Our Gospel reading this week comes from Luke 24.13-35. You might read the passage (below) slowly and deliberately to see how it brings to mind or illuminates a recent experience in your life. We’d love to hear about it.
Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” They stood still, looking sad. Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?” He asked them, “What things?” They replied, “The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning,and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.” Then he said to them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures. As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the 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. They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. They were saying, “The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!” Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.
In reading the passage for this week, I’ve been drawn to the part where the two disciples say of their time spent with Jesus on the road to Emmaus, “were not our hearts burning within us.” Although their rational faculties didn’t recognize Jesus, their hearts - the core of their being - did. I grew up in a Christian tradition that was skeptical (at best) of the human heart. As the presumed seat of waywardness and selfishness, it was deemed a faulty guide. Yet in this passage the heart is the place where these two disciples first responded to the presence of Jesus. I am coming to believe that we can trust our hearts more than the Christianity of my youth would allow. So I’m learning to pay attention to the experiences and people that quicken my heart.
Reflecting back on this last week, one of the things that has set my heart alight is a neighborhood zoo that took place last Saturday where my brother and his family live in South Carolina. Around sixteen families joined together to create and display animals for each other to enjoy as they strolled around the neighborhood. The creativity and joy and communal spirit in this project made my heart swell.
“Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?” A similar question could be asked in Toronto: Are you the only person in Toronto who does not know what COVID-19 means for.... and fill in the name of a group that is severely affected. In grief, we tell the story of our loss in great detail, to anyone who will listen. The telling and re-telling helps to cement the story in memory and, in time, to make sense of it. I have been thinking about the death of my father, 10 years ago on April 19. We had a long, cool spring that year. Our father's hospital room overlooked the Experimental Farm in Ottawa. We had heard stories of the many happy summers our father had spent at the family farm his cousin ran so seeing the fertile fields ready for planting was comforting. The profusion of blossoms, tulips and daffodils along the Driveway going to and from the hospital was spectacular. The beauty of that Ottawa springtime, with symbols of rebirth everywhere, is one of the memories that endures and comforts. Alleluia! The Lord is risen.
The strangeness of these stories continues to intrigue me this season.
Last week, the stranger who entered the room was not recognized until his wounds were revealed: "...he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord." This week, a stranger shows up part way through a seven mile walk. Not only is he a stranger to the two walkers, he seems strangely clueless. "Are you the only" one "who does not know the things that have taken place..."
The stranger is able to take up the events the travelers relate and situate them in the writings of Moses and the prophets. This stirs the them, but nothing more. It is not until a meal is shared, and bread is blessed and broken by the stranger, that the experience of the resurrected Lord becomes a reality.
The physicality of the encounter is underscored in both stories - wounds of crucifixion are offered; bread is broken.
Today, in the food line up for The Common Table, a chatty man whose name is unknown to me suddenly began to talk about the gospel story where Jesus is asked about how to inherit eternal life. He quoted the answer, then offered, "Jesus said that before he was glorified." That had never occurred to me and immediately made me wonder what the significance might be, but he had shifted the subject, talking next about temporary work he did in Calgary. At the end of the morning, an older gentleman arrived late. I went inside to get him a lunch bag, and when I came out he started to tell me that he was now getting up in the mornings and thinking about the things for which he is grateful. He made particular mention of the cleaner air, and as he did so, I remembered how I actually smelled pine and heard several different birds singing on the way over from parking the car - something that never happened before Covid-19 - and I was grateful.
Rethinking the scriptures and shared gratitude for nature - resurrection hope brought by strangers.
This passage is often used in a Eucharistic way: the breaking of the bread reveals the risen Christ. We haven't been able to break bread together for weeks, and it may be many weeks before we can again. How intensely will we experience the risen Christ that day! Which reminds me of all the people and things I miss so much, and how much more I understand about their meaning to me in their absence. The disciples did not fully understand who Jesus was until he was absent. Can I endure these absences with more equanimity as my understanding deepens?
The stranger did not ask for shelter yet it was offered to him. Perhaps it was common in that culture, but nevertheless, the two fulfilled the teaching of Jesus "I was a stranger and you welcomed me" (Matt 25 34-40). They recognized Him in the breaking of bread. Later, they told their story to the eleven and their companions thus providing yet another confirmation of Jesus' appearance. These events came to pass due to the hospitality that was extended to the stranger, Jesus himself.
In this passage, I love that the disciples are experiencing the Eucharist before the Eucharist as a community practice came into being. That is, before the meaning of Maundy Thursday was fulfilled in the communal life of generations. Before there was an established, familiar practice, they had only the intuitions of their hearts under the prompting of the Spirit to trust that they'd met the Lord on the road and recognized him in the breaking of the bread. By the time the Gospel of Luke was written, the community already had a well-established practice of Eucharist. But the sense of diving into the unknown, raw material of faith is still fresh and palpable here. Maybe what we're going through now is an invitation to cultivate a kind of discernment more like what the Emmaus travellers engaged in.
Yesterday afternoon, I was walking back up the street from a corner store that, miraculously, was selling geraniums. I passed a really glorious riot of spring bulbs, where the gardener was out working. I called out to her to say how lovely it was. She was momentarily surprised by a total stranger striking up a conversation. And then, "Where did you get those, at the corner? They look happy. We need that."
More to the point, the unspoken conversation between us: I see you. I'm grateful you're here, and for what you're doing. We're alive on this earth together. In the midst of what we're all going through, isn't that good?
In reading the passage for this week, I’ve been drawn to the part where the two disciples say of their time spent with Jesus on the road to Emmaus, “were not our hearts burning within us.” Although their rational faculties didn’t recognize Jesus, their hearts - the core of their being - did. I grew up in a Christian tradition that was skeptical (at best) of the human heart. As the presumed seat of waywardness and selfishness, it was deemed a faulty guide. Yet in this passage the heart is the place where these two disciples first responded to the presence of Jesus. I am coming to believe that we can trust our hearts more than the Christianity of my youth would allow. So I’m learning to pay attention to the experiences and people that quicken my heart.
Reflecting back on this last week, one of the things that has set my heart alight is a neighborhood zoo that took place last Saturday where my brother and his family live in South Carolina. Around sixteen families joined together to create and display animals for each other to enjoy as they strolled around the neighborhood. The creativity and joy and communal spirit in this project made my heart swell.
“Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?” A similar question could be asked in Toronto: Are you the only person in Toronto who does not know what COVID-19 means for.... and fill in the name of a group that is severely affected. In grief, we tell the story of our loss in great detail, to anyone who will listen. The telling and re-telling helps to cement the story in memory and, in time, to make sense of it. I have been thinking about the death of my father, 10 years ago on April 19. We had a long, cool spring that year. Our father's hospital room overlooked the Experimental Farm in Ottawa. We had heard stories of the many happy summers our father had spent at the family farm his cousin ran so seeing the fertile fields ready for planting was comforting. The profusion of blossoms, tulips and daffodils along the Driveway going to and from the hospital was spectacular. The beauty of that Ottawa springtime, with symbols of rebirth everywhere, is one of the memories that endures and comforts. Alleluia! The Lord is risen.
The strangeness of these stories continues to intrigue me this season.
Last week, the stranger who entered the room was not recognized until his wounds were revealed: "...he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord." This week, a stranger shows up part way through a seven mile walk. Not only is he a stranger to the two walkers, he seems strangely clueless. "Are you the only" one "who does not know the things that have taken place..."
The stranger is able to take up the events the travelers relate and situate them in the writings of Moses and the prophets. This stirs the them, but nothing more. It is not until a meal is shared, and bread is blessed and broken by the stranger, that the experience of the resurrected Lord becomes a reality.
The physicality of the encounter is underscored in both stories - wounds of crucifixion are offered; bread is broken.
Today, in the food line up for The Common Table, a chatty man whose name is unknown to me suddenly began to talk about the gospel story where Jesus is asked about how to inherit eternal life. He quoted the answer, then offered, "Jesus said that before he was glorified." That had never occurred to me and immediately made me wonder what the significance might be, but he had shifted the subject, talking next about temporary work he did in Calgary. At the end of the morning, an older gentleman arrived late. I went inside to get him a lunch bag, and when I came out he started to tell me that he was now getting up in the mornings and thinking about the things for which he is grateful. He made particular mention of the cleaner air, and as he did so, I remembered how I actually smelled pine and heard several different birds singing on the way over from parking the car - something that never happened before Covid-19 - and I was grateful.
Rethinking the scriptures and shared gratitude for nature - resurrection hope brought by strangers.
This passage is often used in a Eucharistic way: the breaking of the bread reveals the risen Christ. We haven't been able to break bread together for weeks, and it may be many weeks before we can again. How intensely will we experience the risen Christ that day! Which reminds me of all the people and things I miss so much, and how much more I understand about their meaning to me in their absence. The disciples did not fully understand who Jesus was until he was absent. Can I endure these absences with more equanimity as my understanding deepens?
The stranger did not ask for shelter yet it was offered to him. Perhaps it was common in that culture, but nevertheless, the two fulfilled the teaching of Jesus "I was a stranger and you welcomed me" (Matt 25 34-40). They recognized Him in the breaking of bread. Later, they told their story to the eleven and their companions thus providing yet another confirmation of Jesus' appearance. These events came to pass due to the hospitality that was extended to the stranger, Jesus himself.
In this passage, I love that the disciples are experiencing the Eucharist before the Eucharist as a community practice came into being. That is, before the meaning of Maundy Thursday was fulfilled in the communal life of generations. Before there was an established, familiar practice, they had only the intuitions of their hearts under the prompting of the Spirit to trust that they'd met the Lord on the road and recognized him in the breaking of the bread. By the time the Gospel of Luke was written, the community already had a well-established practice of Eucharist. But the sense of diving into the unknown, raw material of faith is still fresh and palpable here. Maybe what we're going through now is an invitation to cultivate a kind of discernment more like what the Emmaus travellers engaged in.
Yesterday afternoon, I was walking back up the street from a corner store that, miraculously, was selling geraniums. I passed a really glorious riot of spring bulbs, where the gardener was out working. I called out to her to say how lovely it was. She was momentarily surprised by a total stranger striking up a conversation. And then, "Where did you get those, at the corner? They look happy. We need that."
More to the point, the unspoken conversation between us: I see you. I'm grateful you're here, and for what you're doing. We're alive on this earth together. In the midst of what we're all going through, isn't that good?