On the Road Again

4-30-17 (Easter 3A)

Acts 2:14a, 36-41; Luke 24:13-35

On the Road Again

Two disciples are walking down a long and winding road.  It was a kind of journey they’d taken so many times over the last few years as they’d followed Jesus from village to village, town to town, listening to him proclaiming the news that the Kingdom of God was near.  He’d been surrounded by crowds on so many of those journeys, disciples, followers, and other hangers-on all around him… all of them clamoring for the savior’s attention, for just a touch of his hand and a glimpse of his amazing power.

And yet this time, it was so much more different, so much more quiet.  It’s just these two disciples this time, Cleopas and his companion - they walk a lot more slowly than they did as they followed the Teacher, the urgency and energy gone from their steps.  Their heads are held low, their shoulders drooping as if they carry a great weight on them.  They talk about the events that have happened, the events of that Friday that still have them reeling in shock and grief… but they also talk about the strange events of that very morning, the announcement of the women who had been to the tomb, the vision of angels who told them that Jesus was alive.  They’re hurting and confused, they don’t know how to feel, what to do, what to really say about anything.

And then this random person decides to join them - just some other man who happens to be going the same direction as them.  He hears what they’re talking about and his curiosity is piqued.  He asks them, “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?”  And his question dumbfounds the two disciples.  He’s inserted himself into their conversation, invited himself into their confusion and grief… and he doesn’t even have a clue what’s going on, what they’re even talking about.  Cleopas responds tersely - “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?”  And as they open up to this stranger, as they tell him the story once again of all the events of the last three days and more, their grief pours out of them.

“We had hoped,” they say.  “We had hoped.”

They had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.  They had hoped that he was the one who was promised in the scriptures, the one who the prophets had foretold.  They had hoped he would be the mighty, conquering king who came to free his people and lead them back into goodness and prosperity as a nation.  They had hoped…

It’s a feeling we’re all familiar with, ourselves, that sense of “We had hoped…”

We had hoped that our team would win.  We had hoped that we’d get that job.  We had hoped that things would have turned out differently for us than they did.  We had hoped that the test results from the doctor didn’t carry the bad news they did.  We had hoped that our loved one would get better, that they’d find healing.  We had hoped that we could keep that job for just another couple months until something better came along, that the car wouldn’t need repairs, that they’d keep the power and water on for just another couple days until we could scrape up the money they wanted…

We had hoped.

Jesus walks alongside these two disciples and hears their broken hopes laid out before him.  He listens to them explain their confusion, their sadness, their bewilderment at the empty tomb and the word of the women and the disciples who witnessed it.  He hears all this, and it moves him to speak out - whether out of amusement or frustration, it’s hard to be sure, but I imagine that in the victory of Easter, Jesus can’t really help being anything but amused at this point.

Either way, he begins once again explaining everything the scriptures had ever said about the Messiah, the entire plot line of the Old Testament and how it led up to where they were today.  The conversation takes them all the way to Emmaus - and from the invitation the disciples extend to this stranger, it has stirred them in a way that they hadn’t experienced since… well, since they had walked with Jesus the last time.  And yet it’s not until he sits down to share a meal with them, until he takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them, that they finally see him and recognize him for who he really is.  And after he disappears, after they recognize him and know him, know that he is truly risen… they hit the road again, this time to seek out the eleven and their companions, to share the same news, the news that is swiftly beginning to fill all of Christ’s followers - “The Lord has Risen!  We have seen the risen Lord!”

They comment to each other as they rush back toward the place where the other disciples were gathering - they take this journey a second time, once again in bewilderment, confusion, and surprise - and yet this time it’s not clouded in grief.  Instead, they wonder to each other at the way their hearts had been burning within them as the unrecognizable Jesus opened up the Scriptures to them - and their voices are no longer filled with the grief of the day before.  Instead, their voices are filled once more with excitement.  Their steps are quickened, their shoulders no longer slumped, their eyes looking eagerly forward and ahead of them once again.

It’s really amazing what a change in perspective does - how it changes their vision.  Scholars and interpretation go back and forth over what Luke really means when he tells us in his Gospel that “their eyes were kept from recognizing” Jesus - it’s often suggested that Jesus’ appearance must have been somehow different, that he somehow disguised himself or actively prevented people from knowing who he was.  But there’s a simpler possibility here that doesn’t require some further use of divine power… The disciples are so wrapped up in the hopes they’d had for Jesus, the grief and confusion they feel, that they don’t even entertain the possibility that the man walking beside them was the risen Messiah.

And how easily do we allow ourselves to be oblivious to the things that are right in front of us?  How often do we let our own grief, our own confusion, lock us into one particular way of seeing things?  How often does Christ stand in our midst, reaching out to us, calling to us… and how often do we let our own cries of “We had hoped,” our own grief over failed expectations, keep us from seeing Him right in front of us?

How often do we need to hear Jesus’ own amused expression “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe!” And how often does Jesus, ever patient, ever loving, ever kind, walk us through those broken expectations, those shattered hopes, and lead us to see the way in which he was walking beside us the entire time, and that he is still there, still calling to us, still offering us his grace and guidance in the power of the Spirit?

Jesus is there with us in every moment we cry “We had hoped.”  Often, it’s Jesus there crying with us - but it’s also Jesus who is there in the power of the Spirit to point us forward, to help us to see beyond the pain and disappointment in our current situations and to recognize the inherent promise of Easter - the promise that, no matter how disappointing or hopeless our situations may seem, we know that God is bigger, that Christ has taken that pain and suffering on our behalf, and that in the resurrection, all that pain and suffering has ultimately been defeated.

And it’s that promise that should always give us hope - that promise that helps us to look head, to keep pressing forward, to proclaim with excitement and joy that “He is risen, indeed,” and to know that in that resurrection, all our hopes and expectations are graciously and wondrously surpassed.  So let us continue to hope.  To God be the Glory.  Amen.