Familiar story. Two travelers. Friends? Brothers?
Husband and wife? We have no idea. Just Cleopas and whomever.
Perhaps the reason one remains unidentified is to allow us to
insert our own name into the story. Cleopas and David (or
Cleopas and Debbie...or Connie or Jim or Jane or Bob or John),
out on the road, home to Emmaus.
This idea of inserting our own name into the story makes
sense. They were just like us. They had the same concerns that
have been common in every age - keeping body and soul together,
keeping out of trouble, keeping in tune with the times, and now
keeping a stiff upper lip in the face of dashed hopes and
shattered dreams. Just like us.
They were religious folk, just like us, having walked the
several hours to Jerusalem a few days before. With a real sense
of excitement, they had gone to the holy city - obviously for the
Passover, an event no good Jew could miss; but also to be near
Jesus, one whom they had come to look on as Israel's deliverer,
the Messiah. But now they were going home...dejected, depressed,
defeated.
As they walked, they talked. Probably some about mundane
things - taxes too high, wages too low, kids too wild - but more
probably about their friend, Jesus - his teaching, his healing,
the way he seemed to love everyone he met. What about the events
of the past week? Was it really wise for him to have come into
Jerusalem, knowing the authorities were out to get him? Why did
he take such a risk that day in the temple, overturning the money
changers' tables and shouting at the priests about the temple
being a den of thieves? If only he had kept a lower profile. If
only he had not done this. If only he had done that instead. If
only... If only...
Suddenly, Cleopas and Christie are not alone. Someone is
walking along with them. "Wha's sup, y'all?" Or whatever the
Aramaic equivalent of that would be.
Cleopas and Brian stop dead in their tracks. "Wha's sup?
Wha's SUP???" Are you kidding me? As the text has it, "Are you
the only visitor to Jerusalem who does not know the things that
have happened there in these days?"
"What things?" the stranger asks.
Cleopas and Karen begin to share. With a sadness tinged by
anger, they described the events that had made them so heavy of
heart - their disappointment with religious leaders, their
distress at the political system which could be so easily
manipulated by evil men, their despair at the loss of someone who
had personified their hope for the future. Sounds very much like
something we might read in tomorrow's newspaper. Those things
happen in any age.
But there was something different here. Along with all the
rage they were venting, they had that strange story they had
heard from some women friends about an empty tomb, a vision of
angels, and a risen Lord. Oh, if only...
Does that make you wonder? Why did Cleopas and Erin leave
Jerusalem? I would think that news about the tomb being empty
might have prompted a change of plans. For whatever reason, they
did not go to the garden to find out first hand, but, as they
told their fellow traveler, "some of our companions went to the
tomb and found it just as the women had said, but him they did
not see."
Did Cleopas and Joseph not believe the report of
resurrection? An intriguing thought, but probably wishful
thinking. More likely, grave robbers. Otherwise, why not stay
in the city to see if Jesus would drop by? I wonder.
But that wonder pales in comparison to the wonder I have
about their not knowing who this was. The lesson says, "they
were kept from recognizing him." What kept them? Hold that
question.
Jesus talks now. "And beginning with Moses and all the
prophets, he explained to them what was said in all the
scriptures concerning himself." Remember what you learned in
Sunday School? Remember the Bible stories? Remember God's
promises? And as he talks, a glimmer of hope begins to warm
their hearts.
Did the Cleopas and Mary understand? Not quite. But now
they had arrived in Emmaus. The afternoon had gone too quickly;
they did not want their conversation to end. "Friend, can you
stay for a bite of dinner? We do not have much - just some bread
and wine - but we would love to have you. Won't you stay,
please?" It is only 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. Then, as quickly as they realize who is
here, he is not here. He vanishes.
At every turn, Cleopas and Mark miss the point. They think
they know where Jesus is - dead and buried. They are not
prepared for a risen Lord, who walks with them along a common
road and speaks to them of common things. Finally, it is in the
most commonplace action of all - the breaking of bread in an
ordinary meal - that it dawns on them who this is.(1)
The question comes again. What is it that keeps their eyes
from recognizing Jesus, the one whom we would think they would
yearn to see more than anyone in the world? Cleopas and
Elizabeth 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. On
the road, he was even the subject of their conversation. Yet,
they STILL fail to recognize him.
The answer, I think, is as simple as they did not EXPECT to
see him. The same thing may have happened to you too at some
time or another. Have you ever been in a faraway airport
terminal or a large shopping mall in a strange city, seen someone
who looks more than a little familiar - in fact, is the spitting
image of someone close - but found yourself reluctant to approach
and say hello because you are not CERTAIN it is him or her? The
appearance is totally unexpected, and the result is you do not
trust your own eyes.
Perhaps it was no different for Cleopas and Rebecca. Even
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 they expect to see is a Lord who
overtakes them on a dusty country road. They are not prepared
for the Christ of the commonplace.
I suspect not many of us are, most of the time. Yes, there
is something in us that makes us want to worship Jesus - but on
OUR terms, according to OUR expectations. Let's do this from a
safe distance. "Up there," or "out there," removed from the
messiness of daily life. We treat him, in other words, like
company at a formal dinner party, not like someone with whom we
would be comfortable having coffee at the kitchen table.
Is the problem simply that we have left Jesus in the tomb?
Ever visit a graveyard? I have lived right next to two of them.
They are very peaceful, even pleasant places. The carefully-kept
lawns, the flowers placed by gleaming white monuments, the well-swept walks - the whole environment is calculated to convey
serenity. Apart from the occasional funeral and the weekly
pass-by with the lawnmower, nothing ever happens in a graveyard.
Is that a good place for Jesus? In the parts of our lives
where nothing much happens? In other words, where most often
life is really lived - there we are content to go it alone. The
risen, living Lord we leave back in the tomb, as Cleopas and Paul
thought they had left Jesus in Jerusalem.
To be painfully honest, sometimes the church is like a tomb.
Quiet, peaceful, nothing much happening. People can be content
to meet Jesus there. In fact, one would expect to. But what
some would call quiet reverence others would call terminal
boredom. Not exactly a thrilling encounter.
True, we summon him out when things begin to get hairy. We
jam the nation's churches after 9/11. We fall on our knees when
life begins to crush us down. We say AMEN to the lady who, in
fear for her home in the midst of a hurricane, did not PRAY for
deliverance but YELLED it. That is the faith of foxholes, and we
find that when we need it. But the message of the Emmaus Road
account is that the Lord is with us even when we do not expect
him.
From the Eastern Orthodox tradition comes the story 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."
Fred Craddock, one of America's great teachers of preaching,
tells the story of a breakfast experience.(2) He was stuck in
Winnipeg, Canada and in the midst of an early October snow storm
which paralyzed the city. Everything was shut down and his host
could not even make it to Fred's hotel to pick him up for
breakfast.
So, for breakfast, Fred found himself at a crowded bus depot
café about two blocks from his hotel. As he entered, somebody
scooted over and let him get in a booth. A big man with a greasy
apron came over to the table and asked him what he wanted. Not
knowing what the café served, Fred asked to see a menu.
"What'd ya want with a menu?" the man asked. "We have soup."
"Then I'll have soup," he said. Just what he wanted--soup
for breakfast.
The man brought the soup and Craddock says it was an unusual
looking soup. It was grey, the color of a mouse. He did not
know what was in it, but he took this spoon and tasted it.
Awful! "I can't eat this," he said. So he sat in that crowded
café warming his hands around the bowl, railing against the
world, stuck in Winnipeg.
Then, the door opened and someone yelled, "Close the door,"
and she did. A woman came in. She was middle-aged, had on a
coat, but no covering for her head. Someone scooted over and let
her in a booth. The big man with the greasy apron came over and
the whole café heard this conversation:
"What'd ya want?"
"Bring me a glass of water," she said.
The man brought the water, took out his tablet and repeated
the question. "What'd ya want?"
"Just the water."
"Lady, you gotta order something."
"Just the water."
The man's voice started rising: "Lady, I've got paying
customers here waiting for a place, now order!"
"Just the water."
"You order something or you get out!"
"Can I stay and get warm?"
"Order or get out."
So, she got up. The people at the table where she was
seated got up, people around got up, the folks that let Fred sit
at the table got up, Fred got up, and they all started moving
towards the door.
"OK," the big man with the greasy apron said, "She can
stay." And everybody sat down. He even brought her a bowl of
that soup.
Fred asked the man sitting next to him, "Who is she?"
"I never saw her before," he said, "but if she ain't
welcome, ain't nobody welcome."
Then Craddock said, all you could hear was the sound of
people eating that soup. "Well, if they can eat it, I can eat
it," he said. He picked up his spoon and started eating the
soup.
"It was good soup. I ate all of that soup. It was strange
soup. I don't remember ever having it. As I left I remembered
eating something that tasted like that before. That soup that
day tasted like bread and wine." Hmm.
On any Sunday morning in contemporary America, modern
versions of Cleopas and Fred...or Anne or Greg or Susie or Barb
or Tom or Ted...come walking down the road, finally turning in
the church door. The powerful and powerless, the chiefs and
indians, the highest and the lowest - each with their own
problems, each yearning for the presence of the risen Lord...and
finding him here. But like Cleopas and friends of many names,
there is the danger that, once they leave these hallowed halls,
they are too preoccupied, too busy, too stressed out, to actually
recognize him out there as well. That is sad, because the truth
is the risen Lord is wherever he is needed, even with us, and
even if we do not always know it.
At Christmas time a number of years ago, a nearby city
thought it was having trouble with vandals. There was a creche
scene in the courthouse square. On a regular basis, the baby in
the manger kept disappearing. Mary kept pondering, and Joseph
just stood there, but sometime every Advent, the baby Jesus
disappeared. One year somebody suggested that they take a chain
and attach him to the manger. It did not do any good; he still
vanished. One pastor was not surprised. He said, "I think the
baby Jesus went to Bosnia for the holidays. You see, they need
him over there."(3)
As you walk along the road, talking about all the things
that have come to pass - participating, in other words, in the
business of living - keep your eyes open. You just may glimpse,
out of the corner of your eye, a stranger overtaking you. At
first you may not recognize him; but then you will sense a
growing warmth, as your heart begins to burn within you. And
then comes the moment, magnificent and unexpected, when you see
who it is. He will vanish out of your sight. He always does.
That is his way. Yet you can know he will return, and you will
see him again...somewhere in the commonplace.
Amen!
1. Carlos Wilton, "The Lord of the Commonplace," sermon preached at Point Pleasant
Presbyterian Church, Point Pleasant, NJ, 9/23/90, the source of several ideas and illustrations (and
even the title) in this message.
2. The story is also found in Craddock Stories, Mike Graves and Richard Ward, eds., (St. Louis : Chalice Press, 2001)
3. William Carter, "Where Does Easter Happen?" sermon delivered on The Protestant Hour, 4/18/99
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