A Easter 3 BFC 2017
Luke 24:13-35
April 30, 2017
I
hope we have gone on long enough now that many of you know what importance I
place on Scripture. I believe the
Biblical text, however imperfect, to be replete with ancient wisdom and
knowledge, with ancient stories which provide boundaries for evil and pathways
for goodness. Though not the sole tool
for discernment, wide and sweeping Biblical stories happen over and over again
in the world. So . . . within the
Bible’s pages are ways of looking at the world which help us discern our time
as well as ancient times, help us to see God’s character and choices in
contrast to how popular culture portrays God’s character and choices.
I know that some of you see the
shadow side of the Bible as well. Within
the Biblical text is patriarchy, rape, and ethnic cleansing justified. I certainly believe that such text should be
confronted with other Biblical texts, our own continuing life narratives and
wisdom, and a God of boundless love and compassion.
Today, however, I believe we have
one of the most meaningfully poetic stories of Christian faith. Those on the search committee who remember
may tell you that I highlighted this passage in my profile, and we use this
story as we celebrate communion during Ordinary Time in the liturgical year. The story borrows from ancient Judaism’s
story of hospitality, found in the stories of Abraham and Sarah, Sodom and
Gomorrah. It was one of those texts not
meant to be taken literally, but to spark the Jewish imagination and teach what
Christian life is all about. Once again,
I turn to Biblical scholar, John Dominic Crossan, who said it best when he
stated, “Emmaus never happened. Emmaus
always happens.” Emmaus always happens.[1]
Crossan’s statement is highlighted
even more by the fact that the village of Emmaus did not exist at the time of
the author’s writing. In destroying
Jewish rebellion in and near the city of Sepphoris, not too far outside
Nazareth, the Roman legions totally
destroyed the village of Emmaus in 4 BCE.[2] Christians are always on the way to Good
Friday, surprised and given courage by Christ’s resurrection. On the way to a place that was no more,
devastated and consumed by empire, violently destroyed, Emmaus happens.
The Good News, the announcement that
God is at work in the world, always begins in the lost and forgotten places,
among those who have been marginalized by the systems and structures of the
world. I believe that happens because
those who are not marginalized, those in control, have more to lose if the
status quo were to change. Those
invested in the status quo cannot also be invested in transformation. They profit from the way things are and blame
those marginalized when their kingdom begins to crumble. Those invested in the status quo do not
believe it is about their unsustainable values. Those who profit from pillage and
oppression seek to convince everyone else and that the small slice of the pie,
the crumbs from the table the marginalized receive, are too much and must be
liquidated to serve their unholy appetites.
Sometimes they even believe that message themselves. Those in positions of power hold guard at the
gates of death, stand as sentries before the stone of the tomb, afraid of any
new life which might emerge from the tomb.
The
marginalized are found, not standing guard at graves, but weeping at the
sepulcher, shedding tears at the tomb.
It should come as no surprise then that the first witnesses to the
resurrection were Jewish women. Before
the story we read from Scripture today even begins, the author of Luke names
Mary of Magdala, Joanna, and Mary, the mother of James, and has them going to
the tomb and then reporting the resurrection to the male apostles. Scripture even relates that there were other
women who were companions with these three.
In contrast to the powerful who guard the graves, those who attend
to the dead, know the violence done by the systems and structures, these people
are ready for resurrection.
As is
true with most stories told from life’s margins, those women were not
believed. Yes, Peter, runs to the tomb
to see for himself, but the Good News, the announcement that God was at work
win the world began with the most marginalized.
The Good News began with the Jewish women.
And our
story begins with two disciples, presumably one a woman since she goes unnamed[3],
who are walking dejectedly and brokenhearted along the road of life, when a
stranger walks alongside them and asks them of their pain. These disciples are lost. Chaos has found them. They wonder why their prophet would be killed
if he was truly chosen of God. If God
was God, they must have thought, certainly he was the winner, the victor, the
conqueror. The stranger reminds them of
their ancient stories of faith, reminds them that this is how it has always
been for the truth-tellers in the world, that God does not act primarily
through the big event and the miraculous, and how they should see God’s hand in
all of life.
When
they arrive at their destination, the disciples see that the stranger is going
on, and in remembering their faith tradition, as people who follow in the path
set forward by Abraham and Sarah, these disciples grant the stranger hospitality,
and invite the stranger into their home.
In keeping with not only Abraham and Sarah but with the teaching of their
dead friend and teacher, these disciples invite the stranger to their evening
meal. As the stranger, breaks, blesses,
and shares the bread with the two disciples that evening, they recognize
Christ, and then Christ immediately vanishes from their sight. So let us do the same: accompanying those lost and brokenhearted
along the road of discipleship, sharing the great stories of faith so that we
might see God’s hand in all of life, giving hospitality to the stranger, and
blessing, breaking, and sharing bread.
We do all that to catch fleeting glimpses of Christ in our midst. It is an enacting of our sacrament of holy
communion.
Through
these Scriptural and liturgical words, we recognize that the divine is not
found in bread and grape, but in the blessing of it (remembering from whence
and whom it comes), the breaking of it (remembering that it is enough, more
than enough), and the sharing of it (that God wills all be fed). The divine is actually found not in the nouns
but in the verbs of blessing and thanking, breaking from one common loaf to
give to many, and sharing or distributing.
` We know,
however, that this story is not the one told in our wider culture. There is another story told throughout
history that is believed. Time and time
again throughout history the story is told that the rich and powerful
prevail. The strong survive. The weak perish. Those with the most toys, tanks, and
technologies win.
We
celebrated Easter Day two weeks ago, but the Easter season continues for
several weeks leading up to Pentecost Sunday.
During this Easter Season time we are told and retold stories that
remind us which story, in our tradition, is to be believed. Empire does not have the last word. The rich and the powerful do not
prevail. We share in the beauty and the
bread provided for us by a just and compassionate God so that we might be
called God’s just and compassionate people.
We need
to repeat those Easter stories time and time again because the other story is
so thick out in the wider world. That
story is being told over and over again.
The rich and the powerful prevail.
Those with the most toys, tanks, and technologies win. So hold tight.
Circle the wagons. Hoard and keep
all of your stuff. Protect the interest
of your children and your children’s children.
Justify striking out in fear to maintain your place in the world.
We are
in the Easter season, but we are a pilgrim people always on the way from Good
Friday to a place we might call home.
Along comes this stranger who accompanies and wants to hear our story of
pain. We reply that the very person we
thought would give our country back to us is now dead, and that these, crafty,
weeping, marginal women have told us he is alive. What are we to make of all this? This stranger explains to us that this is how
God’s story always begins, how it is always told. Something in us knows that this stranger has
something for us, makes us burn from within.
And in keeping with who we know ourselves to be, we invite the stranger
to a meal, grant hospitality. Only by
granting that stranger hospitality, do we recognize Christ in divine
actions—blessing, breaking, sharing.
That is
our deep, deep, deep story—accompaniment with the lost and brokenhearted,
telling God’s story, granting hospitality, and blessing, breaking, and sharing
bread. How often will we have to repeat
it before it becomes who we are in the world?
How often do we have to repeat it before it becomes a part of our
spirituality, our politics, and our economics?
The
other story blares incessantly. Go it
alone. The way things are is the way God
wants them. Stranger danger. Better save yourself. Go it alone.
The way things are is the way God wants them. The rich and powerful win and that’s all that
matters. Stranger danger. Better save some for yourself. Stranger danger. Stranger danger.
Stranger
danger indeed. There is the danger that
some stranger might indeed transform us into the people God intended us to
be. For Easter tells us that the rich
and powerful do not win. The strong may
very well get us to destroy one another through violence, assassination, and
war, but those willing to wage peace are the Children of God. The weak are gathered into God’s arms and
into Christ’s church with justice and compassion. Those with the most toys, tanks, and
technologies, well, they end up with the most toys, tanks, and
technologies. But these were not our
values anyway. People accompanied. Great stories told. Hospitality granted. Bread shared.
This is our story. Thanks be to
God. Amen.
[1] As John Dominic Crossan
says about the road to Emmaus story and the point it makes: “Resurrection is not enough. You still need scripture and eucharist,
tradition and table; community and justice; otherwise, divine presence goes
unrecognized and divine presence goes unnoticed.” The
Birth of Christianity: Discovering what
happened in the years immediately after the execution of Jesus (New
York: Continuum International Publishing
Group, 1999), p. xi.
[2] Richard A. Horsley, Jesus and Empire: The Kingdom
of God and the New World Disorder (Minneapolis Nazareth
[3] Crossan, The Birth, p. xi.
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