Easter 3A

The ‘Road to Emmaus’ story is another one of the Easter accounts that is so familiar that one almost doesn’t need to say anything about it. (I could stop right here.) It tells from another gospel (Luke rather than John) the disciples’ inability to see Jesus until he reveals himself in a known action, the blessing and breaking of the bread.

Perhaps I smile when this story crops up in the lectionary because it is one of the few stories recounted in our stained glass windows. It is such a wonderful window with its yellows and oranges that light up the corner of the church by the Mary altar, especially in the middle of the winter when it can be rather gloomy. It is a remarkable window for the pelican that is in the upper centre part (which has its own story). It is a window that we see week in and week out and perhaps ignore.

[Our choir director] three years ago pointed out something I hadn’t ever really paid attention to but ever since do: in the upper right-hand corner, in the grey building, on its second storey, is a balcony. In the doorway, stands a man next to a sitting bare-chested man. It’s hard to know who the two men are but one of the two disciples whom Jesus meets seems to point to the house where the men are.

It makes you wonder: are the men the hosts of where Jesus will have dinner with the disciples and through the breaking of bread reveal to them who he is? Can the two men in the balcony overhear the discussion of the disciples with Jesus? Who are they? One properly clothed, the other looking hurt and marginal? The artist and someone else? You and me overhearing the story? Why did the artist include them in this window?


What if we put ourselves into that balcony and listen to the conversation and watch what happens? For this well-known story from Luke’s gospel is one into which we can place our own life and discover Jesus on our life journey.

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This story carries many elements that have popped up again and again throughout Luke’s gospel: there is the importance of accompaniment and breaking of bread; there’s table fellowship; there’s a journey. Most important, this story fulfils Luke’s over-riding theme of recognition (epignosis), set out at the beginning of the gospel. Luke tells Theophilus [lover of God] to whom he is writing the gospel that he is doing so that he may recognize this Jesus. Such recognition of Jesus’ presence — one of those deep ‘aha’ moments — is what the road to Emmaus story is about. Recognition of Jesus and how we respond is what the post-Easter journey is about. And recognition of Jesus and how we respond is what our entire life journey is about.

Just as last week’s gospel narrative is very well known, so is today’s. The two disciples, one named, the other not, are walking away from Jerusalem to Emmaus, another place historically associated with terrible defeat and trauma. Though Jesus had commanded the disciples earlier to stay in the city of Jerusalem, they have abandoned it.

So, on the road to Emmaus, these two disciples are fleeing the pain of Jesus' execution and the city in which it happened. A stranger approaches and accompanies them along the way, walking with them, even as they go in the wrong direction in more ways than one. A dialogue ensues over the afternoon and evening that transposes an oppressive story into a liberating one. Then all becomes clear when Jesus takes bread, blesses it, breaks it and gives it to them. He teaches them and as soon as the disciples get it, he disappears from their midst. With their new understanding, they take off back to Jerusalem, pounding those seven or eight miles under their feet.

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I want to go back to our stained glass window and look at this gospel story from a slightly different angle than I have in previous years. I want us to imagine that we are the disciples who exclaim to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’ Further, I want us to picture ourselves on the road, with the two men in the balcony overhearing and watching us as we figure it out and think about how we’d respond to them.

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Have you ever been deep in conversation when a stranger interrupts you? And this stranger then asks you what you’ve been talking about? Has this ever happened while you were talking about your faith, God, Jesus, church, communion, or prayer? (I am assuming that you sometimes talk about these matters!) And has this happened in a context other than here?

A couple of occasions come to mind. There was the time that five of us were having dinner at the Chef’s Table in Montpelier (I was a guest). Three of us were very involved in General Convention and, therefore, The Episcopal Church governance. The other two were not but as our conversation rambled along, it evolved into a larger discussion about faith, religion, teaching, politics, and more. Finally our waitperson could no longer stand it and, as discretely as possible (which wasn’t), asked, ‘What are you all anyway?’

Another time, three years ago in France on the Chemin, in a little bitty café that sat about a dozen people, I started talking en français with the man at the table next to me. It started out the usual pilgrim conversation: ‘Where are you from? How far have you walked? How far are you going? Why are you walking? What has the pilgrimage meant to you thus far?’ But then it got into deeper waters. My conversation partner admitted he was a lapsed Catholic, a ‘spiritual but not religious’ person. We delved into some pretty deep theology: ecclesiology, the incarnation, sin, redemption, suffering, and more. As we continued on, I noticed that the other conversations in the restaurant had stopped and we had a small crowd listening in on our conversation.

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So, what if our hearts burned with Christ’s instruction and we were to convey that energy and passion to others in a place other than here? What would it take for us to open not just the scriptures but also our faith to others in a non-traditional setting? How would we respond if someone interrupted us with the question: Just what are you anyway?

We don’t have to have all the answers to life’s mysteries or those of our faith in order to be able to talk with others about our spiritual journey or the church or God or Jesus or the Holy Spirit. We can bring our passion and love to bear to these moments. We needn’t be afraid of those people in the balcony eavesdropping on our conversations. For all we know, they might want to know more.

And, if they do, there is one more step that has to come from us: We have to invite them to come and see. Come and see why we drag ourselves out of bed on a minus-ten-degree morning to come to church for fifty minutes (8.00)/an hour and a half (10.00). Come and see why this meal we share matters so much to us. Come and see that, though the pews may be squeaky and may pinch us on occasion, the sweet fellowship and safety we find here — to be, to weep, to smile, to pray, to let go of all pretenses — are more important than cushiony seats. Come and see what it means to enter into mystery through our music, our worship and our prayers. Come and see this community of prayer. Most of all, invite them to come and see what it is that sets our hearts on fire, what makes them burn, what gives us meaning to life.

Come, gracious God, and speak to us in your still voice.
Come, risen Jesus, and be known to us in the breaking of bread.
Come, Holy Spirit, and set our hearts on fire.

And help us to make you known to others as you have been made known to us.