John 20: 19–31
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May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be
acceptable in your sight, O Lord our strength and our redeemer. Amen.
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On the Day of Resurrection, no one yet understood that the resurrection
of Jesus Christ from the dead was as much a new beginning for them as
it was for him. No one yet understood it meant a whole new
Creation, a whole new world, a whole new understanding of their common
life together. For this now would be a world newly infused by the
presence of the Holy Spirit – a God–breathed world, in other
words. This now would be a world where the Lord could be with them,
accessible to them, in a whole new way. Maybe that is why, as
Jesus went from one individual, one group to another – slowly
revealing his resurrected Presence to each one of them – he always
seemed to go in disguise. For he didn’t want it to be so
much about him – as he wanted them to understand this new
dimension, this new possibility of his Presence in their own lives.
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So, at the tomb that first morning Mary Magdalene doesn’t
recognize him – not at first, anyway. She thinks he is the
gardener. And he is – in a way. But the
brand–new garden he has come to tend involves all of
Creation – growing her and many others in it. And then,
according to Matthew, Mark and Luke, the Risen Christ flits off to
appear to several of the other women who have also come to
the tomb, looking to tend to his dead body. Will of the wisp,
will of the wisp – now you see him, now you don’t. And
John says that in the evening Jesus will walk through the locked doors
of the room where many of the fearful, confused disciples have
gathered — to breathe the Holy Spirit into
them . . . and turn their sorrow into joy.
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But first we will watch him as he catches up with two dejected disciples,
Cleopas and another unnamed one, who haven’t stayed around
Jerusalem long enough to get in on these new appearances. Oh,
they did hear reports that some of the women from their group claimed
to have seen the Lord – at the tomb, that morning, risen from
the dead. But who could believe such a wild tale? They,
on the other hand, were sensible. They were realists. They
knew the whole wonderful adventure they had lived with Jesus for the
past few years was now over. And though they were sad, they were
now on their way home to Emmaus, to pick up a sane life, a more
reasonable life, once again.
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But as they walk, talking over the crazy reports of Jesus’
appearances to people they knew were otherwise rational and
level–headed, a stranger catches up with them on the road. And
Luke’s mention of that phrase “on the road” would
have tipped first–century listeners off to the mystery that was
now beginning to swirl around this pair of disciples. For in the
first few centuries of the Christian faith, the believers themselves
called their movement The Way. [Or, “The Road;” in
Greek it’s the same word – ‘odos.] Whichever
word they used, they understood they were on a kind of pilgrimage
through this world, on their way home to God, learning something
new with every step they took. It’s for this reason that
Luke fills his whole Gospel with stories of people on their way
somewhere – first, Mary running to give her good news to
Elizabeth. Then Mary and Joseph traveling on the road from
Nazareth to Bethlehem, where Jesus will be born. Then Mary and
Joseph fleeing to Egypt to save the baby’s life from Herod’s
insane jealousy. And finally, Jesus himself, always travelling
on the way. On each journey, the people on the Way learn
something new – and with them, we do too. And now, it happens
again as Jesus, still incognito, walks beside these two disconsolate
disciples on their journey, explaining the prophetic scriptures to
them and filling them with his comforting Presence. For always,
it is the Presence of the Lord that helps us to understand scripture.
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As they walk together, the stranger reminds them that from the beginning
the scriptures they are recalling, the scriptures they are arguing over
have insisted that Messiah would be a suffering servant, a
rejected prophet, someone who came to help people in
need. So maybe, he tells them, what happened to Jesus in
Jerusalem wasn’t outside God’s plan, after all. And
as these two listen to him, something begins to stir inside
them. They want to hear more. So, when they reach the
village of Emmaus, and realize the stranger means to walk on without
them, they beg him to stay with them and join them for supper. And
when he does — taking up the bread, blessing it and breaking
it – they finally get it – that this, in fact, is
Jesus, broken, blessed and handed out to feed us all.
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They no sooner realize this than he vanishes from their sight. But
their gladness, their excitement, doesn’t vanish with him. Despite t
he late hour, despite the fact that they’d already walked all afternoon,
the two disciples now run back to Jerusalem — in the dark —
to share their good news.
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So, what does this story have to do with us? Where do we fit
in it? As I read and re–read it this week, I began to
recall moments in my own life when I too sensed the Presence of the
Lord, very close to me. Sometimes it has happened when I was
alone, distressed by something going on in my own life. More
often, though, I have felt that sense of peaceful Presence when
I’ve stopped to help someone else in trouble, someone I could
reach out to.
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And it was when I thought of those occasions that I suddenly remembered
a snatch of poetry from T. S. Eliot’s poem, “The
Wasteland.” For in that poem, Eliot too has an image of
two people, sharing some sorrow, walking together on a road. But
from time to time, he notices – or thinks he is seeing – a
hooded stranger travelling alongside them. He writes,
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding, wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
— But who is that on the other side of you? ¹
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T. S. Eliot, you see, just like Saint Luke, knew something about the
mystery of faith, the mystery of a Lord who quietly draws alongside
anyone who is suffering. For this too is Easter – not just
triumphant fanfares and joyful alleluias – but the quiet Presence
of Emmanuel, God with us, God abiding with us, who has come back for
the sake of those who now need him most. As one old hymn puts it,
Alleluia, not as orphans are we left in sorrow now.
Alleluia, he is with us, faith believes nor questions how.
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Amen.
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¹ I am indebted in this sermon to the thoughts of Peter Groves in an
essay called “Emmaus” in the April 17 edition of The Living
Word.
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