On The Road Away

Luke 24:13-35 (Acts 2:14; 36-41; 1 Peter 1:17-23)

I wonder if they were trying to get “back to normal”?

It wouldn’t work, of course; things were never going to be the same for them, and Cleopas and his friend probably knew that.

But they were headed out of Jerusalem anyway; turning their backs to the place of change and expectation; of loss and uncertainty, and heading for the obscurity of Emmaus.

The big adventure of the charismatic, gifted rabbi they had been following has ended badly, and rather ambiguously. Jesus was killed, and the powers that be are running along, undisturbed and unchanged. Yes, there’s that odd thing that Mary and Joanna and Magdalene said about the tomb being empty and angels visiting, but… Nobody knows what’s really going on; what’s supposed to happen next.

It’s Monday morning soon, and mystery or not, there are obligations waiting.

Cleopas and his friend may have gone to Emmaus seeking relief from the tides of change and the strong and unpredictable emotions of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem: all that hope and disappointment, amazement and confusion. Or they may have been turning “back to normal” in despair: that miracle didn’t work out after all; there’s nothing to hope for.

You and I may also be looking toward “back to normal” or “re-opening” or just being able to follow through with our plans again with hope or with anxiety. It may seem like a relief to make plans to go back to business; or “back to normal” may be a road dark with disappointment and fear. Or all of the above at the same time.

Of course, just like Cleopas and his friend, you and I know that things have changed in the world and in ourselves that aren’t going to just change back. Normal isn’t going to be the same “normal” as before, whenever we get there.

But once we enter God’s story, it doesn’t really matter where we think we are going; or how eager or anxious we feel about getting there. Luke isn’t interested in any of those parts of the story; our story.

Luke only tells us what happened on the road.

Only tells us that Jesus comes up to Cleopas and his friend, and invites himself into their conversation, their journey. Jesus spends deliberate time drawing them deeper into the story, showing them where and how to look for the action of God.

They don’t recognize Jesus, and that’s on purpose. Luke suggests that God explicitly keeps Jesus’ identity hidden for a while. But they invite this intriguing person to dinner, and then…then he’s revealed. They recognize Jesus in the breaking of the bread. 

Luke is loading that moment with references to the Eucharist, to the holy meal we receive from God, and inviting us to see that ritual, and all our meals, as moments we share with the risen Christ.

And at the same time, Luke is telling us that God chooses our moments of revelation, God chooses when we recognize and respond to the presence of Jesus. God sets these up for us; we don’t do it for ourselves.

Luke is telling us that the moments of elation, connection, of knowing God with us, don’t necessarily happen where we’ve gone looking for them. Not in Jerusalem, not at the climax of our plans and hopes. Not in the center of the inner circle.

But at a small dinner table, with a couple of sort of mid-weight disciples, people who’d had to step out of the middle of those focused on Jesus’ death and the rumors of his resurrection, and go their separate way.

I find that comforting right now.

It’s comforting to remember that the first time the risen Jesus appears to anyone in Luke’s story, it’s to these two relatively unknown disciples, away from the religious center of things, separated from the rest of their fellowship.

When discomfort, loss, and fear around us are pressing us to find ways back to “normal”, and we also know that “normal” is dangerous right now, it’s comforting to think that these roads are exactly the ones Jesus can find us on. Will find us on.

Helpful to remember that Jesus finds us before we get back to normal, too. Finds us, and pours out extraordinary on us so that we forget we ever wanted “normal” and become joyous messengers of God’s newness and transformation.

When we can’t break bread together and share communion in the ritual we know conveys Christ’s presence with us, I find it comforting to remember that in this story, Jesus is around for hours before dinner. Jesus hangs out unrecognized, deeply interested in us, trying to help us be ready to encounter resurrection, teaching us what we’ll need to recognize something beyond our wildest imaginings.

I also find it helpful to remember that this revelation of Jesus’ resurrection and God’s loving care happen at what’s really an ordinary meal, with two disciples separated from their community – and that Jesus can show up unexpectedly at our separate or even solitary tables. Jesus appears at the breakfast table in pajamas; over home-baked quarantine sourdough, or takeout, or a disorganized meal scrounged from the back of the cabinet, just as readily as in the breaking of special bread at a decorated altar in a formal church.

When I find it hard to tell what God is up to, when I can’t imagine where Jesus is in this time of our great need, it’s comforting that this story tells us that God chooses the moments of connection, the moments when we get to see Jesus’ presence clearly, and that’s not in my control. Helpful to remember that Jesus might be with me and you unrecognized for the longest time, just setting up the moment God chooses as a gift.

It’s worth noting that while God does the choosing, while God makes the miracle of presence and connection happen on God’s own schedule, outside of the center of faith, Cleopas and his friend do cooperate with God.

They don’t leave their faith behind in Jerusalem. They stay open, and ready to hear, even on the road away. They tell the story they know and listen to a stranger’s story, too. They invite God’s storyteller into their lives and home, even if they don’t yet recognize God’s own self. 

It’s worth noting that those things are within our reach at home, outside the centers of our faith, in the middle of the uncertain road toward whatever might be normal next. We didn’t actually leave our faith behind in the pews of the church when the doors closed for a while. We still have a story about our hopes and longings to tell, and God comes close to us to listen, even if no one else happens by. We can – and do – invite God’s storytellers into our homes: reading scripture, joining online classes, talking about what matters most with our friends. And Jesus undoubtedly walks along with us, even if our eyes are kept from recognizing what God is doing among us right now.

This promise is for us, today; it always has been. God is setting up those moments of revelation for us, too: walking the road with us, hearing our stories and our questions, teaching as we go, setting up those glimpses of presence and love and blessing at tables far away from the center, where we will be connected again to all of God’s joy.