Hidden miracles

Luke 24:13-35

Did you want to see the pictures of Osama bin Laden?

It was a big news story this week: would we, or would we not, get to see photographs of a dead body.

I’m confident that the photographs are ugly and maybe sickening, and personally, I was somewhat relieved that they wouldn’t be released.  But there was still the question at the center of much of the news coverage:

If you can’t see it, how do you know it’s true?

Maybe we ask that because we live in a world where we can see things that happen thousands of miles away: a wedding, a war, a grandchild’s first steps.

But still, there are many things we can’t see:

dinosaurs, the ozone layer, a change of heart

and so we hear the story and the evidence, and we sometimes ask ourselves: If you can’t see it, how do you know it’s true?

In an odd coincidence of timing,

that’s the question being asked in today’s gospel story.

Think about Cleopas and his companion for a minute.  They’ve spent the Passover festival in Jerusalem among the crowd of Jesus’ disciples.  They’ve waited with the others through the tragedy of his death, and his burial.  They heard this morning that some of the women among them have been to the tomb and found it empty – and the disciples, perhaps, have suddenly remembered and reminded one another that Jesus kept saying he would be back on the third day.

Our travelers have waited as long as they can, hoping to see him. 

Finally, they’ve had to head home. There is work to be done, and the journey can’t be put off any longer.

But on the road, they wonder, and discuss: 

The tomb is empty, but Jesus isn’t back.  Had they misunderstood the prophecy after all?

If we can’t see him, how do we know it’s real?

You and I weren’t there in Jerusalem, two thousand years ago, the day the tomb was empty.  Neither were most of the people who told the story to us. 

And God knows there might be a time when we ask ourselves how we know it’s real.

Resurrection is a good story.  Essential, hopeful and challenging.

One that can teach us that tragedy is not the end, even when tragedy is real.

One that invites us to imagine a new world:

a world without fear and terror, a world that shines with the love of God.

Sometimes that’s enough.

But when tragedy has hold of our hearts,

when fear or loneliness or grief close doors and build walls to hold us in, that question becomes urgent: if we can’t see it, how do we know it’s real?

I noticed something about the way things happen on the Emmaus road.

It’s God who opens the eyes of the travelers to recognize Christ in the breaking of the bread.  But it’s also God who keeps the travelers from recognizing Jesus on the road.

Not a lack of information, not willful misunderstanding or general denseness, but the hand of God.  I believe that is so that when they do see, they know not only Christ himself, but something else:

It’s real.

Not just what we can we see,

but even, maybe especially, when we cannot see.

That’s what the travelers taught each other, rushing back to Jerusalem: were not our hearts burning within us?  It was real, even when we couldn’t see!

The Emmaus road teaches us that we know resurrection, we know Christ, in the scripture that lights our hearts on fire.  And we know the risen Christ at the table – in meals shared with strangers in need, or with fellow disciples.

Even when we don’t see him, it’s real.

They didn’t take pictures on the Emmaus road. Even if there were cameras in those days, there wasn’t time. They don’t have souvenirs.  They only have the sudden understanding that truth and sight are different things,

that the ordinary and the miraculous can’t really be separated.

And that’s why we remember their story.

That’s what the Emmaus road is for.

That road is ours on the days when in spite of our honest faith and hope, we don’t really expect God to be with us,

when we aren’t as sure as we want to be that Christ is real, and risen.

The days when we want to believe, but neither our hearts nor our minds can make that leap on faith alone.

The Emmaus road is the place – every place – where God walks with us, unrecognized.

It might be the grocery, or the office, or the highway or Metra train.

And this story reminds us that Christ is risen and real at every table where bread is blessed and shared, not just at the table in the church, but the one in the kitchen, the one in the McDonalds, the one at PADS.

This story assures us that the miraculous is hidden in the ordinary whether we know it or not.

In a way, that truth is particularly appropriate for Mother’s Day, because today is a day we pay attention to the miraculous in the ordinary. 

Motherhood is full of roads and tables.  Literal roads, traveled with a car full of kids.  Metaphorical roads, the paths and detours that our lives travel from beginning to end.

Multiplication tables, table manners and literal tables, with quick meals or joyous feasts.  

And perhaps, occasionally, breakfast in bed.

Motherhood – and living with our mothers – is all about what is ordinary.  Love, yes. And all the layers of patience and care and chores and grief and hope that make up our everyday relationships, and the relationships we long for. 

Today we look at the ordinary moments, and remember that they are full of hidden miracles,

real miracles whether we see them or not.

Love is hidden there. 

Our love, but also God’s love for each of us. 

Grace, and strength and above all the gift of life hide in every ordinary moment.

It is real.

Christ is risen.  Love wins.

Near Emmaus, in our kitchens and cars,

in every ordinary place and time.

Sometimes we will be able to see the miracle, and sometimes we won’t.

But the gospel assures us that even the miracle we don’t see is real.

Ready or Not

Matthew 28:1-10, Easter Sunday

Good morning!

Did you come to church this morning looking for God?

On that first Easter morning, Mary Magdalene and The Other Mary weren’t looking.  Not for a new experience of God, maybe not even for answers.  They knew what they were getting: a sealed tomb, maybe a chance to weep, to let the grief and loss of the last few days sink in and become real.

They knew how the story ends.

And then it doesn’t.

The earth quakes.  The sky flashes like lightning.

A brilliant messenger appears, and brushes back the heavy rock at the entrance to the tomb as though it’s nothing.

Many of the gospel Easter stories see the empty tomb as a mystery, a story of suspense and wonder.  Matthew sees it as a fast-paced special effects blockbuster.

We just glimpse the Marys, in the early dawn, on their way to the tomb, and in a burst of light and noise, resurrection finds them.

First, with the news that the tomb is empty, and then, as they run off to carry the report, resurrection interrupts them on the way.

Jesus appears, and says, “Good morning!”

As famous first words go, it’s a little underwhelming.

After all the lightning and effects of the first news, Jesus, risen living from the grave,  simply stands there and says,

“Good morning.”

(which always makes me laugh)

Taken literally from the Greek, the first word of the resurrected Jesus is “Rejoice!”  But chairete is a greeting so common in first century Greek that the best translation really is, “Good morning!” or even, “Hello!”

So ordinary. So perfect.

Sometimes resurrection is dramatic and amazing. Sometimes it’s remarkably ordinary.  Joy that just happens.

A couple of weeks ago I visited my friend Sadie, who is three, and we played Hide and Seek.

Sadie showed me what to do.

“I will hide here, and you will find me!”

“Now I will count and I will find you. Where will you hide?!”

Her parents reminded her that you’re not supposed to tell where you’re hiding.  And Sadie tried that.  But when the time came for Mama to get in the game, we were back to what really mattered.

 “Mama, come and find me!  Find me here!”

For Sadie, the game isn’t about the search, or about winning.

It’s all about the finding. 

Because being found by someone who loves you is a moment of sheer joy.

And you can do it over and over again.

This morning, this resurrection, Jesus reminds me of Sadie: Too eager to wait, insisting on being found, breaking norms and rules to be discovered without our even searching.

I’ve played Hide and Seek hundreds of times.  But with Sadie, I learned something new.  In this game my job, hiding or seeking, was to be available for that moment of delight.

I think that’s what God wants from us, when we face resurrection.

Whether we are seeking or hiding, whether grieving or urgently busy, whether we’re bored and tired or content,

God calls us to live wide open to that moment of joyful discovery, of finding and being found by love.

Just because it’s simple doesn’t mean it’s easy.

Grief still matters.  Pain doesn’t vanish.  We’re still busy: busy at our work, busy at God’s work; either can make us tired or focused or distracted.

And most days in our lives, resurrection doesn’t come with lightning and drama.

More often, that call to find and be found by God is as ordinary as “Good morning!”

It’s unexpected and easy laughter when you thought you would be bored. 

It’s morning birdsong when the weeks have been endlessly gray.

It’s a phone call, a smile, an errand to pick someone up.

It’s when knowing where you are is transformed into “I found you!!!” 

and the moment of discovery seizes our hearts with delight and reclaims our broken or busy lives for love.

That’s the Easter gospel story.

And that’s why we celebrate Easter. With bunnies and chocolate and hidden eggs, with “Alleluia!” sung or shouted together, we’re practicing that moment of finding and being found, that fresh, uncomplicated joy.

Practicing resurrection.

Because whether we’re looking or not, whether we’re ready or not, resurrection finds us.

And sends us out to share that joy with all God’s world.

Mary and Mary weren’t looking that first Easter. And resurrection found them. Christ appears in their path, eager to be found, calling out, “Rejoice!” and claiming their ordinary, busy lives for that insistent moment of discovery and delight.

The rest of the disciples weren’t looking, either. We last saw them scattered, defeated, and afraid. And resurrection calls out to them to be found. With one word to Mary and Mary, the risen Christ reclaims them – and us – for the family of God.

The good news of Easter is that God cannot wait to be found, and always finds us.

That over and over we are called to that moment of fresh discovery, of love overflowing the rules and changing the game.

We don’t have to be ready.  Most of the time, in fact, we’re not.

All we have to do is be open.

To let God’s own delight fill us and surround us, to find and be found, over and over and over again, by eager, insistent, living Love.

Because God, like Sadie, rejoices in the wonder of finding and being found.

Sometimes as simple as “Good morning,” sometimes as brilliantly as lightning, as shocking as the news that death is not death, the rules are changed, and the grave is empty,

in the midst of our ordinary days, resurrection finds us.

Finds us, and sends us out to share that healing, shining, holy joy,

of finding and being found by love.

So, ready or not:

Rejoice!

Feet are weird

Things I learn because I'm preaching to kids:

John 13:1-17, 31-35, Maundy Thursday 

Jesus loves us even if our feet aren’t pretty.  

Jesus loves us even if we think what he’s doing is weird.

Jesus loves us even when we are tired and cranky or sick, and not very fun to be around. Jesus loves us even if we are afraid to love.

That’s a LOT of love.

And that's what it means when we wash one another's feet.