23 April 2023 Easter 3

Acts 2:14a, 36-41; Psalm 116: 1-4, 11-18; 1 Peter 1:13-25; Luke 24:13-35

Emmaus experience.  This term has almost become part of normal colloquial language.  We use the term when we have ‘sudden awakenings’ as we journey through life, where we ‘suddenly see’ what has been unseen while it was staring us in the face.  And we use it most often when those awakenings occur in our faith journey.  In short where you may have an encounter with Our Lord in a way which could be similar to that of the two in our gospel story when Jesus ‘broke bread’ with them and they were suddenly aware of who he was.

But most of the story today is not about how Cleopas and his companion ‘suddenly’ recognised who Jesus was, it is about how they didn’t  recognise the man they walked 7 miles with; the man they talked with about how ‘this Jesus’ was a man they thought was going to save them and their people from Rome and restore Israel, but he didn’t live up to their expectations and now he is dead.  And it is about how this stranger listened to their story and then reframed it using what they already knew from the Hebrew texts about who the Messiah would be and what the Messiah would come for.  It is about how Jesus reframed their story to tell the truth about his story.

There is a lot of grief in this story.  Cleopas and his companion were clearly devastated by what had just happened.  And let’s not forget, it may be three weeks since we celebrated Easter, but this story takes place the afternoon of Jesus resurrection.  These two men have been there and seen the arrest and crucifixion, and now they are leaving amid ‘wild stories’ from some of the women about empty tombs and seeing Jesus whom they know to be dead.  And it is on this lonely walk that a stranger joins the men.  We are not told what response they had to all that this stranger was revealing to them, but we get a hint of their interest when, as they reach their destination and the stranger makes to continue his journey, they invite him to stay with them, invite him to share hospitality with them.

And it is because of this hospitality that, when guest becomes host and he takes bread and breaks it, they recognise him.  And we are told he then disappears.  But the revelation was significant enough that despite the dangers of travelling after nightfall, the two travellers race back to Jerusalem to tell the disciples and any who will listen about their encounter with the risen Jesus.

Thomas’ parents and godparents will soon make promises that they will share with Thomas who this Jesus is, who he is for them so that, as Thomas gets older, he may develop and grow into an understanding of who Jesus is for him.

But there is a statement in this story which probably speaks about many situations in of our lives.  But we had hoped.  Cleopas and his companion had possibly followed Jesus for many months, if not years.  Although we only hear them mentioned in this story, clearly they were considered part of the ‘inside circle’ because Luke includes this story in his gospel.  And they clearly had hopes and expectations about what this prophet, this teacher, this Messiah, would do.  And those hopes, those expectations, now seem dashed.  And I wonder how often we too may utter those words about our expectations and hopes for how God would act in situations in our lives.   But sometimes our problem is just that, like Cleopas, we simply do not ‘see’ God in the situation, we do not ‘recognise’ how God is revealing God’s self because our expectations are ours, not Gods.  And as we walk our Emmaus road, we find ourselves falling over that same statement, ‘but we had hoped’, ‘but I had hoped’.  Four very powerful words which speak volumes about unrealised hopes, expectations, and grief.

Ernest Hemmingway was once challenged to write a short story in 6 words, he reportedly took a napkin and wrote, “For sale, baby shoes, never used”.  But we had hoped.  This phrase speaks about more than the tragedy, it speaks about a gaping hole which reveals all that could have happened but now cannot.

Yes, this story ends well, even joyfully.  The two travellers race back to Jerusalem to tell the disciples about their encounter with Jesus.  But their happiness does not overshadow the real disillusionment they felt as they left town after their Messiah had died and their world seemed to fall apart.  And it is important that we hear those disappointments, that grief, that ‘loss’, our faith does not ask us to ‘gloss over’ disappointments for fear of it looking like our faith is failing.  In our faith journey, it is important to hear the grief as well as the joy.  It is important to allow ourselves and others to be sad, to express grief, while we just listen to it, hear its depth without trying to ‘reassure’ or ‘placate’ them that ‘it will all be ok’.  Yes it might be, eventually, but at that moment their grief is real.  And sometimes, joy or peace is a long way off.  Sometimes, grief will last a long time, and while we may not always know ‘the right thing to say’, saying nothing is ok too, as long as we stay with them, as long as we hold them in our hearts and prayers, words are not always necessary.

Because these travellers invited their fellow traveller to stay with them, they were able to ‘see’ with clear eyes who it was they walked with.  And after Jesus broke bread for them, they understood that ‘burning’ inside which they could not place.  Jesus is often walking with us, but sometimes we do not recognise him.  If the Emmaus story tells us anything, it is that the Risen Christ will not and is not confined by the smallness of our lives, and when we make room, Jesus comes.

Yes, these travellers had a ‘burning hearts’ moment, but before that their hearts were broken.  In the same way as before there can be resurrection there has to be a cross, before there are burning hearts there will be broken ones.  But we had hoped.  Of course we had.  There are lots of things that are not as we had hoped they would be.  And yet.  The stranger who is our Saviour still meets us on the lonely road to Emmaus.  The guest who becomes host still nourishes us with Presence, Word, and Bread.  So, we keep walking.  We keep telling the story.  And we keep tending our burning hearts.  It is to broken hearts that the Risen Christ comes, today and every day; he walks with us; teaching us the Scriptures that we may ‘see’ clearly; sharing his presence through bread and wine; and granting us burning hearts that allow us to return to the world.  Christ is risen.  He is no less risen on the road to Emmaus than he is anywhere else.  So look for him.  Listen for him.  And as he travels with you, say what he longs to hear: stay with me.