Third Sunday of Easter
Of all the mind-boggling and mystifying passages in the New Testament, this morning’s gospel lesson for the third Sunday of Easter probably takes the cake as the most mind-boggling and mystifying of them all.Sure, there is the story of the day Jesus and the disciples were in a boat on the Sea of Galilee when a storm came up, and Jesus “rebuked the wind and the raging waves; they ceased, and there was a calm” (Luke 8:24). That’s mind-boggling, all right, but this morning’s passage is even more so.
There is another Sea of Galilee story about how the disciples were in a boat that was being battered by the wind that was blowing against them, “And early in the morning [Jesus] came walking toward them on the sea. . . . Jesus spoke to them and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid’” (Matthew 14:25,27). That’s mystifying, all right, but this morning’s passage is even more so.
One day when Jesus was teaching, there was a large crowd with nowhere to buy bread to feed them, so Jesus told his disciples to seat the people where they were, and Jesus fed them all with five barley loaves and two small fish. And after everyone had eaten their fill, there was more left over than there was to begin with (John 6:5-14). That passage is mind-boggling and mystifying, but this morning’s passage is even more so.
In the calming of the sea, the walking on water, and the feeding of the five thousand, as in many other gospel stories, there is a central mystification, a single mind-boggle. But in this morning’s gospel lesson the mind-boggling and the mystifying run from beginning to end.
First of all, who are these two people, and why are they walking the seven miles or so from Jerusalem to Emmaus? It’s a curious shift in the narrative from Jerusalem to a dusty road miles away and from the central cohort of Jesus’ followers to two outliers on a dirt road. But that part is easy compared to what comes next: “Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him” (Luke 24:15-16). Now that’s mystifying.
Not only that, but this one whom they do not recognize who is the subject of their conversation asks them questions such as, “What are you discussing?” How ironic is that? Technically, it’s called “dramatic irony,” when you the reader know more than the characters in the story do. You know it’s Jesus, but the two walkers don’t. They say to him, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?” (v 18). Now, that’s funny, at least it would be if we weren’t so deadly serious when we read the gospels. Here they are remonstrating Jesus for what they think he does not know about what has happened. He could have said, “Tell me about it!” In fact, that’s exactly what he says: “Tell me.” And so they do.
And after they offer an account that Jesus clearly considers to be less than adequate, he leads them in a Bible-study. He teaches from what we call the Old Testament, the books of Moses and the prophets. And somehow still they do not recognize him for who he is. Mind-boggling, I’d say.
As they neared the village to which the two were going, the one they did not recognize “walked ahead as if he were going on.” As clueless as the two were, they had the presence of mind to invite him in: “Stay with us,” they said, “‘because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.’ So he went in to stay with them” (v 29). When mealtime came, the one whom they did not recognize “took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight” (vv 30-31). Mind-boggling and mystifying.
Who is this that commands the wind and the waves and they obey him? Who is this that walks on water? Who is this that feeds five thousand people with a lunch intended for a child? Who is this that walks with us and teaches us and is made know to us in the breaking of bread? In the ancient world in which Jesus lived and in which the gospels first circulated, the central question in each of these mystifying and mind-boggling stories is “Who is this?”
Since the rise of rationalism and empirical science in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the question has shifted from “Who is this?” to “How could this happen?” Instead of asking “Who?” in awe and wonder, readers began to ask “How?” in skepticism and cynicism. But one of the things that we learned about the nature of knowledge in the twentieth century is that the kind of question we ask and the place where we are standing when we ask it make all the difference in the world in what we see and hear for an answer.
If you choose to read these stories and all the rest of Scripture with awe and with wonder, you will discover within them awesome and wonderful things. If, on the other hand, you choose to read these stories and all the rest with suspicion and skepticism and cynicism, you will find exactly what you are looking for: nothing, nothing at all.
So let me suggest this morning a different question. Let’s leave behind for a moment the first-century question, “Who is this?” and set aside for now the eighteenth and nineteenth-century question, “How could this happen?” Let’s ask instead a question of faith and of doubt, of searching and of seeking, of learning and of growing that interpreters of these texts have taught us to ask for centuries: “What do these words mean?” It is in the nature of the human enterprise of interpreting texts that interpreters find what they are looking for, so let’s look for meaning in this text in the context of this wonderful Community of Believers, Each Member a Minister. “What do these words mean?”
First, look at the very beginning and the very end of this story. There are “two of them” walking together and talking together as they try to make sense of what they have experienced in recent days. In their case, what they have experienced has been traumatic and disturbing, disappointing and confusing. But these two did not hide themselves away alone in their rooms to brood and to stew in grief and in anger and in self-pity. Instead, they set out together to walk and to talk about what they had experienced.
What these words mean is that experiencing the presence of the Risen Christ in our lives is not a heroic, individual effort in which we receive some private otherworldly revelation that no one else has. Experiencing the presence of the Risen Christ in our lives is always grounded in community and in communion. It is as though this story were intended to illustrate Jesus’ words, “For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them” (Matthew 18:20).
So the next time you find yourself traumatized and disturbed, disappointed and confused, take a walk—take a roll—with someone you know and love and trust and in your walking and talking and eating together you will discover community and communion that lifts you up to recognize that you are not walking alone after all and that you have been walking all along in the presence of the One who created you and called you and redeems you and loves you even when you did not recognize it.
Set aside the mystifying and the mind-boggling elements of the story and you will discover a simple truth in it: we never know for sure what or who is ahead on the path we are on, but we walk in trust because we know the One who is the Way and who is with us always, even when we do not recognize it.
What do these words mean? Look at the middle of the story. The two of them are walking and talking about what they have experienced in recent days when a stranger, someone they do not recognize, approaches them. If ever two adults had occasion to be put off on account of the possibility of “stranger danger,” now was a good time for it. Remember Peter’s experience three nights earlier in the courtyard of the high priest when he was singled out with the chilling words, “You also were with Jesus the Galilean” (Matthew 26:69), and “Certainly you are also one of them” (Matthew 26:73). When this stranger approached, they had all the reason in the world to stop and let him walk on by or quicken their pace so that it would be clear to him that they did not want him to join their company. But what they did instead was to welcome another walker in, a stranger no less.
When they did, they could have changed the subject of their conversation, like people typically do when the preacher walks up: “Beautiful weather we’re having, isn’t it?” “How ’bout that earthquake Friday afternoon? That was somethin’, eh?” “That was some big crowd for Passover this year, wasn’t it? Oy vey! What a crowd!” Not only did they welcome the stranger into their company but they also welcomed the stranger into their conversation.
And when they did, they learned and experienced more about Jesus from their conversation with the stranger than they ever would have learned and experienced if they had kept to themselves. Why, it’s as though this story were intended to illustrate Jesus’ words, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Matthew 26:35). If you don’t obsess over the mystifying and the mind-boggling elements of the story, you will discover a simple truth in it: we often learn more about God and ourselves and the world we live in from strangers than we do from one another.
What do these words mean? Look again at the end of the story. It’s a common biblical motif: extending hospitality to the stranger in food and lodging. But that’s not “the moral of the story.” There is something deeper and more powerful at work here and it is this: it is the presence of God in Jesus Christ in the ordinary, the everyday, the mundane and the profane. There was nothing religious or theological, sacerdotal or liturgical about the invitation. It was simply, “Hey buddy, this is as far as we’re going. But look, it’s getting late. Why don’t you stay where we’re staying. There’ll be room enough and food enough. Don’t walk by yourself in the dark. Come stay with us.” And he did.
There was absolutely nothing special about the invitation, about the house, or about the meal. But what happened in the story is what happens when people sit down to eat together, when strangers sit down to eat together, when friends sit down to eat together, when families sit down to eat together: the most ordinary, everyday, mundane and profane acts become occasions for grace, eternal moments, and sacred events.
A cup of cold water, Jesus said. Some hand-me-down clothes for someone who needs them, a home-cooked meal, a bed to sleep in, a visit during sickness or incarceration, a timely tip on a good place to fish, a breakfast on the beach. Surrounded by the presence of the One who is with us always, ordinary, everyday, mundane and profane acts are occasions for grace, eternal moments, sacred events.
What do these words mean? Walk together and talk together and eat together sharing your experience in conversation and in community and in communion, and you will discover there the presence of the Risen Christ with you.
What do these words mean? Open that conversation and community and communion to strangers, and you will find the Risen Christ revealed to you in them.
What do these words mean? Embrace the ordinary, everyday, mundane and profane as occasions for grace, eternal moments, sacred events, and you will discover in them the presence of the Risen Christ in them.
Amen.
Photo by Matt Perry, used under license of Creative Commons. This material is Copyrighted © 2011 by Jeffrey S. Rogers. It may be copied or disseminated for non-commercial use, provided this notice is included. The author can be contacted at jeffrogers110@bellsouth.net.
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