils. We can’t light candles at the spot of this tragedy. We can’t build a memorial to a germ. And that’s hard. It may even be unfair.

But I think we are right where we need to be this morning, because we are very much right where the disciples and the first followers and friends of Jesus found themselves when death came calling, way back when. They were hunkered down. Locked behind closed doors. Not sure about what was coming… for whom… next… and under the impression that death was winning.

Winning, that is, until the mighty Mary Magdalene heard that one word … her own name … in the fullness of her despair and sadness … “Mary.” And she knew everything that we’re called to remember.

In that moment, Mary realized that what gets the last word because of the God we know in Jesus is love. Love gets the last word because God’s love is as fierce as death and the grave.

And grace gets the last word, because we have seen God’s glory, the glory of a Father’s only son, full of grace and truth.

And mercy … mercy gets the last word, because our God is so rich in mercy, even though we were dead through our sins, God’s mercy makes us alive in Jesus Christ, our Lord.

And peace gets the last word … blessed are the peacemakers.

And forgiveness … forgiveness of sins, proclaimed to all the nations.

And hope … hope does not disappoint us because God’s love has been poured into our hearts by the power of the Holy Spirit.

And really … finally … what gets the last word – “who” gets the last word – in the face of whatever death threatens us – is Jesus. Jesus Christ, who knows my name and your name, too. Jesus, the son of God, crucified and risen from the dead, for the sake of the world.

Amen. Alleluia. Happy Easter.