Road to Emmaus, The Reverend David R. Williams, Easter III--Year A--April 10, 2005

Peter raises his voice as he informs crowds and the disciples that Jesus indeed is the Messiah, the anointed one. And when the disciples hear this, they are cut to the heart. “Brothers,” they cry, “What should we do?”

We are privy to this emotional conversation through the Acts of the Apostles.

The risen Jesus, the truly anointed Jesus, the Jesus known as Messiah, as Christ, is still a vague abstract for most of the people—even for the disciples. Peter minces no words by raising his voice, “Let this be known, and listen.”

The Gospel story from Luke takes us back who knows how far--a week, two weeks, a month-- before Peter’s thundering words to the disciples and to the crowd.

The theme of Acts is similar to Luke’s message. What could possibly be going on here with what we know and with what we do not know?

Two disciples, one whose name we know, Cleopas, and another disciple, are still reeling from the crucifixion of their friend Jesus. They are in shock – as are we upon the death of a friend or family loved one—as are we during the days of grief following September 11, 2001 or even, more recently, the tsunami.

Everyone talks. We explore our feelings of bewilderment and incomprehension. Many of us in the 50-plus generation can recall where we were and what we were doing when President John F. Kennedy was shot. We talked. Wept.

Watched a week of television. We read newspapers. We all felt stunned. Disbelieving.

A stranger approaches the shocked disciples as they walk to a nearby town. “So,” the stranger says, “What’s going on?”

The disciples cannot believe there could be a person alive unaware of the recent terrible days. Virtually everybody is talking about the execution of Jesus. The two grieving disciples then confess, “We had hoped that Jesus was the one to redeem Israel. Now he is dead.” They are grieving; however, they are also profoundly disappointed that this Jesus is not who they thought he was.

“So, where have you been; are you the only one around who has not heard?” the two disciples ask the stranger.

The stranger then tells the two disciples the story. He speaks of Moses and of the prophets. He tells of God’s promise to deliver His people from sin and brokenness through a living Messiah. He tells of God’s warning said deliverance would come to the people only through the suffering of the Messiah.

“How foolish you are,” the stranger ridicules the naïve disciples, “How slow of heart to believe what the prophets have already said.”

As the story unfolds, we can feel the Spirit, the Breath of Life returning to these sad, forlorn disciples.

Yet they still do not consciously recognize the stranger. They feel his exuberance and magnetism, but they have no idea who he is.

“This is the way it should be.” The two disciples imply that Jesus would not have succumbed to the Jewish or state authorities. A Messiah could stand up to such earthly power. A Messiah would never succumb to crucifixion on a cross.

The disciples have their own idea of a plan – a plan already implemented and executed by God. “If I were God I would not have worked my power THAT way.” Is this what the disciples are saying? And our cry after the tragedies of tsunami and September 11? My goodness, God, what is the purpose of such suffering? Every fiber of our being feels unsafe, unnerved, on edge.

Several thousand innocent people died on September 11, 2001. Many more were left traumatized, changed.

Unimaginably, several hundred thousand people died during the recent tsunami. Many more were left in shock, profoundly disturbed.

How can Jesus’ death create life? “No,” say the disciples, “even the astounding story from the women at the empty tomb makes no sense to us.”

Yet, as they listen to this stranger, the disciples feel inexplicably drawn to him. They feel compelled to listen. They want to hear more.

We believe in a caring, loving God who would permit no suffering in the world. If I were God there would be no tsunami, no war, no undeserved pain. The right way, the Godly way is my way.

Even death would be abolished. If I were God.

“So what’s up?” asks the stranger. “What do you discuss with one another as you walk along?”

“Well, we mostly talk about our disappointment with God. We talk about the suffering allowed by God. We talk about how life could be better.”

In Rome’s Basilica of St. Peter’s, I stand next to a piece of artwork, a marble sculpture of two individuals. The two figures look most real – one so alive and compassionate, one so limp and lifeless. The year is 1960. I am a child, and, in wonder, I touch the sculpture.

In that moment, as I feel the draped arm, I see in the Pieta a new dimension to the story of a mother’s love for her child Jesus. The young medieval artist Michelangelo had brought to life a certain truth of the Mother Mary and her son, the Messiah.

Many years later, I stand on an Irish hillside overlooking rolling fields, mounded earth. This hillside, historically, was the place where pre-Christian and pre-Celtic kings became royalty – until one shepherd brought the story of Jesus to this uncivilized land. The shepherd’s name was Patrick. The Hill is called Tara, a landscape changed through the message of Jesus. Jesus lives here.

A shoreline of rocks – large rocks, small, even tiny round stones, pink, gray, white, green stones – as far as the eye can see – lies before Sarah and me. This rugged beach was once the landing site of an early Christian monastic storyteller. Columba sailed from Ireland and followed lights to the shores of this tiny island, Iona, Scotland, now a place of pilgrimage among other islands dotting the Irish Sea.

Sarah and I can envision and feel the power of a Jesus brought centuries ago to unknown, rocky shores. Jesus lives in the stories of this land, and adventuresome travelers feel compelled to listen.

A child, now grown and accomplished, amazes her parents. Is this our little girl who threw tantrums and decided to leave home at four years of age? “My, in a way, I see her now for the first time,” many parents have marveled as they see their daughter, a bride, process down the aisle.

That evening, after being persuaded by the disciples to stay for dinner, the stranger raises a piece of bread. He blesses the bread and He breaks the bread. The broken body of their friend Jesus on the cross – the story, the prophets before them – Moses, the parting of the red sea, the suffering of God’s beloved children – the suffering of Jesus, the suffering of Christ – flashes before the disciples’ eyes, and, for the first time, they see. Jesus lives here.

In that same moment of time, the visible Jesus disappears.

May our hearts burn within us on our Emmaus journeys as scripture is revealed and the living Christ, first through the broken bread, becomes known.

Amen.