Sermon
Easter IIIYear A
30/4/17
Eltham
Readings
NT: 1 Peter 1
Gospel: Luke 24:8-49
+INFSHS
It wasn’t a happy day, that first day of the week. After what had happened we were all scattering and going our own ways. As I shoved my spare cloak and half a loaf of bread into my bag I felt heaviness in my arms, a profound lethargy as iron-grey as the sky, which this morning glowered with cloud. Why? Why did it have to be this way? It wasn’t like Cleopas and I wanted to return to our previous lives; by contrast with the shining message we’d been living with it felt like we were returning to a hovel after living in a palace, the humdrum and ordinary mind-numbing and hopelessly inadequate after… after. But then, what were we supposed to make of the message now? For a while, we had hoped. We’d caught a glimpse of the Kingdom of Heaven, a new reality, the hope of the independence of our people from foreign rule after too many centuries. All the way along we’d clung to that desperate hope: was it really true? Was it true that the kingdom of heaven was within us? Was it true that water of life which truly quenched thirst would well up within us and flow out? It was a vision that captured the heart and mind and soul: the kingdom of Israel restored, with the Descendent of David, the Son of Man on his throne, high and lifted up, and God’s presence hovering as the cloud sanctified the temple and the people again. Cleopas and I, we’d been sent out, as the other 70 were, to spread the message of the Kingdom of God, God’s new realm, drawing near, and warning people to be ready, casting out demons. We’d seen such amazing things, done such unimaginably powerful works, when we were sent. There were a couple of towns we’d had to shake the dust off our feet because they’d laughed at the message. But we’d been caught up in the hope! And how powerfully did it inspire us! Who was laughing now?
And at the centre of it all: him. I can’t even speak his name as I remember this, because I feel again the throat-choking grief, the anger, the disappointment which crowded within me like a black fog, and which felt like it would burst from my chest, or turn to bitter lead in my gut. We weren’t able to get close. But as I watched from afar, I saw the red ribbons flayed into his flesh, my eyes can’t erase the scene of his naked vulnerability, and burned into my retinas forever is the visible tremble of a body consumed in agony. Made worse because I loved him, and had given myself to the vision he preached. It shouldn’t have ended like that! Like this! He deserved better, that kind, strong, enthusiastic, charismatic, inimitable man. Those eyes which had sparked in love and amusement shouldn’t have been blackened by men’s fists. That mouth which had laughed with us, sung songs of praise, prayed for us… it should not have been split and bruised and torn and then insulted by stinging vinegar in mindless cruelty. I blinked, shaking my head to try to dispel the crushing grief and disbelief of what had happened 48 hours ago.
We went inside and ate a joyless repast. There was a knock at the door: a rumour was spreading. I leapt up. How could his tomb be empty? What was this nonsense about visions of angels telling stupid women he was risen? I was angry and dismayed at the thought of such a trick being played, that even in death the battered body of one who had been loved by many should be desecrated, and then lies perpetuated.
“Come on, Cleopas. We’re leaving,” I said. He shrugged helplessly at the visitors and followed me out the door.
“Did you have to be so jolly grumpy?” he hissed as we shouldered our bags and girded our loins. I humphed in reply.
We didn’t speak again until we were well outside the bustle of the city. With us on the road were many pilgrims leaving the city after the Passover celebrations. It seemed obscene that the city and its people should be so indifferent to the life-changing events of two days ago, that its inhabitants should heave a collective shrug and move on with their lives, as though… Maybe the world hadn’t ended for them. Maybe the rug hadn’t been pulled out from under their feet, like it had ours. Mine.
Finally, about a mile out of the city, Cleopas sidled a bit closer and sighed. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Cleopas knew me so well. He had this way of eventually getting beneath my skin and making me ‘fess up.
I resented it. I resented him in that moment. “Don’t you feel an ounce of grief? Aren’t you angry?” I demanded petulantly.
He looked at me. “What do you think? You weren’t the only one who loved him. I think we should be more worried about John and Peter and the rest. They were closer to him than us. I heard Thomas hasn’t left his bed since Friday. And the others… they’ve gone to ground, because they’re scared of what might happen.”
“I don’t know. I can’t believe those bastards have stolen his body.”
Cleopas frowned. “That’s not what Mary said. Susanna said Mary and the others—”
“I know what she said! All that rubbish about angels and that ‘he has risen’. What does that even mean?”I said. Cleopas didn’t dare answer. He knew better than to interfere when I was like this. Not that I’d been like this for a long time. Not since before… Before we started listening and became his disciples. It felt like a regression, and right in that moment I decided I wanted to wallow in it. So be it. “He was supposed to be the King of Israel! So much for the Messiah,” I shouted.
“Shush!” Cleopas cautioned. “Keep your voice down! Do you want to attract the attention of people around? There’s a reason the disciples are locking themselves away!”
And then as quickly as it had flared up in me, it dissipated, leaving behind the dregs of weary sorrow. I felt like every step was dragging, walking through a quagmire of grief.
“What are you discussing?” a stranger asked, sidling up alongside us. I snorted. It was true: we were having a “discussion”; it felt like every word we’d been uttering was a stone hurled at the other.
I looked sideways at the stranger and we stopped. “Haven’t you come from Jerusalem? Where’ve you been these last three days? Are you the only one who hasn’t heard or seen what happened?” I sneered unkindly.
“What happened?” he asked.
I felt a tingle of familiarity, as though I’d met him before. And then a surge of annoyance.
“Seriously?” I said in disbelief. But before I could be really rude, Cleopas jumped in after scowling at my behaviour.
“The things that happened to the prophet of Nazareth. We’d hoped he was going to restore the kingdom of Israel. They killed him, our leaders. And this morning his body was missing when some of our friends went to the tomb. Angels supposedly told them he was alive. But we’re not sure what to make of it all.”
The stranger threw his head back and laughed. We watched him in astonishment. “Oh, you daft bunnies!”
How were we to respond to that? We started to walk again. “It had to happen,” he said. “The prophets talked about it. The Messiah’s suffered and now entered his glory.” His voice was rich with excitement as he began to make connections, calling on passages from the scriptures, some familiar to us, some not so familiar. It was infectious, his joy, in talking about these things, as though it were some great secret he was revealing, so eager to share it with us. As he talked it felt like a fire was being lit within us, his words like coals sparking to life. We’d never thought of it that way before, I swear. And the way he described it, it all made so much sense.
“Hey,” I said at one point, “I feel like I know you already, or like we’ve been friends for years. Do I, do we know you?”
He laughed again, making a cryptic comment about where knowledge and truth come from, and continued talking about new life and the hope of something just over the horizon, something entirely new, something beyond our imagination—and yet there for the reaching and touching and tasting. I felt my anger and frustration drain away, and his spirit… you couldn’t be sad with him. The grief was still there—he never told us not to grieve—but it was slowly being transformed. And I quietly repented of my anger, noting what a waste of energy it had been. Joy seeped in, and while the sun was setting, dawn broke in my heart with his words.
He walked the whole way with us, and it was getting dark by the time we drew closer to our village, Emmaus.
I wanted to hold onto him. I wanted him to stay and talk more; he was a friend whose conversation I couldn’t get enough of, familiar like a worn cloak, and so, so alive. To be with him was to know what it is to live.
“It’s getting dark, and we’re nearly here,” I said. “Where are you staying?”
“Oh, I have a way to go yet,” the stranger replied. “I have enjoyed keeping you company today. May God bless you.” We’d stopped near our front door, and he began to walk on. We stood watching him. I looked at Cleopas, knowing he felt as I did, and in that moment, made a decision. I turned and ran after the stranger who had befriended us on the road.
I caught up to him, grabbing his sleeve. “Don’t go. Please don’t go! Stay with us. Let us get you something to eat. You must be hungry. Stay and have dinner with us. And we’ve got a spare bed you can sleep in. Please, stay with us. I mean, you don’t have to go on tonight, when it’s dark and all.”
His smile illuminated the darkness. “All right,” he said. “Thank you! I shall abide with you.”
We went inside. As I lit the fire I thought I hardly needed to: his presence lit the room, and more than that, his warmth had lighted a new fire in the cold hearth of my heart, which I’d thought would never see hope again. We’d brought bread with us, and Cleopas raided the cellar for a flagon of wine. He also found a couple of jars of dried fruit and some nuts stored from before we’d left on our journey.
We set it all out, and I don’t remember ever having shared a meal so… homey, so warm, and yet which seemed to shimmer with familiarity as well as praeternatural otherness.
As the guest, we asked him to bless our meager fare. He took the bread, and as he blessed it I had shivers up and down my spine, and I saw the vision of the Master, on the night before he’d died. And he broke the bread—and we knew!
“Rabbi!” I called, joy bursting from my heart, and love from my eyes as he handed us the broken bread. I closed my fingers over his around the bread, but found them brushing empty air, for in that moment he vanished from our sight on the breath of laughter.
I looked at Cleopas, whose face was bright, reflecting my feelings exactly: awe, astonishment, happiness. For a while we clasped arms and capered around the room hollering, “He’s alive!”
Cleopas sobered and stopped. “We have to tell the others!” he exclaimed, and we packed our bags and left that very minute to run back to Jerusalem to share the good news.
I laughed. Oh, how our hearts had burned within us! Though we couldn’t see, though we, I hadn’t known to look, hadn’t dared ask, our hearts had known who he was. And he’d walked and talked with us, spent his time with us, was going to stay with us just because we’d asked, given us his life, his light, his energy, his infectious joy, his spirit, his reconciling warmth so freely, without limit. And we, we’d loved him before we remembered or knew again his name.
Jesus, our friend, was risen indeed, crushing the dominion of death and sorrow and sadness and decay with his limitless life and light and love. Jesus, our Master, our Rabbi, our Lord, risen; he was known to us in the breaking of bread.
And for the first time I understood the kingdom of heaven.
Christ is risen. Alleluia!
He is risen indeed. Alleluia!
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