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“Sunday Morning Heartburn”
Luke 24:13-35
April 06, 2008
Rev. Shelaine Bird
A Stranger on the Road
So, what was that story about at church today?
Oh…let’s see…something about two disciples... some day or other…
…walking down some road…going somewhere.
For those of us born into in this Hollywood culture enamored by sensationalism, our sacred stories can begin to seem awfully bland, can’t they? Which is why we must learn and must teach our children to pay attention, because this day was not like any day.
This was the day that began before the sun ever rose, with sleepy-eyed women kissing babies goodbye and slipping silently out front doors, with spices in hand. This was the day they found the tomb, but not the Body! This was the day angels came with outlandish good news that rocked the women down to their core. This was the day they ran breathlessly to preach the first Christian sermon to their beloved brothers in the locked Upper Room. This was the day the disciples heard a story so absurd they shook it off as Idle Tales, some ludicrous load of Lairos, until Peter got up enough nerve to go see for himself
This was Easter! This was the day the Lord had made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it because those first disciples did not! There was work to be done, you see, seven miles away in Emmaus and so for them, this day of rejoicing turned out to be a day of walking.
And so they talked and walked, walked and talked about, as Luke states calmly, “the events” that had happened. They shared their memories: watching Jesus teach the masses; wave to the children; heal dying bodies with a stroke of his hand.
The two walkers—Cleopas and his companion— remembered fondly, maybe even chuckled, at Jesus’ decision to ride a donkey into Jerusalem, high on the cheers of the crowd, cheers which quickly changed to cries for his crucifixion.
This was the part of the story they couldn’t get their mind around and their chuckles turned into sorrowful silence as they walked and talked of the last three days: The trial. The cross. The tomb. And now the women’s story?
The disciples had hoped, you see, in Jesus. “We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel,” is how they said it. But then Jesus was crucified, and—lo and behold—he actually died! And their hearts burned with grief, for no dead man could be the Messiah!
This was day three, and according to the women, there wasn’t even a body now. The more they tried to logically, rationally make sense of it all, the deeper they sank—step by step—into despair.
A Stranger in the Word
Long about this time, they spotted someone on the road. Odd. They hadn’t noticed him behind or in front. All of a sudden, he was just…there, walking with them. He was calm, even cheery, which seemed rather rude, given the situation. The disciples figured him to a stranger, some ill-bred foreigner, some nobody.
But then this Nobody spoke up: What are you discussing…while you walk? And the two stopped in their tracks: Are you the only stranger...who does not know the things that have taken place? And then all their stereotypes get confirmed: What things? Ugh! The things about Jesus of course---you, you foreigner--don’t you know about the great tragedy we’ve endured here? Don’t you know the One we loved and lost?
And they proceeded to tell him everything they knew, to show him all the little facts and puzzle pieces which they couldn’t quite fit together. No matter how you spin it stranger, the fact remains: our Jesus is nowhere in sight. And as they walked and talked with this Stranger, their hearts burned and their eyes could not recognize, him.
Then this stranger did something stranger still. He laughed out loud, smiled, and sighed: Oh how foolish you are! And oh, how slow to believe! I imagine those two spun and did a double take, wondering if they had heard him right. Who was he to criticize them? Who was he, anyway?
But before they could even wonder, the Stranger did the strangest thing yet, and they were shocked into silence. He began to quote—get this— the Bible of all things! Their Bible no less, their Torah, their law of Moses, their Prophets, their sacred stories.
“How foolish you are and how slow to believe what the prophets have already declared! Then beginning with Moses…the stranger interpreted to them all the things about him in all the scripture.” And let me tell you, that must have been one long seven-mile walk. And this Stranger must have been one good Teacher, because he had them hanging on every word.
The two disciples were intrigued by this stranger. He was knowledgeable, yes, but something more than that. The stranger spoke about scripture as if he felt it in his bones. And they had once known a teacher like that. He taught with a kind of humble authority, they way they’d only heard from one person before. In hearing the stories, their ears could still almost hear the voice of Jesus, and their hearts burned within them. But their eyes could not recognize, him.
Well, with each step, the Emmaus exit ramp inched closer, and the two travelers knew that they would soon take their leave. But while Emmaus had been their only goal seven miles ago, now somehow they wished it wouldn’t come. As they listened to the rambling stories of this Stranger, the weight of despair seemed to shift. The heaviness in their hearts lifted. Something about this Stranger felt like Home.
Luke writes, “As they came near the village…, [the stranger] walked ahead...” But they urged him, saying, ‘Stay with us, because it’s almost evening and the day now nearly over.’”
Just a cultural side note, they didn’t have to do that. Inviting the Stranger for dinner and overnight was going beyond what sheer etiquette dictated. But somehow in those burning hearts, they couldn’t stop themselves, and were so very grateful when the Stranger accepted, and followed them into Emmaus.
I’ve considered these two travelers lately. I’ve tried to walk beside the shell-shocked grieving ones to see what I might see in their shoes, what I might hear from their ears. And for the first time, I realized what a wonderful distraction this Stranger must have been.
Consider what a holy horrible week those two disciples had had, and even when they finally come down from the Upper Room and try to “get on with life” as we’re encouraged to do after a close death, even then, all they can talk about on the road was Jesus. They are consumed with grief until this blessedly odd Stranger shows up.
He’s an Outsider, remember, someone they assumed knew very little about them: what they had done and failed to do as Jesus’ disciples. He’s just a Stranger, altogether ignorant of the Jerusalem headlines. What relief to spend the evening with someone like that, talking about something other than that. Inviting him over for dinner seemed like the perfect plan to cool their burning hearts.
Turned out there was just one problem. The longer they spent with the Stranger, and the deeper into scripture they waded with him, the more they sensed that they’d met this guy before. Rather than cooling, their burning hearts burned hotter, but their eyes still did not recognize him.
A Stranger At Table
After a seven mile hike it’s no surprise that they were hungry come dinnertime. And while the Luke text doesn’t mention what all they ate or who cooked it, we know that they did eat together in Emmaus. Maybe they stopped by the Subway for a foot long turkey on rye, or maybe, probably, there were women at the house who had cooked dinner and were eavesdropping in the background. So maybe, probably, there were children running about peeking around the corner for a glimpse of this Stranger at their table.
And the two disciples were so eager to be with him. They felt something close to peace sitting at table with him. They wanted to pull their chairs up close to his—to be close, to him. Something about seeing his face above the bread and the cup felt right, and their hearts just burned within them.
Now normally the host—Cleopas or the other—would take the loaf of bread and pass it out to the guests as a sign of hospitality. Normally the guest of honor would be served first. But that night, the stranger did something ever so strange. When he was at table with them, he took the bread. The two disciples watched wide-eyed as he blessed it and broke it and gave it to them. And then, finally then, their eyes grew wider still. Big tears dribbled down their cheeks, because then, finally then “their eyes were opened and they recognized him.”
For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, they saw Jesus, God-with-us. And he vanished from their sight.
To Recognize in Story and Sacrament
If we go home and look up the word RECOGNIZE in our dictionary, you’ll find a definition similar to this: to identity as something or someone previously known. To know someone previously known. To know someone again.
They had known Jesus before, of course. Knew what he looked like, how he sounded, his sense of humor, his stubborn bullheadedness. They knew Jesus once. But it wasn’t until that Stranger taught them their own sacred stories, not until he sat at table with them that they knew Jesus again.
No amount of walking and talking, talking and walking would have done it. No amount of being logical, rational adults would have made the puzzle pieces fit. Nothing they could have done on their own would have opened their eyes. Only God could do that, and only God did: in Word and Table.
And suddenly, in hindsight, it all made sense. There was a pattern emerging from the chaos, just as there was earlier for the women at the tomb. “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scripture to us?” That same hour they returned to Jerusalem and told how he had been known to them—again—in the breaking of bread.
Knowing Again in Word and Table
Story and sacrament, Word and Table. Those are two ways the disciples knew Jesus before he died. Story and sacrament, word and table.
Those are two ways the disciples knew Jesus again after he died.
Story and sacrament, word and table. These are two ways that all disciples are invited to recognize Jesus, to know him again and again and again. Even 21st century Christians, even Presbyterians, even us.
I should be honest with you. Yesterday I wrote a really nice conclusion for this sermon—kind of long but good stuff. What I did was to tie up all the pesky loose ends of this story for you. What I did was try to tame this wild story into something small and easily digestible for you. If St. Andrews was the kind of congregation that needed someone to tell you how to interpret scripture, you’d have loved it. But you’re not. So what I did was ridiculous.
So instead to telling you what to think, I want to tell you what I hope. What I hope for you, friends, and for me and for us together is Sunday morning heartburn—the kind of holy heartburn that Zantac can’t even touch.
What I hope for us are hearts that burn to know God in old familiar ways and new radical ways, week after week, year after year, together in this place, until the day we see God face to face.
I hope our hearts burn…
when we Gather for worship to be about prayer and silence,
when we confess our brokenness and hear again the promise of forgiveness.
I hope our heats burn…
when we sing the hymns written by the saints of old,
and hear a new word from our children;
when we go build Habitat houses, and stock food pantries,
and do mission in our communities and around the globe.
I hope our hearts burn…
when we dare to open the Bible, dare to read sacred stories together,
dare try to follow where God leads, even when the path is windy
and like the disciples today, when we can’t quite fit the puzzle pieces together.
I hope our hearts burn…
when we gather around this table and break that bread and pour the wine
and say with the naïve boldness of a child:
Christ has died. Christ has risen. Christ will come again!
I hope our hearts burn, and that once in a while, every now and again, at work or home or school, or right here in this space when we sit together at that table and break that bread and drink that wine, I hope that like the first disciples, our eyes might be opened.
And by God’s grace, we might see the Christ in our midst. And not only see, but recognize him—know him again—as Emmanuel, as God-with-us who’s been with us all along.
From the day we were born, to this day, until our last day, were not our hearts burning within us? On Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday, were not our heart burning the whole time, when he was with us?
The peace of Christ be with you-Amen.
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Copyright 2008 Rev. Shelaine R. Bird