Third Sunday Of Easter
Preaching
Lectionary Preaching Workbook
Series VIII, Cycle A
Object:
Theme For The Day
Jesus Christ is Lord of the commonplace.
First Lesson
Acts 2:14a, 36-41
The People's Response To Peter's Sermon
Pasting the same opening line from last week's lesson onto the final line of Peter's Pentecost sermon, the lectionary editors introduce the passage that follows immediately after -- describing the reaction of the crowd to Peter's message. It is, predominantly, a Jewish crowd; although many languages are represented (verses 9-11), these people are all Jews from different parts of the diaspora, having come to Jerusalem on pilgrimage. Peter can assume a common familiarity with the Hebrew scriptures. These people are "cut to the heart" by his message and ask the apostles, "Brothers, what should we do?" (v. 37). The word "brothers" is another indication of their common Jewish heritage. Peter's answer is, "Repent, and be baptized" -- and he promises them, also, the gift of the Holy Spirit (v. 38). The next verse, "For the promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far away" prefigures the vision Peter will later have of a God who "shows no partiality," offering salvation to Gentiles as well as Jews (10:34). Peter's exhortation, "Save yourself from this corrupt generation," can also mean "this corrupt people" (literally, the adjective is "twisted" or "crooked" -- skolios, the same word from which "scoliosis" comes). Peter's message has an astounding impact: 3,000 converts in a single day (v. 41).
New Testament Lesson
1 Peter 1:17-23
A Call To A Reverent And Holy Life
After issuing a call to personal holiness (v. 16), the author moves on to exhort his readers to a serious-minded faith. Literally, the verb is "fear" (phobos), which the NRSV translates "reverent fear" (v. 17). In many other places, the Bible speaks of fear of the Lord ("The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom" -- Proverbs 9:10), but in no case does it mean the sort of abject terror that modern readers tend to associate with the word. This is a healthy sort of fear -- perhaps better described as "respect" or "reverence." We are to fear the Lord "during the time of [our] exile (paroikia)" -- this earthly life of ours, in other words, is an experience of exile from our true home. In verses 18-19, the author introduces the topic of redemption in Christ. We were ransomed, he says, from "futile" or "worthless" forms of conduct inherited from our ancestors -- "not with perishable things like silver or gold, but with the precious blood of Christ." The irony, of course, is that silver and gold are among the most imperishable of the elements. Christ is described, here, as a sacrificial lamb, "chosen beforehand, before the foundation of the world, but revealed at the time of the eschaton for you" (verses 19-20). The implication is that this ultimate revelation is coming soon, if indeed it has not already begun. We have come to trust in Christ because God has raised and glorified him (v. 21). The final words of this passage are an exhortation to love, which is possible because the believers' souls have been "purified" as a result of devotion to the truth (v. 22). Believers have been "born anew, not of perishable but of imperishable seed" (v. 23).
The Gospel
Luke 24:13-35
On The Road To Emmaus
This story, the first of two appearances of the resurrected Jesus in Luke's gospel, is unique to Luke. At its center is a meal -- an event that not only has strong eucharistic overtones, but that also functions -- as it typically does in Near Eastern culture -- to bind its participants together in table fellowship. Two disciples of Jesus -- one named Cleopas, the other unnamed -- are walking down the short road between Jerusalem and the village of Emmaus. They are, of course, discussing the momentous events of recent days: the crucifixion of Jesus, and the reported message from angels telling of his resurrection. Luke's resurrection account (24:1-12) is an empty-tomb tradition that includes no physical appearance. When Jesus turns up on the road to Emmaus, it is, therefore, the first time any of his disciples see him in the flesh after his death. Jesus overtakes these two disciples and falls in with them as a traveling companion -- although they are unable to recognize him for who he is (v. 15). He asks them what they are talking about, but they just "stand still, looking sad" (v. 17).
Not knowing who this stranger is, they are perhaps cautious, as well; a current-events discussion is one thing, but if it should come out that they have had a role in shaping those current events, their lives could perhaps be in danger. In verses 19-20, they begin to relate the news about Jesus' death -- news everyone in Jerusalem already knows about -- but then, in verse 21, they throw caution to the wind and identify themselves as at least sympathizers with the Galilean rabbi, if not actually his followers. In verses 22-24, they relate the rumors of resurrection, making it clear that they were not in the company of those who went and looked into the empty tomb. In verses 25-27, Jesus shifts from listener to speaker, expounding to them various unnamed scriptures that foretell the coming of the Messiah. By now, it is clear to Cleopas and his friend that the stranger's earlier question -- "What things?" (v. 19) -- was a mere conversation gambit. This man is even better-informed than they. As they draw near to Emmaus, he appears to be going further along the road. They entreat him to stay with them -- a standard, Near Eastern offer of hospitality that is typically declined and re-extended a few times before being accepted (v. 29). That is what happens in this case, and Jesus ultimately accepts. It is unclear whose house this is: whether it belongs to one of the two disciples, to a friend or relative of theirs, or whether it is some sort of inn. It is also unclear if others are present -- although, in that culture, it would have been unlikely that they would have been alone at a meal. "When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them" (v. 30).
The language, of course, closely parallels Luke's description of the institution of the Lord's Supper (22:19). As soon as Cleopas and his companion receive the bread from his hands, they recognize him, and he vanishes (v. 31). It is highly significant that they recognize him in the breaking of the bread -- this bears witness to a deeply held belief in the early church that Christ is reliably present in the celebration of the Lord's Supper. Jesus' sudden appearance and disappearance is also consistent with stories from the Hebrew scriptures about certain prophets -- who, likewise, appear and disappear rather abruptly at times. In retrospect, Cleopas and his friend realize they should have known who the stranger was: "Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?" (v. 32). Yet, Luke assumes it was God's plan to keep them in the dark: "their eyes were kept from recognizing him," at the beginning (v. 16), and "their eyes were opened" as Jesus broke bread (v. 31). So momentous is this news that the two disciples get up immediately and walk the seven miles back to Jerusalem, delivering the message to "the eleven" and the others who are with them, as soon as possible. Significantly, their first instinct is to seek the fellowship of others. It is the good news that gathers the church together -- then, and now. As they arrive, they learn that Jesus has been there, too, having "appeared to Simon" (v. 34). These, Luke tells us later, are but two of numerous appearances of Jesus to his disciples during the forty days between his resurrection and his ascension (Acts 1:3).
Preaching Possibilities
If anyone ever tries to suggest there's no humor in the Bible, show them the story of the Road to Emmaus. Luke spins the story with a twinkle in his eye. Cleopas and his friend are amazed that this "stranger" has travelled from Jerusalem as they have; yet has such a dim knowledge of current events. "Are you the only one in Jerusalem who does not know of these things?" they ask.
"What things?" he replies. They go on to tell this stranger all about Jesus of Nazareth, a mighty prophet, and about his tragic death.
Jesus -- for that is of course who it is -- lets them fumble on a while. He teaches them of prophecies in scripture, and they're amazed at his knowledge -- still, they don't catch on. It is only when they arrive in Emmaus and invite the stranger to share a meal with them, and when he takes the honored place at the head of the table and breaks the bread, that their eyes are opened and they recognize him. No sooner do they realize who he is and feel the joy and wonder of this good news wash over them, than he vanishes out of their sight.
The story of the road to Emmaus is a comedy of errors, a tale of one misunderstanding after another. At every turn, Cleopas and his friend miss the point. They think they know where Jesus is: dead and buried. They aren't prepared for a risen Lord who walks with them along the road and speaks to them of common things. Finally, it is in the most commonplace action of all -- the breaking of bread at an ordinary meal -- that it dawns on them who this is. We can almost see Luke smiling as he tells the story.
With our hindsight, knowing who this stranger is, we too can smile. Cleopas and his companion are so slow to grasp the truth, but we know the story is a comedy, not a tragedy. We know it comes out all right in the end. Cleopas and his friend have simply exited the theater too soon, before the final scene has been played.
Yet, there's more at work here than simply a lack of insight. Cleopas and his friend fail to see -- to really see -- even when Jesus is standing right before them. "Their eyes are kept from recognizing him."
What is it that keeps their eyes from recognizing Jesus, the one whom they yearn to see more than anyone in the world? Cleopas and his friend are followers of Jesus, after all. They care about him. They lingered in Jerusalem after his death, risking arrest, until they heard those bewildering rumors of resurrection.
Moreover, the two are talking about all these things as they walk, weighing the truth of the rumors, rehearsing again in their minds the events of the past few days. Yet, still their eyes are kept from recognizing him. How comic -- and yet, how tragic!
Why do Cleopas and his friend fail to see?
They fail to see because they are looking for the wrong lord. If the rumors of resurrection are true, they reason, Jesus will surely come in with a company of angels, prince regent of the new kingdom of God. The last thing Cleopas and his friend expect to see is a Lord who overtakes them on the road, walking briskly. They are not prepared for a Lord of the commonplace.
I don't think we are either, most of the time. It's easy to forget that the whole meaning of the incarnation, of God's coming in human form, is that "God so loves the world." God loves the world so much as to approach it on our terms. Even as Christ overtakes us on our personal Emmaus roads, we fail to recognize him. We talk of inconsequential things. We fill our minds with trivia, and our hearts with small anxieties. We fail to recognize him.
There's something in us that makes us want to worship Jesus Christ -- but only from a safe distance. We want to put Christ "up there," or "out there," removed from the messiness of daily life -- to treat him, in other words, like company at a formal dinner party, not like the old friend dropping by for coffee around the kitchen table.
Every once in a while, we allow the real Christ to break through. There are times when we have no choice: when life has become so confusing or threatening or painful that we fall on our knees and plead with Christ to leap the gap. We become like a certain Jamaican woman who was trapped in a hurricane with her house falling down around her: "I didn't pray," she told a reporter. "I yelled to God."
Sometimes crises are creative, life-changing moments. Outlined in the stark strobe light of panic, we see clearly, in unforgettable images, who we are and how much God loves us. Sometimes we're lucky and the memory of God's presence stays with us. But other times, we slip back into normalcy, back into the commonplace, leaving God to dwell only in the exceptional moments of life.
Another way of saying this is that we have kept Jesus in the tomb. Ever visit a graveyard? Most of them are very peaceful, even pleasant places. The well-kept lawns, the flowers placed by gleaming white monuments, the raked gravel walks: the whole environment is calculated to convey serenity. That's because, apart from the occasional funeral and the groundskeeper's weekly pass-by with the lawnmower, nothing ever happens in a graveyard.
Yet, isn't that where we're inclined to place Jesus Christ: in the parts of our lives where nothing much happens? Where the excitement is, the pain, the heartache, the joys -- in other words, where life is really lived -- that's where we try mightily to make it on our own. The risen, living Lord we leave back in the tomb as Cleopas and his friend thought they had left Jesus in Jerusalem.
There are probably as many different tombs for Jesus as there are people to build them, but here are two of the most common. One is a sort of ethical tomb -- seeing Jesus as a great teacher and little else. The other is an intellectual tomb -- seeing Christ as an idea to be proven or disproven.
The ethical tomb is very popular among people both inside and outside the church. Not all our neighbors would call themselves Christians, but just about everyone in our society would acknowledge some minimal, grudging respect for "Christian ethics." To put Christ in an ethical tomb is to see him as little more than a moral example.
The preacher Halford Luccock once observed that for many people, John 3:16 is probably translated incorrectly. For them, the verse really says: "For God so loved the world, that he inspired a certain rabbi to teach his contemporaries that loving one's neighbor is a good thing." Who, now, could disagree with that statement: "Loving one's neighbor is a good thing"?
That's the ethical tomb. The tomb contains a Christ who can be admired, even worshiped and venerated -- but not a Christ who lives today.
Then there is the intellectual tomb: Christ as idea. You don't need to be an intellectual to treat Christ this way; all you have to do is see faith as a matter to be proven or disproven by the evidence. Like the ethical tomb, the intellectual tomb is a place to put Jesus away for safekeeping -- only this tomb is more like a fortress. People who use this tomb are strongly attracted to Bible verses like 1 Peter 3:15: "Always be prepared to make a defense to any one who calls you to account for the hope that is in you..." Theirs is the kind of faith that's perpetually engaged in proving itself, in arguing about which beliefs are true and which false.
Many Christians are so busy trying to prove their faith that they never practice it. They jump on every story of answered prayer or spiritual healing, adding each account to a great storehouse of evidence they keep inside their heads. The problem with this approach is that it fails to take account of the nature of faith.
Faith can't be proven. No matter how many pieces of evidence for Christianity we pile up, they're all circumstantial. They can't tip the scales one way or the other. To the person of faith they make sense, but to the unconvinced they're just coincidence. The mind that comes to faith operates not as a judge in a courtroom, but as a visitor to an art gallery -- a person who walks up and down, observing common, everyday things. Yet these common things, in their frames, serve as windows to a world beyond.
Jesus himself knew how to find God in the commonplace. He could see the divine in other people. How else can we account for his choice of disciples? If someone were to set out on a systematic campaign to win the world, why on earth would that person choose an impetuous, ill-tempered fisherman like Simon? Yet, Jesus could see in that simple fisherman Peter, the rock on which he would build his church. This man would argue with Jesus, fail him and eventually deny him; yet, Jesus could see in him a yearning for higher things and an uncommon courage, despite all his imperfections.
Jesus had a marvelous way of seeing traces of God's work in things as well. Remember when the disciples were anxious about where they would find a change of clothes? Jesus pointed them to some nearby flowers and said, "Consider the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin. Yet even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.... If God so clothes the grass of the field, will he not much more clothe you?" (Matthew 6:28-30).
For Jesus, faith is a way of seeing -- a way of looking into and through the commonplace to discover eternal meaning. That's why he tells so many parables. Those little tales, like paintings in an art gallery, serve as windows into God's kingdom.
If faith is a way of seeing, then it's not something that can easily be cultivated. Faith is not the Christian's trade, a work that can be perfected through persistence and repetition. We can't will ourselves into faith, any more than Cleopas and his friend could will themselves into understanding the events that had them so confused. So often, our eyes are kept from recognizing him.
The answer to our dilemma -- and the good news of the gospel -- is that we don't have to find Jesus. He finds us. Jesus finds us in the everyday comings and goings of our lives, in the commonplace. He shows himself to us, just as he showed himself to disciples in the breaking of bread.
Sometimes Christ appears to us in the actual breaking of bread, as we partake of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper. Sometimes he shows himself in the waters of baptism, dripping off the forehead of a new Christian (whether an infant or an adult). Yet, Jesus is not limited to the rites of the church. He can make anything in this God-created world a sacrament.
At times, we may glimpse Christ in the breaking of bread at an ordinary meal -- around a family dinner table, in a school cafeteria, in a lunchroom at work. You and I may see Christ, if we try, in our wives or husbands, our children, our parents, our coworkers. Such are the gifts given us by a risen Lord.
In coming into our world, in submitting to death and rising again, Jesus Christ has become Lord of the commonplace. It will do little good for us to try to seek him in ornate tombs of ethical or intellectual abstraction, because he's not there. Christ is not anywhere we can control him; he is risen, and walks among us.
As we walk along the road, talking about all the things that have come to pass -- participating, in other words, in the business of living -- we just may glimpse, out of the corner of our eye, a stranger overtaking us. At first we will not recognize him, but then we will sense a growing warmth, as our hearts burn within us. And then comes the moment, magnificent and unexpected, when we see who it is breaking bread with us.
He will vanish out of our sight. He always does. That's his way. Yet we know he will return, and we will see him again: somewhere in the commonplace.
Prayer For The Day
Open my eyes, that I may see
glimpses of truth Thou hast for me;
place in my hands the wonderful key
that shall unclasp and set me free.
Silently now I wait for Thee,
ready, my God, Thou will to see.
Open my eyes, illumine me, Spirit, divine!
-- Clara H. Scott, 1895
To Illustrate
There are three times in which to know an event: in rehearsal, at the time of the event, and in remembrance. In rehearsal, understanding is hindered by an inability to believe that the event will really occur or that it will be so important. At the time of the event, understanding is hindered by the clutter and confusion of so much so fast. But in remembrance, the nonseriousness of rehearsal and the busyness of the event give way to recognition, realization, and understanding. This is a time of understanding an important trip, a wedding, a gathering of friends, or a conversation with a stranger turned Christ at table.
-- Fred Craddock, Luke, in the Interpretation commentary series (Louisville, Kentucky: John Knox Press, 1990), p. 287
***
There is an old story from the Eastern Orthodox tradition, of a man who went to a monastery and told the abbot he wanted to see God. "How many prayers, how many days of fasting will I have to undergo before I see God?" he asked.
The abbot stood up from behind his desk. "So you want to see God," he said. "Come with me." And the abbot led the man down many winding corridors and dark staircases until they came at last to the kitchen, and finally to the place where the dishes were washed. There, covered with grease and grime, was the meanest, lowliest, most mentally deficient of all the monks. The abbot pointed to him and said, "God."
***
The preacher Harry Emerson Fosdick once said, "The problem with many of us is not that we think God untrue, but that we find God unreal." That's the difficulty of faith: not that we've struggled with doubt and lost, but that we have let God slip into irrelevance, have banished God to a remote and dusty corner of our lives.
***
Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens.
-- Carl Jung
***
Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not by its growth, but by washing away from it all that is not gold.
-- Leo Tolstoy
***
Said a traveler to one of the disciples, "I have traveled a great distance to listen to the Master, but I find his words quite ordinary."
"Don't listen to his words. Listen to his message."
"How does one do that?"
"Take hold of a sentence that he says. Shake it well till all the words drop off. What is left will set your heart on fire."
-- Anthony De Mello
***
When the two disciples recognised Jesus as he broke the bread for them in their house in Emmaus, he "vanished from their sight" (Luke 24:31). The recognition and the disappearance of Jesus are one and the same event. Why? Because the disciples recognised that their Lord Jesus, the Christ, now lives in them... that they have become Christ-bearers. Therefore, Jesus no longer sits across the table from them as the stranger, the guest, the friend with whom they can speak and from whom they can receive good counsel. He has become one with them. He has given them his own Spirit of Love. Their companion on the journey has become the companion of their souls. They are alive, yet it is no longer them, but Christ living in them (see Galatians 2:20).
-- Henri J.M. Nouwen, Bread for the Journey (New York: HarperCollins, 1997)
Jesus Christ is Lord of the commonplace.
First Lesson
Acts 2:14a, 36-41
The People's Response To Peter's Sermon
Pasting the same opening line from last week's lesson onto the final line of Peter's Pentecost sermon, the lectionary editors introduce the passage that follows immediately after -- describing the reaction of the crowd to Peter's message. It is, predominantly, a Jewish crowd; although many languages are represented (verses 9-11), these people are all Jews from different parts of the diaspora, having come to Jerusalem on pilgrimage. Peter can assume a common familiarity with the Hebrew scriptures. These people are "cut to the heart" by his message and ask the apostles, "Brothers, what should we do?" (v. 37). The word "brothers" is another indication of their common Jewish heritage. Peter's answer is, "Repent, and be baptized" -- and he promises them, also, the gift of the Holy Spirit (v. 38). The next verse, "For the promise is for you, for your children, and for all who are far away" prefigures the vision Peter will later have of a God who "shows no partiality," offering salvation to Gentiles as well as Jews (10:34). Peter's exhortation, "Save yourself from this corrupt generation," can also mean "this corrupt people" (literally, the adjective is "twisted" or "crooked" -- skolios, the same word from which "scoliosis" comes). Peter's message has an astounding impact: 3,000 converts in a single day (v. 41).
New Testament Lesson
1 Peter 1:17-23
A Call To A Reverent And Holy Life
After issuing a call to personal holiness (v. 16), the author moves on to exhort his readers to a serious-minded faith. Literally, the verb is "fear" (phobos), which the NRSV translates "reverent fear" (v. 17). In many other places, the Bible speaks of fear of the Lord ("The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom" -- Proverbs 9:10), but in no case does it mean the sort of abject terror that modern readers tend to associate with the word. This is a healthy sort of fear -- perhaps better described as "respect" or "reverence." We are to fear the Lord "during the time of [our] exile (paroikia)" -- this earthly life of ours, in other words, is an experience of exile from our true home. In verses 18-19, the author introduces the topic of redemption in Christ. We were ransomed, he says, from "futile" or "worthless" forms of conduct inherited from our ancestors -- "not with perishable things like silver or gold, but with the precious blood of Christ." The irony, of course, is that silver and gold are among the most imperishable of the elements. Christ is described, here, as a sacrificial lamb, "chosen beforehand, before the foundation of the world, but revealed at the time of the eschaton for you" (verses 19-20). The implication is that this ultimate revelation is coming soon, if indeed it has not already begun. We have come to trust in Christ because God has raised and glorified him (v. 21). The final words of this passage are an exhortation to love, which is possible because the believers' souls have been "purified" as a result of devotion to the truth (v. 22). Believers have been "born anew, not of perishable but of imperishable seed" (v. 23).
The Gospel
Luke 24:13-35
On The Road To Emmaus
This story, the first of two appearances of the resurrected Jesus in Luke's gospel, is unique to Luke. At its center is a meal -- an event that not only has strong eucharistic overtones, but that also functions -- as it typically does in Near Eastern culture -- to bind its participants together in table fellowship. Two disciples of Jesus -- one named Cleopas, the other unnamed -- are walking down the short road between Jerusalem and the village of Emmaus. They are, of course, discussing the momentous events of recent days: the crucifixion of Jesus, and the reported message from angels telling of his resurrection. Luke's resurrection account (24:1-12) is an empty-tomb tradition that includes no physical appearance. When Jesus turns up on the road to Emmaus, it is, therefore, the first time any of his disciples see him in the flesh after his death. Jesus overtakes these two disciples and falls in with them as a traveling companion -- although they are unable to recognize him for who he is (v. 15). He asks them what they are talking about, but they just "stand still, looking sad" (v. 17).
Not knowing who this stranger is, they are perhaps cautious, as well; a current-events discussion is one thing, but if it should come out that they have had a role in shaping those current events, their lives could perhaps be in danger. In verses 19-20, they begin to relate the news about Jesus' death -- news everyone in Jerusalem already knows about -- but then, in verse 21, they throw caution to the wind and identify themselves as at least sympathizers with the Galilean rabbi, if not actually his followers. In verses 22-24, they relate the rumors of resurrection, making it clear that they were not in the company of those who went and looked into the empty tomb. In verses 25-27, Jesus shifts from listener to speaker, expounding to them various unnamed scriptures that foretell the coming of the Messiah. By now, it is clear to Cleopas and his friend that the stranger's earlier question -- "What things?" (v. 19) -- was a mere conversation gambit. This man is even better-informed than they. As they draw near to Emmaus, he appears to be going further along the road. They entreat him to stay with them -- a standard, Near Eastern offer of hospitality that is typically declined and re-extended a few times before being accepted (v. 29). That is what happens in this case, and Jesus ultimately accepts. It is unclear whose house this is: whether it belongs to one of the two disciples, to a friend or relative of theirs, or whether it is some sort of inn. It is also unclear if others are present -- although, in that culture, it would have been unlikely that they would have been alone at a meal. "When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them" (v. 30).
The language, of course, closely parallels Luke's description of the institution of the Lord's Supper (22:19). As soon as Cleopas and his companion receive the bread from his hands, they recognize him, and he vanishes (v. 31). It is highly significant that they recognize him in the breaking of the bread -- this bears witness to a deeply held belief in the early church that Christ is reliably present in the celebration of the Lord's Supper. Jesus' sudden appearance and disappearance is also consistent with stories from the Hebrew scriptures about certain prophets -- who, likewise, appear and disappear rather abruptly at times. In retrospect, Cleopas and his friend realize they should have known who the stranger was: "Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?" (v. 32). Yet, Luke assumes it was God's plan to keep them in the dark: "their eyes were kept from recognizing him," at the beginning (v. 16), and "their eyes were opened" as Jesus broke bread (v. 31). So momentous is this news that the two disciples get up immediately and walk the seven miles back to Jerusalem, delivering the message to "the eleven" and the others who are with them, as soon as possible. Significantly, their first instinct is to seek the fellowship of others. It is the good news that gathers the church together -- then, and now. As they arrive, they learn that Jesus has been there, too, having "appeared to Simon" (v. 34). These, Luke tells us later, are but two of numerous appearances of Jesus to his disciples during the forty days between his resurrection and his ascension (Acts 1:3).
Preaching Possibilities
If anyone ever tries to suggest there's no humor in the Bible, show them the story of the Road to Emmaus. Luke spins the story with a twinkle in his eye. Cleopas and his friend are amazed that this "stranger" has travelled from Jerusalem as they have; yet has such a dim knowledge of current events. "Are you the only one in Jerusalem who does not know of these things?" they ask.
"What things?" he replies. They go on to tell this stranger all about Jesus of Nazareth, a mighty prophet, and about his tragic death.
Jesus -- for that is of course who it is -- lets them fumble on a while. He teaches them of prophecies in scripture, and they're amazed at his knowledge -- still, they don't catch on. It is only when they arrive in Emmaus and invite the stranger to share a meal with them, and when he takes the honored place at the head of the table and breaks the bread, that their eyes are opened and they recognize him. No sooner do they realize who he is and feel the joy and wonder of this good news wash over them, than he vanishes out of their sight.
The story of the road to Emmaus is a comedy of errors, a tale of one misunderstanding after another. At every turn, Cleopas and his friend miss the point. They think they know where Jesus is: dead and buried. They aren't prepared for a risen Lord who walks with them along the road and speaks to them of common things. Finally, it is in the most commonplace action of all -- the breaking of bread at an ordinary meal -- that it dawns on them who this is. We can almost see Luke smiling as he tells the story.
With our hindsight, knowing who this stranger is, we too can smile. Cleopas and his companion are so slow to grasp the truth, but we know the story is a comedy, not a tragedy. We know it comes out all right in the end. Cleopas and his friend have simply exited the theater too soon, before the final scene has been played.
Yet, there's more at work here than simply a lack of insight. Cleopas and his friend fail to see -- to really see -- even when Jesus is standing right before them. "Their eyes are kept from recognizing him."
What is it that keeps their eyes from recognizing Jesus, the one whom they yearn to see more than anyone in the world? Cleopas and his friend are followers of Jesus, after all. They care about him. They lingered in Jerusalem after his death, risking arrest, until they heard those bewildering rumors of resurrection.
Moreover, the two are talking about all these things as they walk, weighing the truth of the rumors, rehearsing again in their minds the events of the past few days. Yet, still their eyes are kept from recognizing him. How comic -- and yet, how tragic!
Why do Cleopas and his friend fail to see?
They fail to see because they are looking for the wrong lord. If the rumors of resurrection are true, they reason, Jesus will surely come in with a company of angels, prince regent of the new kingdom of God. The last thing Cleopas and his friend expect to see is a Lord who overtakes them on the road, walking briskly. They are not prepared for a Lord of the commonplace.
I don't think we are either, most of the time. It's easy to forget that the whole meaning of the incarnation, of God's coming in human form, is that "God so loves the world." God loves the world so much as to approach it on our terms. Even as Christ overtakes us on our personal Emmaus roads, we fail to recognize him. We talk of inconsequential things. We fill our minds with trivia, and our hearts with small anxieties. We fail to recognize him.
There's something in us that makes us want to worship Jesus Christ -- but only from a safe distance. We want to put Christ "up there," or "out there," removed from the messiness of daily life -- to treat him, in other words, like company at a formal dinner party, not like the old friend dropping by for coffee around the kitchen table.
Every once in a while, we allow the real Christ to break through. There are times when we have no choice: when life has become so confusing or threatening or painful that we fall on our knees and plead with Christ to leap the gap. We become like a certain Jamaican woman who was trapped in a hurricane with her house falling down around her: "I didn't pray," she told a reporter. "I yelled to God."
Sometimes crises are creative, life-changing moments. Outlined in the stark strobe light of panic, we see clearly, in unforgettable images, who we are and how much God loves us. Sometimes we're lucky and the memory of God's presence stays with us. But other times, we slip back into normalcy, back into the commonplace, leaving God to dwell only in the exceptional moments of life.
Another way of saying this is that we have kept Jesus in the tomb. Ever visit a graveyard? Most of them are very peaceful, even pleasant places. The well-kept lawns, the flowers placed by gleaming white monuments, the raked gravel walks: the whole environment is calculated to convey serenity. That's because, apart from the occasional funeral and the groundskeeper's weekly pass-by with the lawnmower, nothing ever happens in a graveyard.
Yet, isn't that where we're inclined to place Jesus Christ: in the parts of our lives where nothing much happens? Where the excitement is, the pain, the heartache, the joys -- in other words, where life is really lived -- that's where we try mightily to make it on our own. The risen, living Lord we leave back in the tomb as Cleopas and his friend thought they had left Jesus in Jerusalem.
There are probably as many different tombs for Jesus as there are people to build them, but here are two of the most common. One is a sort of ethical tomb -- seeing Jesus as a great teacher and little else. The other is an intellectual tomb -- seeing Christ as an idea to be proven or disproven.
The ethical tomb is very popular among people both inside and outside the church. Not all our neighbors would call themselves Christians, but just about everyone in our society would acknowledge some minimal, grudging respect for "Christian ethics." To put Christ in an ethical tomb is to see him as little more than a moral example.
The preacher Halford Luccock once observed that for many people, John 3:16 is probably translated incorrectly. For them, the verse really says: "For God so loved the world, that he inspired a certain rabbi to teach his contemporaries that loving one's neighbor is a good thing." Who, now, could disagree with that statement: "Loving one's neighbor is a good thing"?
That's the ethical tomb. The tomb contains a Christ who can be admired, even worshiped and venerated -- but not a Christ who lives today.
Then there is the intellectual tomb: Christ as idea. You don't need to be an intellectual to treat Christ this way; all you have to do is see faith as a matter to be proven or disproven by the evidence. Like the ethical tomb, the intellectual tomb is a place to put Jesus away for safekeeping -- only this tomb is more like a fortress. People who use this tomb are strongly attracted to Bible verses like 1 Peter 3:15: "Always be prepared to make a defense to any one who calls you to account for the hope that is in you..." Theirs is the kind of faith that's perpetually engaged in proving itself, in arguing about which beliefs are true and which false.
Many Christians are so busy trying to prove their faith that they never practice it. They jump on every story of answered prayer or spiritual healing, adding each account to a great storehouse of evidence they keep inside their heads. The problem with this approach is that it fails to take account of the nature of faith.
Faith can't be proven. No matter how many pieces of evidence for Christianity we pile up, they're all circumstantial. They can't tip the scales one way or the other. To the person of faith they make sense, but to the unconvinced they're just coincidence. The mind that comes to faith operates not as a judge in a courtroom, but as a visitor to an art gallery -- a person who walks up and down, observing common, everyday things. Yet these common things, in their frames, serve as windows to a world beyond.
Jesus himself knew how to find God in the commonplace. He could see the divine in other people. How else can we account for his choice of disciples? If someone were to set out on a systematic campaign to win the world, why on earth would that person choose an impetuous, ill-tempered fisherman like Simon? Yet, Jesus could see in that simple fisherman Peter, the rock on which he would build his church. This man would argue with Jesus, fail him and eventually deny him; yet, Jesus could see in him a yearning for higher things and an uncommon courage, despite all his imperfections.
Jesus had a marvelous way of seeing traces of God's work in things as well. Remember when the disciples were anxious about where they would find a change of clothes? Jesus pointed them to some nearby flowers and said, "Consider the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin. Yet even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.... If God so clothes the grass of the field, will he not much more clothe you?" (Matthew 6:28-30).
For Jesus, faith is a way of seeing -- a way of looking into and through the commonplace to discover eternal meaning. That's why he tells so many parables. Those little tales, like paintings in an art gallery, serve as windows into God's kingdom.
If faith is a way of seeing, then it's not something that can easily be cultivated. Faith is not the Christian's trade, a work that can be perfected through persistence and repetition. We can't will ourselves into faith, any more than Cleopas and his friend could will themselves into understanding the events that had them so confused. So often, our eyes are kept from recognizing him.
The answer to our dilemma -- and the good news of the gospel -- is that we don't have to find Jesus. He finds us. Jesus finds us in the everyday comings and goings of our lives, in the commonplace. He shows himself to us, just as he showed himself to disciples in the breaking of bread.
Sometimes Christ appears to us in the actual breaking of bread, as we partake of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper. Sometimes he shows himself in the waters of baptism, dripping off the forehead of a new Christian (whether an infant or an adult). Yet, Jesus is not limited to the rites of the church. He can make anything in this God-created world a sacrament.
At times, we may glimpse Christ in the breaking of bread at an ordinary meal -- around a family dinner table, in a school cafeteria, in a lunchroom at work. You and I may see Christ, if we try, in our wives or husbands, our children, our parents, our coworkers. Such are the gifts given us by a risen Lord.
In coming into our world, in submitting to death and rising again, Jesus Christ has become Lord of the commonplace. It will do little good for us to try to seek him in ornate tombs of ethical or intellectual abstraction, because he's not there. Christ is not anywhere we can control him; he is risen, and walks among us.
As we walk along the road, talking about all the things that have come to pass -- participating, in other words, in the business of living -- we just may glimpse, out of the corner of our eye, a stranger overtaking us. At first we will not recognize him, but then we will sense a growing warmth, as our hearts burn within us. And then comes the moment, magnificent and unexpected, when we see who it is breaking bread with us.
He will vanish out of our sight. He always does. That's his way. Yet we know he will return, and we will see him again: somewhere in the commonplace.
Prayer For The Day
Open my eyes, that I may see
glimpses of truth Thou hast for me;
place in my hands the wonderful key
that shall unclasp and set me free.
Silently now I wait for Thee,
ready, my God, Thou will to see.
Open my eyes, illumine me, Spirit, divine!
-- Clara H. Scott, 1895
To Illustrate
There are three times in which to know an event: in rehearsal, at the time of the event, and in remembrance. In rehearsal, understanding is hindered by an inability to believe that the event will really occur or that it will be so important. At the time of the event, understanding is hindered by the clutter and confusion of so much so fast. But in remembrance, the nonseriousness of rehearsal and the busyness of the event give way to recognition, realization, and understanding. This is a time of understanding an important trip, a wedding, a gathering of friends, or a conversation with a stranger turned Christ at table.
-- Fred Craddock, Luke, in the Interpretation commentary series (Louisville, Kentucky: John Knox Press, 1990), p. 287
***
There is an old story from the Eastern Orthodox tradition, of a man who went to a monastery and told the abbot he wanted to see God. "How many prayers, how many days of fasting will I have to undergo before I see God?" he asked.
The abbot stood up from behind his desk. "So you want to see God," he said. "Come with me." And the abbot led the man down many winding corridors and dark staircases until they came at last to the kitchen, and finally to the place where the dishes were washed. There, covered with grease and grime, was the meanest, lowliest, most mentally deficient of all the monks. The abbot pointed to him and said, "God."
***
The preacher Harry Emerson Fosdick once said, "The problem with many of us is not that we think God untrue, but that we find God unreal." That's the difficulty of faith: not that we've struggled with doubt and lost, but that we have let God slip into irrelevance, have banished God to a remote and dusty corner of our lives.
***
Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens.
-- Carl Jung
***
Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not by its growth, but by washing away from it all that is not gold.
-- Leo Tolstoy
***
Said a traveler to one of the disciples, "I have traveled a great distance to listen to the Master, but I find his words quite ordinary."
"Don't listen to his words. Listen to his message."
"How does one do that?"
"Take hold of a sentence that he says. Shake it well till all the words drop off. What is left will set your heart on fire."
-- Anthony De Mello
***
When the two disciples recognised Jesus as he broke the bread for them in their house in Emmaus, he "vanished from their sight" (Luke 24:31). The recognition and the disappearance of Jesus are one and the same event. Why? Because the disciples recognised that their Lord Jesus, the Christ, now lives in them... that they have become Christ-bearers. Therefore, Jesus no longer sits across the table from them as the stranger, the guest, the friend with whom they can speak and from whom they can receive good counsel. He has become one with them. He has given them his own Spirit of Love. Their companion on the journey has become the companion of their souls. They are alive, yet it is no longer them, but Christ living in them (see Galatians 2:20).
-- Henri J.M. Nouwen, Bread for the Journey (New York: HarperCollins, 1997)
