Father Carlton Kelley is the Rector of St. Andrew's Episcopal Church in Grayslake, IL.
This sermon is based on the Gospel of St. Luke 24:13-35, which you can read by clicking here.
"Lord Jesus, stay with us, for evening is at hand and the day is past; be our companion in the way, kindle our hearts, and awaken hope, that we may know you as you are revealed in Scripture and the breaking of bread. Grant this for the sake of your love. Amen."
Many of you may recognize this prayer, from Evening Prayer Rite II in the Book of Common Prayer, as inspired by the Gospel passage for today: the story of Jesus' conversation with his friends on the road to Emmaus, a small town not far from Jerusalem.
Jesus "comes near," as any of our friends might do, to join them in conversation. Tellingly, they do not recognize him for who he is, the once Crucified and now Glorified Lord, for Jesus does not seek to be the center of attention.
He often, through our own decisions, must love us from afar. Then, as now, he waits for an invitation to be included in the lives of those he loves. Like any good friend, he lets them tell their story. He does not try to preempt them, put words in their mouths, or assume he knows what they are saying or feeling, though surely, he does know.
After asking about their conversation in an ancient version of "what's up?" he listens as they explain.
They are surprised that he does not seem to know about the momentous events of the past three days that to them were devastating. To the casual observer in Jerusalem, Jesus and those crucified with him were just three more victims of the regular brutality of Roman tyranny, or, as we might say, criminals who got what was coming to them, and then easily forgotten.
But to these disciples, their hope for a better world and a new life had been completely shattered by Jesus' death, for he was the one who they had hoped would fulfil the dreams of Israel for freedom and peace. What used to be hope in abundance was, forever, gone. They were now trying to make some sense of a senseless event in the universal quest for understanding the inexplicable.
When a loved one dies, part of our grief is in dealing with that which we do not understand; the cruel knowledge that love seems to have been taken away. Our loved ones, precisely because they are loved, should live with us physically forever. The ache of our hearts is the wound of love. The wounds of Jesus are his wounds of love for us.
Jesus patiently listens to them telling their story as they explain past events to him. They ask him "Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?" But, finally, at just the right time, he breaks his silence. Jesus is astonished that they do not understand their own history. "Oh, how foolish you are and slow of heart to believe all that the prophets declared"— a comment many of us could take to heart.
Jesus then goes on to reveal himself to them through the words of Holy Scripture, the history of the hopes of Israel. And, that is, of course, what Jesus does for us now through the words of Holy Scripture. If we have hearts to understand and faith to comprehend, he is there in those blessed pages as truly as he is in the most holy Sacrament of the Altar.
In our current circumstances when the Sacraments of our redemption, most particularly the Holy Eucharist, are not available to us because our overriding concern is for the good of all, the all who is our neighbor, the Holy Spirit has given us the gift of remembrance of the Holy Scriptures. We are being given the opportunity to rediscover that the Holy Scriptures are "the lively oracles of God." Indeed, they are, for they are full of the presence that is both the love and life that is none other than God.
The presence of Jesus is not confined to the Sacraments, as wonderful and as life giving as they are. Our church and many others were reacquainted with the priceless gift that is Holy Scripture as a result of the Reformation in Western, European Christianity in the 1500s. Other churches in our time are beginning to rediscover them, as well. It is not that they were lost, but they were deemed of secondary importance.
Perhaps because we do take them for granted— deem them of secondary importance— as we tend to do with anything that is familiar, we have neglected them. How many of us have Bibles in our homes that are unopened and unread, silent testimonies to our neglect of our dearest treasures? In the pages of this great "undiscovered country" are found all the joys and heartaches of living. While this quote from Shakespeare's Hamlet refers to death, the pages of the Bible set our feet on a journey of faith, hope, and love that is waiting to astound us with its living richness!
When the early church was trying to understand what this new movement of salvation was all about, springing from the Judaism they knew and loved, enormous amounts of time and energy were spent combing the pages of the Scriptures for the incipient presence of Jesus in what we often call the Old Testament. Our ancient forebears in the faith were feeling called by the God of Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebecca, Joseph and his brothers, Moses and Elijah and all the worthies of the past, to break with their friends from the specific faith that had sustained them for centuries, a faith that was— and is— both resilient and loving, challenging and prophetic, salvific and graceful.
They needed to know that the Jesus they loved in this life was the same Jesus that had appeared to them after his Resurrection and was the One expected for the consummation of the hopes and dreams of Israel. This is the Jesus they found in Holy Scriptures. Through the guidance of the Holy Spirit, those who sought him were able to find him, and we are here as a result. We now have him through what we generally call the New Testament, the mighty record of God's deeds in the early church and our forebears' attempts to understand this new— and old— faith.
Yet even Jesus' lengthy exposition of the Scriptures about himself did not fully open their eyes to his presence. He had laid the groundwork, but it was the supper that was yet to come that would finally reveal him.
This should not surprise us, for haven't we often reveled in new loves, cemented friendships, and solved pressing problems around the table, in the breaking of bread at the comfortable informality of the kitchen table or of new and exciting restaurants? But then we go our separate ways, and those precious moments become memories, treasured to be sure, but memories, nonetheless. The fulness of their loving reality seems lost to us. It has been said that we are quick to give away our joy and slow to discharge our sorrow.
"When he was at table with them, he 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," as John 13:30 tells us.
For love of them, Jesus gave them his presence— and then vanished! And that, brothers and sisters, should not surprise us— that he should vanish out of our sight, as it were. In this life, most of us, the greatest majority of us, are not able to see and know Jesus always, everywhere, and in everyone, because he has not yet been fully formed in us, and because we have not always and everywhere invited him in to be fully formed in us in love. It is as though we are only able to tolerate fleeting glimpses of him because we cannot tolerate, and we cannot understand, his complete goodness and love. It is too much for us. We do not want Jesus to be the guest that overstays his welcome!
And, of course, the deepest and best spiritual life, the one that is truly able to sustain us, is not built on emotional highs, something the disciples experienced when, at last, they recognized him. These highs, though they are and may be important from time to time, are not as important, not nearly as important, as the slow and steady work of persistent love. This is the work of the daily recognition of the wonder and the love always inherent in the small and seemingly insignificant things that make up our lives. This is as true of our personal relationships as it is of our spiritual lives— because they are one, and each is reflective of the other. This is the work of recognizing the Crucified and Glorified Christ in each and every person we encounter.
We certainly are given to see the wounds and the glory— the crucifixions and the triumphs— of those we know best. But Jesus, through his Resurrection, has given us the ability to see these qualities in all we meet. We are able to see that all our wounds are invitations to glory and that whatever glory we may possess is because of our wounds redeemed, resurrected, and transformed by the Lord.
The inevitable wounds of living in which we all share are, in the light of the resurrection, avenues for an increase of faith, hope, and love— those qualities of the Christian life deemed of most importance by St. Paul, and verified to be so by centuries of faithful Christian living.
If we take this time without Holy Communion seriously as the moment we have— and not impatiently waiting for another— we will be able to return to it with a renewed appreciation of its amazing joy and wonder. I know that this time is an invitation to us all to become reacquainted with the Bible if we have neglected it. Without the truths of Holy Scripture, without the record of the saving deeds of God found in its pages, we would not have the Sacraments at all. The Bible is the irreplaceable foundation upon which the Sacraments of our faith grow and build, emerging for us as new wonders of the love of God.
Remember, as John's Gospel tells us "In the beginning was the Word." He is life. His words are life.
Caravaggio