Easter 3A, 2014 – Acts 2:14a, 36-41; Psalm 116; 1 Peter 1:17-23; Luke 24:13-35
Our Gospel story today is one of the most popular of all – the so-called “road to Emmaus”. And it was clearly popular from the earliest ages of the church, deriving from the account of some now unknown Christians who were among Jesus’ first followers. The story circulated widely, and even found its way into the ending of Mark’s Gospel, within a summarizing list of appearances made by the resurrected Jesus to his followers. “Now when he rose early on the first day of the week, he appeared first to Mary Magdalene”, Mark writes, “…she went and told the others, but they did not believe it. After this he appeared in another form to two of them, as they were walking into the country. And they went back and told the rest,” (Mark 16:9ff.).
The story obviously captured the imagination of Christians from the start. After all, it is tied to two central aspects of the Christian life: the hearing of Scripture and the Eucharist – “and they said to one another, ‘did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road and opened to us the Scriptures?’…And they told [the others] what had happened on the road, and how [Jesus] was known to them in the breaking of the bread,” (Luke 24:32, 35).
But more than this, the story is very, very human. We don’t even know who these two disciples are. One of them, Cleopas, is otherwise unknown; and the second doesn’t even have a name. This is not about the great Peter or John, or even any of the other apostles – Philip or Thomas, around whom legends have formed. The two on the road to Emmaus must have been among the dozens of barely remembered followers of Jesus, drawn to his teaching or healing, filled with yearning for what he promised, yet no more than faces in a crowd. Remind you of anyone? They are the “every-Christian”, people of fragile faith – like us – who have come and gone by the thousands and millions over the years. We are told that they are “sad”: like the rest of us, they had looked for something better in their lives; they had turned to God, seeking silently; they were encouraged, perhaps excited, by what this teacher Jesus had said and embodied: “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel,” to grant release, to make things better, to bring some light into this sorry place. When Jesus does in fact come close to them, they do not recognize him, they carry on talking, wistful and lonely, their religious vision “slow” to come to life; but when it does, their hearts fill with delight. Surely you and I could tell some kind of similar story.
And not only are they so human, their faith itself, as it forms before our eyes, is so accessible: not here the flashing visions and voices of St. Paul knocked off his horse, or the volatile anguish of Peter, or the angels at the empty tomb, or even the dramatic encounter of Mary Magdalene in the garden. It took them time, a long walk, a conversation, reflection even, a kind of retrospective recognition, and finally, all alone, they are able to say, “the Lord is alive!” Yes, but that is something they have to come to realize. It isn’t drilled into them, hammered over their head, unveiled before their eyes in a flash. How does that happen? I think the simple answer – and the profound one too – is “hope”: hope grows, is passed along, spreads, transforms. Transforms everything.
There have, in fact, been many prayers composed on the basis of this Gospel. One of them comes from a short Collect for Evening Prayer in the American prayer book I was formed in. It goes like this: Lord Jesus, stay with us, for evening is at hand and the day is past: be our companion in the way, kindle our hearts, awaken hope, that we may know you as you are revealed to us in the Scripture and the breaking of bread (p. 124).
Now there’s a lot that’s obvious in this prayer and to which it responds: the need for Christ’s presence; the daily round from morning to nightfall, where we forget our Lord; a heart that is made alive again – all true, all needed. But to me, the key part of this prayer is the interpretative petition: “awaken hope”. It is a phrase that isn’t found in the Gospel reading itself; but it’s a kind of explanation of it, as if to say, “this is what is happening in this Gospel story…hope is being engendered, hope is being created even, where there was none.” And it points us to the meaning of the other elements of the story: having a companion along the way; being renewed, being turned to Scripture and the Eucharist: it’s all about hope, the hope that is grounded in the resurrection of Jesus among us.
And we know: this is not how we really live our lives, is it. Our “way” – from morning until night – is generally unthinking, slogged out, carried through alone. Which is simply another way of saying, “we don’t really expect much from it, or see where it is heading, and sense its fullness.” Another day. Day by day, another day.
But what if Jesus were our companion? Really? It’s not just that you would feel less alone; or that you would feel more confident. Rather, the world would look different, and your choices would change, and your will would be less constrained and timid and turned inward.
How many times I have sat at a table in discussion, or across from somebody, and the disagreements, the arguments, the emoting and confusions have poured forth…and I have wondered silently: if He were here, beside us, alive, what would our Lord say, how would he react? Our words would quiet, our demands lessen, our antagonisms melt. For we know that the truths we sense would emerge with compelling peace. Or the big decision we have to make, over risking something, engaging a calling, doing something new: imagine, there he is, beside you – alive, not only alive, but risen from the dead, gone into the pit and come out again renewed.
It is not just that we would know what is the right thing to do then. I believe most of the time we already know what is right. The problem is that what is right – forgiveness, patience, giving away, facing up, trying again, saying “no”, saying “yes” – the problem is that what is “right” makes us uncomfortable, and so we turn away, hide from it, act as if it’s too complex – I can’t forgive, because…; I can’t contribute, after all it might not work…; I can’t back this, because I need to listen to all sides first, research it…; I can’t say “no”, because what will they think of me? I can’t say “yes” because I don’t have enough energy.
But imagine: here is the Lord, walking beside us, and able to explain all things, and we know what is right…what would happen then? Would we not at last give up our fear, happily, eagerly, and simply do it? Because all things are possible in the Lord? Here he is, living proof of this fact, death conquered before our eyes, beside us? That is hope. “Awaken hope, O Lord”. Not in the imagination, of course; but really.
The Psalmist writes of God, “Because you are at my right hand I shall not fall” (Psalm 16:8). That is true. But hope is more than such a confidence. Hope is the freeing of the will for love. When that happens you start looking for it everywhere; hope breeds hope. The many times I have been in the midst of some situation where it seemed impossible, and everything was stymied – I remember trying to get a refugee family out of Africa in the middle of a civil war, and nothing was working, every attempt hit a roadblock. Yes, I was ready to quit and walk away. And discussing this with someone, they looked at me calmly and simply said, “we do this; it will happen”. And one person after another literally “caught it”. Time after time. And I’m not talking about “optimism”. Hope breeds hope, because He, the Lord Jesus, in fact stands alive. That is why the disciples could meet and pray and sing and share their goods, as we hear in Acts today: not because they had adopted a “purpose-driven” plan for their church, not because they had a strategy for church growth, not because they followed a model for how to order the economy socialistically.
They did so simply because the Lord Jesus was alive. And seeing this, the world is no longer the dead-end burden of everything we do, the “can’t work” embodiment of all our fears: For now He comes to us and declares: “take heart, I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). He comes and announces, “Fear not, I am the first and the last, and the living one; I died, and behold I am alive for evermore” (Rev. 1:17.). Awaken hope.
And this is why the Scriptures “open” up to us, and the Eucharist overflows in grace. Not because we have a keen intellect, or a devout discipline, or intense piety. But because hope leads us to expect life and more life, and to search for it, and to receive it: “seek and you will find; ask and it will be given you; knock, and the door will be opened” (Luke 11:9) – this is the refrain of hope. In hope, the promises of God become the vehicles of rejoicing: “In [Jesus Christ] it is always ‘yes’; for all the promises of God find their Yes in him” (2 Cor. 1:19f.). Why wouldn’t the Scriptures yield to us God’s word? What do you hope to hear in it? “Oh, it’s just a book; it’s old; it’s out-dated; it’s written by the small-minded.” You hope nothing? Why would not the Eucharist be to you the vessel of grace abounding? “It’s just bread and a sip from a shiny goblet.” You hope nothing?
But if you hoped – “I have not spoken in secret, asking you to seek me in vain; I declare what is right” (Isaiah 45:18ff); “I fill the hungry with good things!” (Lk. 1:53) – if you hoped, you would listen and hear and be fed; your cup would run over. Because hope is the life of the Risen Lord beside us now, whatever else seems to be the case.
The story here – remembered and told by these first followers of Jesus, now forgotten, people like you and me – their story, told and passed on, was that they had learned to hope, hope in a dark world. They had learned it, because He, their Lord, filled with love, foolishly courageous, keen-eyed and devoted, a man of prayer and of desire for God, upright and forgiving, willing to speak the truth despite its unpopularity, unwilling to lash out and seek to overpower…they had learned hope because this Lord of theirs, had walked into the arms of death, and wrestled it down, and broken its hold, and taken life back again, and now, now, had walked into their midst, taken them to his side, and confronted them with the facts of the universe as it stands truly with God: “why so slow to believe?”. Believe all that God tells you; be freed, act upon it. The two disciples rush back to Jerusalem, and their breathless telling of the tale is now shared with us: “Is this what you want?” they ask us. So that the world could open up to you, and you would no longer be beholden to its recalcitrance and immovability? Listen to us: He is alive! He walks upon the way with us. He speaks to us. He sits with us. He shares His life and death with us at the meal of heaven. He awakens hope. Oh, how our world has changed!
