East Of Easter
Stories
Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit
Series VI, Cycle A
Object:
Easter is past, and if you can think of that momentous event as midnight on a clock, the beginning of a new day in human history, then superimpose a compass over that clock, we are east of Easter. That should mean something. Think about it as we reflect on those two friends we meet in the gospel lesson.
They were just like us. They had the same concerns that have been common in every age -- keeping body and soul together, keeping out of trouble, keeping up with the Joneses, keeping in tune with the times, and now keeping a stiff upper lip in the face of dashed hopes and shattered dreams. Just like us.
They were religious folk, having walked the several hours to Jerusalem a few days before from their home in Emmaus. With a real sense of excitement, they had gone to the holy city -- obviously for the Passover, an event no good Jew could miss; but also to be near Jesus, one whom they had come to look on as Israel's deliverer, the Messiah. But now they were going home ... dejected, depressed, and defeated.
As they walked, they talked. Probably about mundane things: taxes too high, wages too low, children too wild, probably a little about the trial and crucifixion, but nothing too much -- too hurtful. Small talk to survive large pain. We all do it, until forced to do otherwise.
Perhaps that is why Jesus engaged them in conversation. The Great Physician was also a Great Therapist. These two needed to verbalize what was inside, to get things out, to let some air get to the psychic wound. They were still living west of Easter, where "the world, the flesh, and the devil" come out on top. They needed to see for themselves that the new day had dawned.
With a sadness tinged by anger, they described the events that had made them so heavy of heart -- their disappointment with respected religious leaders, their distress at the political system that could be so easily manipulated by evil men, and their despair at the loss of someone who had personified their hope for the future. Sounds very much like something in tomorrow's newspaper. Those things happen in any age. But there was something different here. Along with all the rage they were venting, they had that strange story they had heard from some women friends about an empty tomb, a vision of angels, and a risen Lord.
Fortunately, their companion had the answers. Did the travelers understand? Not quite. But now they had arrived in Emmaus. The afternoon had gone too quickly; they did not want their conversation to end. "Friend, can you stay for a bite of dinner? We don't have much -- just some bread and wine -- but we would love to have you. Won't you stay, please?"
In the King James Version of scripture, which nurtured many of us, the invitation of the two travelers reads, "Abide with us; for it is toward evening and the day is far spent," words that were the inspiration for that beloved hymn, "Abide with me / Fast falls the eventide." The hymn was written by Henry Francis Lyte, for 25 years the vicar of the parish at Devonshire, England. He was 54 years old, broken in health, and saddened by dissensions in his congregation. On Sunday, September 4, 1847, he preached his farewell sermon and went home to rest. After tea in the afternoon, he retired to his study. In an hour or two, he rejoined his family, holding in his hand the manuscript of his immortal hymn.
Lyte's "eventide" has nothing to do with the end of the natural day but rather the end of life. "Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day / Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away." The words are about the faith that faces life and death fearlessly and triumphantly in the light of the cross and the empty tomb ... east of Easter. Thus Lyte could conclude, "Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee / In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me." Vicar Lyte died three months later.
Jesus accepted the invitation of the two friends on the road, of course, just as he accepted the invitation of Henry Lyte. Jesus always accepts. And during the course of that simple Emmaus meal, as the gospel record has it, "their eyes were opened." Did they suddenly have all the answers? Of course not. But they had a glimpse now of the future ... God's future ... a future to be faced with confidence.
They were just like us. They had the same concerns that have been common in every age -- keeping body and soul together, keeping out of trouble, keeping up with the Joneses, keeping in tune with the times, and now keeping a stiff upper lip in the face of dashed hopes and shattered dreams. Just like us.
They were religious folk, having walked the several hours to Jerusalem a few days before from their home in Emmaus. With a real sense of excitement, they had gone to the holy city -- obviously for the Passover, an event no good Jew could miss; but also to be near Jesus, one whom they had come to look on as Israel's deliverer, the Messiah. But now they were going home ... dejected, depressed, and defeated.
As they walked, they talked. Probably about mundane things: taxes too high, wages too low, children too wild, probably a little about the trial and crucifixion, but nothing too much -- too hurtful. Small talk to survive large pain. We all do it, until forced to do otherwise.
Perhaps that is why Jesus engaged them in conversation. The Great Physician was also a Great Therapist. These two needed to verbalize what was inside, to get things out, to let some air get to the psychic wound. They were still living west of Easter, where "the world, the flesh, and the devil" come out on top. They needed to see for themselves that the new day had dawned.
With a sadness tinged by anger, they described the events that had made them so heavy of heart -- their disappointment with respected religious leaders, their distress at the political system that could be so easily manipulated by evil men, and their despair at the loss of someone who had personified their hope for the future. Sounds very much like something in tomorrow's newspaper. Those things happen in any age. But there was something different here. Along with all the rage they were venting, they had that strange story they had heard from some women friends about an empty tomb, a vision of angels, and a risen Lord.
Fortunately, their companion had the answers. Did the travelers understand? Not quite. But now they had arrived in Emmaus. The afternoon had gone too quickly; they did not want their conversation to end. "Friend, can you stay for a bite of dinner? We don't have much -- just some bread and wine -- but we would love to have you. Won't you stay, please?"
In the King James Version of scripture, which nurtured many of us, the invitation of the two travelers reads, "Abide with us; for it is toward evening and the day is far spent," words that were the inspiration for that beloved hymn, "Abide with me / Fast falls the eventide." The hymn was written by Henry Francis Lyte, for 25 years the vicar of the parish at Devonshire, England. He was 54 years old, broken in health, and saddened by dissensions in his congregation. On Sunday, September 4, 1847, he preached his farewell sermon and went home to rest. After tea in the afternoon, he retired to his study. In an hour or two, he rejoined his family, holding in his hand the manuscript of his immortal hymn.
Lyte's "eventide" has nothing to do with the end of the natural day but rather the end of life. "Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day / Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away." The words are about the faith that faces life and death fearlessly and triumphantly in the light of the cross and the empty tomb ... east of Easter. Thus Lyte could conclude, "Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee / In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me." Vicar Lyte died three months later.
Jesus accepted the invitation of the two friends on the road, of course, just as he accepted the invitation of Henry Lyte. Jesus always accepts. And during the course of that simple Emmaus meal, as the gospel record has it, "their eyes were opened." Did they suddenly have all the answers? Of course not. But they had a glimpse now of the future ... God's future ... a future to be faced with confidence.
