To begin, let me tell you that this past Thursday I preached in the chapel at Eden Seminary a sermon based on 1 Peter 1:17-23, which brings forward much theologically about spiritual rebirth, but which also attributes to God the Father the capacity of giving birth. Not wanting to limit the power of God, I posited that we need to be about the business of recognizing that God is also Mother, if God is giving birth to all of us.
Today, I want to address the story of the Road to Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35), which brings up some of the issues that we will have to be ready to wrestle with, if we are to find new and appropriate ways to refer to God, given our modern conditions of living in a democratic society in which people are to be recognized and respected as equals.
In this story, we meet two disciples, the name of one of whom is Cleopas (or Clopas, who is often speculated also be Alphaeus with his name spelled differently from one Greek testament to another). More precisely, these two are probably the parents of a disciple, James the Less, who in one gospel is referred to as James son of Alphaeus. The reason I speculate that they are James' parents is because in one of the gospels there is a Mary wife of Clopas standing at the foot of the cross with Mary Magdalene and Jesus' mother and aunt (John 19:25), while in the others "Mary the mother of James the younger and Joses" is identified as being there (Mark 15:40, Matthew 27:56, Luke 24:10), and in Mark 16:1 a certain "Mary mother of James" approaches the tomb with Mary Magdalene and discovers that a resurrection has taken place.
So, if one of the travelers is Cleopas and the other unnamed, chances are that Mediterranean modesty is prevailing in the story, and the author is choosing not to mention that the other is Cleopas' wife.
Anyway, here's the story... Two disciples of Jesus, at the end of one incredible, jarring weekend, are on their way home to recuperate. And as they walk back, they meet another traveller going the same way. This fellow traveller asks them what’s up, and they wonder at the fact that he hasn’t heard the news about what has happened to all those Galileans who rolled into town, last Sunday. So they tell him about it, and he says something like, “Oh, that! Well, don’t you know that that was bound to happen?”
And the first traveller says, “You mean, because the Romans are a violent police state who will not put up with rousers of the rabble?”
And the third traveller says, “No, that’s not what I mean. I — ”
And the second traveller says, “You mean, because the temple authorities are vicious, cowardly people who cannot bear that someone would challenge their monolithic power?”
And the third traveller says, “No, that’s not what I mean either. I — ”
And the first traveller pipes back in and says, “You mean, because the mob in Jerusalem is no different than the mob in Rome and, as we learned with Julius Caesar, will blow in whatever direction the popular wind seems to be blowing?”
And the third traveller says, “No, not that either. I — ”
And the second traveller interrupts once more to say, “You mean, because. . . I think we’ve run out of becauses. What do you mean?”
And the third traveller says, “I mean, if this Jesus of yours was who he said he was, that is the Messiah, then what happened to him is exactly what should have happened. . . at least, according to what the Law, the Prophets, and the Writings say. Listen. . .” And with that began a conversation which made hearts to burn in the breasts of their bearers.
Farther along their way, the three travellers come to a place in the road where the third says that he has to go another way, on to his own home. But the other two are so rapt by what he’s been saying that they insist he not go on yet but join them at home and have a meal with them. Besides, dusk is coming upon them, and it will soon be too dark to travel safely. And so, apparently convinced, the third turns aside with them.
They arrive home and prepare dinner. And the conversation continues. The stranger asks them to tell him more about Jesus of Nazareth and his teaching, and they do. And he remarks and seems to marvel at the wisdom of the carpenter of Nazareth.
When finally the meal is served, the common bowl is placed at the center of their table, wondrously aromatic. The two are famished, and they assume that their seven-mile colleague must be also. The two ask the one if he wouldn’t mind saying the blessing over the food. The first takes the loaf and blesses it saying the Hebrew grace for bread, “Baruch atto Adonai elohenu, melech ho’olom, ha-mo-tzee le-chem me’en ho-o-retz.” He breaks the bread, then, and offers each a piece. They watch in awe as he sets the bread before them.
They’ve seen and heard this before: on a plain with thousands of people but only five loaves and a couple of fish; in countless dining rooms; and just three nights before at their last supper together with...
The first of them, finding his voice, says, “Hey, wait a minute! I know you!”
And the second of them says, “Yeah, you're — ”
And the third of them vanishes.
I just have to wonder... How is it that when these two disciples see Jesus, they do not recognize him? I mean, according to John the evangelist’s telling of this story, beyond the recognizability of Jesus’ face, there were also his wounds still visible in the resurrected body that would have indicated to them who he was. Granted, this is Luke’s version of a post-Resurrection story, but surely, you cannot hide wounds like those.
Now, maybe Jesus was wearing a hood, gloves, and shoes, but even if that is the case how do we explain that Resurrection Jesus can be both walking with these two and – on this same night – be in Jerusalem consoling the Ten gathered in the Upper Room? A resurrected body is still a body, and a body cannot be in two places at once. Maybe when he disappears from Emmaus, he shows up in the Upper Room, but trying to come up with explanations misses the point.
Resurrection Jesus in this story of walking along the Emmaus road is like Resurrection Jesus with Mary Magdalene or Resurrection Jesus with Thomas — unrecognizable as himself until he does something familiar. I don’t know how she mistook him for the gardener; I don’t know why Cleopas and his traveling companion (probably his wife Mary) didn’t recognize Jesus on their walk. I don’t know how Thomas could have been doubtful and could have thought that that figure before him on the second Sunday could have been someone else.
What I do know is, in John Mary hears him say her name. At this sojourn on the way to Emmaus, Jesus breaks bread, the same way he had done, three nights before, when he said, “Whenever you do this, remember me.” And Thomas, though he may not have recognized the man, recognized the wounds and actually put his fingers in them.
Here, I have managed to identify (oh, I think) five different ways for us – if we cultivate for ourselves a relationship with Jesus – to recognize that we are not alone, and that we travel not only with those obviously on the journey with us, but that we have Christ as our companion.
Such a time will arise when we like Thomas are willing to look upon another’s sufferings, wounds, and scars, and to know the truth. There Jesus is.
Such a time will arise when another allows us to touch those same wounds and scars, and to comprehend the full power of recovery and restoration. That is what resurrection bears in its fullness – completeness, even despite great pain.
Such a time will arise when we like Mary are in our own misery, despair, and loss. If we will but listen and pay attention, someOne will be saying our name comfortingly, assuring us not that our woe is unwarranted but that it will not defeat us. The Resurrection is real, and Christ is risen.
Such a time will be found in more mundane times, such as when we sit down to a meal, break bread (oh, when we break bread!) and smell the richness of the moment, taste its wonders!
Oh, and one more! Such a time will arise when we are engaged in discovering, uncovering, and recovering what all This means — this faith, this hope, this love. We will be in probing conversation about our experiences in light of the Bible – the Law, the Prophets, and the Writings – and our hearts will burn.
It is when Christ offers us the obvious for recognition’s sake, that we know “that’s the One,” “Christ is here right now!”
Sight, touch, smell, taste, hearing – our senses and our sensations inform us of our relationship with the One who unites us with God. For us, the depth of believing doesn’t necessarily come from good Bible study or unquestioning obedience to God’s will or the best practices of stewardship or even regular attendance in worship; it comes from our attention to our relationship with Christ, from allowing our attention to be drawn toward Christ.
On Ash Wednesday, I smudged foreheads and the backs of hands with a blend of burnt Palm Sunday palms and olive oil (BTW, hang onto your Palm Sunday branches until next Fat Tuesday, when I’ll burn them). I did a footwashing demonstration with a few readers on Maundy Thursday, and then with Linda Smith anointed the lot of you with oil scented by frankincense and myrrh; plus, I sprinkled everybody here on Easter. I raise the elements during communion, not in order to mark the moment of transubstantiation but in order to take a moment to pause as Christ paused in blessing at the table in Emmaus.
Faith is not just in the head, not just in the heart. Christian faith is designed to be in the hands, in our noses, in our mouths, in our eyes, our ears.
Emmaus is not bound to one location, nor one time, anymore than our experience of faith is limited to what we perceive with one sense! Emmaus is here in the heart. And everywhere, we are meeting that mysterious stranger (in hood and gloves and shoes), our hearts burn as we talk about the book, our eyes are opened when we smell the meal and break the bread, and we meet the traveler again familiarly when we gather to share and gain experiences.
And the first traveller says, “You mean, because the Romans are a violent police state who will not put up with rousers of the rabble?”
And the third traveller says, “No, that’s not what I mean. I — ”
And the second traveller says, “You mean, because the temple authorities are vicious, cowardly people who cannot bear that someone would challenge their monolithic power?”
And the third traveller says, “No, that’s not what I mean either. I — ”
And the first traveller pipes back in and says, “You mean, because the mob in Jerusalem is no different than the mob in Rome and, as we learned with Julius Caesar, will blow in whatever direction the popular wind seems to be blowing?”
And the third traveller says, “No, not that either. I — ”
And the second traveller interrupts once more to say, “You mean, because. . . I think we’ve run out of becauses. What do you mean?”
And the third traveller says, “I mean, if this Jesus of yours was who he said he was, that is the Messiah, then what happened to him is exactly what should have happened. . . at least, according to what the Law, the Prophets, and the Writings say. Listen. . .” And with that began a conversation which made hearts to burn in the breasts of their bearers.
Farther along their way, the three travellers come to a place in the road where the third says that he has to go another way, on to his own home. But the other two are so rapt by what he’s been saying that they insist he not go on yet but join them at home and have a meal with them. Besides, dusk is coming upon them, and it will soon be too dark to travel safely. And so, apparently convinced, the third turns aside with them.
They arrive home and prepare dinner. And the conversation continues. The stranger asks them to tell him more about Jesus of Nazareth and his teaching, and they do. And he remarks and seems to marvel at the wisdom of the carpenter of Nazareth.
When finally the meal is served, the common bowl is placed at the center of their table, wondrously aromatic. The two are famished, and they assume that their seven-mile colleague must be also. The two ask the one if he wouldn’t mind saying the blessing over the food. The first takes the loaf and blesses it saying the Hebrew grace for bread, “Baruch atto Adonai elohenu, melech ho’olom, ha-mo-tzee le-chem me’en ho-o-retz.” He breaks the bread, then, and offers each a piece. They watch in awe as he sets the bread before them.
They’ve seen and heard this before: on a plain with thousands of people but only five loaves and a couple of fish; in countless dining rooms; and just three nights before at their last supper together with...
The first of them, finding his voice, says, “Hey, wait a minute! I know you!”
And the second of them says, “Yeah, you're — ”
And the third of them vanishes.
I just have to wonder... How is it that when these two disciples see Jesus, they do not recognize him? I mean, according to John the evangelist’s telling of this story, beyond the recognizability of Jesus’ face, there were also his wounds still visible in the resurrected body that would have indicated to them who he was. Granted, this is Luke’s version of a post-Resurrection story, but surely, you cannot hide wounds like those.
Now, maybe Jesus was wearing a hood, gloves, and shoes, but even if that is the case how do we explain that Resurrection Jesus can be both walking with these two and – on this same night – be in Jerusalem consoling the Ten gathered in the Upper Room? A resurrected body is still a body, and a body cannot be in two places at once. Maybe when he disappears from Emmaus, he shows up in the Upper Room, but trying to come up with explanations misses the point.
Resurrection Jesus in this story of walking along the Emmaus road is like Resurrection Jesus with Mary Magdalene or Resurrection Jesus with Thomas — unrecognizable as himself until he does something familiar. I don’t know how she mistook him for the gardener; I don’t know why Cleopas and his traveling companion (probably his wife Mary) didn’t recognize Jesus on their walk. I don’t know how Thomas could have been doubtful and could have thought that that figure before him on the second Sunday could have been someone else.
What I do know is, in John Mary hears him say her name. At this sojourn on the way to Emmaus, Jesus breaks bread, the same way he had done, three nights before, when he said, “Whenever you do this, remember me.” And Thomas, though he may not have recognized the man, recognized the wounds and actually put his fingers in them.
Here, I have managed to identify (oh, I think) five different ways for us – if we cultivate for ourselves a relationship with Jesus – to recognize that we are not alone, and that we travel not only with those obviously on the journey with us, but that we have Christ as our companion.
Such a time will arise when we like Thomas are willing to look upon another’s sufferings, wounds, and scars, and to know the truth. There Jesus is.
Such a time will arise when another allows us to touch those same wounds and scars, and to comprehend the full power of recovery and restoration. That is what resurrection bears in its fullness – completeness, even despite great pain.
Such a time will arise when we like Mary are in our own misery, despair, and loss. If we will but listen and pay attention, someOne will be saying our name comfortingly, assuring us not that our woe is unwarranted but that it will not defeat us. The Resurrection is real, and Christ is risen.
Such a time will be found in more mundane times, such as when we sit down to a meal, break bread (oh, when we break bread!) and smell the richness of the moment, taste its wonders!
Oh, and one more! Such a time will arise when we are engaged in discovering, uncovering, and recovering what all This means — this faith, this hope, this love. We will be in probing conversation about our experiences in light of the Bible – the Law, the Prophets, and the Writings – and our hearts will burn.
It is when Christ offers us the obvious for recognition’s sake, that we know “that’s the One,” “Christ is here right now!”
Sight, touch, smell, taste, hearing – our senses and our sensations inform us of our relationship with the One who unites us with God. For us, the depth of believing doesn’t necessarily come from good Bible study or unquestioning obedience to God’s will or the best practices of stewardship or even regular attendance in worship; it comes from our attention to our relationship with Christ, from allowing our attention to be drawn toward Christ.
On Ash Wednesday, I smudged foreheads and the backs of hands with a blend of burnt Palm Sunday palms and olive oil (BTW, hang onto your Palm Sunday branches until next Fat Tuesday, when I’ll burn them). I did a footwashing demonstration with a few readers on Maundy Thursday, and then with Linda Smith anointed the lot of you with oil scented by frankincense and myrrh; plus, I sprinkled everybody here on Easter. I raise the elements during communion, not in order to mark the moment of transubstantiation but in order to take a moment to pause as Christ paused in blessing at the table in Emmaus.
Faith is not just in the head, not just in the heart. Christian faith is designed to be in the hands, in our noses, in our mouths, in our eyes, our ears.
Emmaus is not bound to one location, nor one time, anymore than our experience of faith is limited to what we perceive with one sense! Emmaus is here in the heart. And everywhere, we are meeting that mysterious stranger (in hood and gloves and shoes), our hearts burn as we talk about the book, our eyes are opened when we smell the meal and break the bread, and we meet the traveler again familiarly when we gather to share and gain experiences.
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