“The Risen Christ”
Luke 24:13-48
In the Revised Common Lectionary (the resource that schedules scripture readings throughout the year), the long scripture passage Judy just read is rarely read or heard all at once.
During Eastertide of one year, you might hear the Emmaus story, in which Jesus is made known in the breaking of the bread. In Eastertide of another year, you’ll hear the story of the Hungry Risen Christ suddenly appearing to the disciples, who, three full days after the crucifixion, were still hiding behind locked doors.
So what does it mean to hear both of these passages together, one after the other as they appear in Luke’s gospel? What do we notice that we might not notice when we read or hear them separately? Why did I “break the rules” and decide to have us hear the fuller story of that afternoon and evening?
God knows it’s not because there isn’t more than enough to consider in each separate story. Nor is it that I take both stories literally or think there’s something true in the longer, fuller story that isn’t true when when hear or read them separately.
If I’m being honest, it’s at least in part because I love the Emmaus story so much and often feel Eastertide isn’t complete without it. It’s also because the second part of the reading sounds a lot like the reading we heard just last week, where Jesus appeared to the disciples and Thomas was the only disciple honest enough to admit he wasn’t so sure about this resurrection business.
I thought putting the two stories together might give us something new and slightly different.
The first thing I noticed when I read the stories together was that, in both situations—on the road to Emmaus and in the disciples’ hiding place—Jesus’ own followers fail to recognize him, just as Mary Magdalene had done earlier that morning. There he was, yet because they didn’t expect to see him or because he looked different, or both, they didn’t realize that the person they were seeing was their beloved Jesus.
But both of the stories also suggest another possible reason the Jesus followers were confused about what was happening: They didn’t know their own faith as put forth and described in their holy scriptures.
In both situations, the Risen Christ ends up leading a Bible study.
“Come on, don’t you know you Torah?” he asks Cleopas and his companion as they walk toward Emmaus. And then, beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interprets to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.
Later that evening, hungry and standing with the disciples behind closed doors, the Risen Christ offers another tutorial.
“Don’t you remember all that I taught you while I was still with you?” he asks, “everything about the redemption to come that’s written in the law of Moses and the prophets and the psalms?” Then he opens their minds to understand the scriptures.
It’s as if he was saying, “Did you really think Rome killing me was the end of the story? All through our history as a people there are cycles of death and resurrection, exile and return, wilderness and the Promised Land, God’s anger and then God’s forgiveness. God’s Love always has the last word. Don’t you remember? It’s all right there.”
It’s enough to make me wonder about our own knowledge of scripture and the reference points we use when we’re feeling confused and overwhelmed by situations in our own lives and events in the world. Does our worldview include a role for God’s love and grace? Or do we think humanity is the only actor in the present and future?
Where do we turn for understanding? Do we rely only on the talking heads, the political analysis, and whatever information or disinformation we’ve picked up from friends or social media? Or do we also spend time in prayer? Do we also reflect on the stories and traditions of our faith and wonder how they might guide, challenge, or comfort us? Do we consider how God’s love is manifest in world events or the situations and challenges of our own lives?
These are important questions that deserve our attention and reflection, and I hope we can create opportunities to consider them together—perhaps in a series of Bible studies or after-worship GIFT (Growing in Faith Together) sessions.
And while these questions are timeless, our scripture lesson this morning also speaks to a specific time and situation in the lives of Jesus followers: With the Jesus they had known executed and seemingly gone, and with the Risen Christ a mystery who would soon leave them, how would they let the glory of the resurrection continue to guide and encourage them? When times got rough—and they would get very, very rough—how would they know the Risen Christ was still with them?
How will we know that the Risen Christ is with us? How will we recognize him? How might we gain strength and courage, comfort and guidance from a mystery that we can’t see or touch?
These, too, are big, important questions—not only for Eastertide but for all the seasons and situations of our lives. And I think this morning’s gospel stories offer us at least three tips for recognizing the Risen Christ in our midst—attitudes and actions that also, of course, are essential to having mutually fulfilling relationships with anyone.
The first thing we see from Cleopas and his companion is vulnerability and honesty. They had every reason to be guarded; every reason to be suspicious of this stranger who seemed to know nothing of Jesus and his execution. Instead, they shared themselves and their feelings of grief and confusion with him.
“We thought Jesus might be the one we’d been waiting for,” they said. “We had great hopes, but they’ve been snuffed out. Then this morning, some women went to his tomb and discovered his body was gone. We don’t know what’s going on but we’re getting out of Jerusalem as fast as we can.”
Their vulnerability gave the Risen Christ an opening to teach them. And what a teacher he was! Cleopas and his friend had no idea who the stranger was, but they knew how he made them feel: like they were a part of God’s story, like they were worthy of time and attention, like they were not alone, like they were safe.
And so they invited him, they begged him, really, to stay—to come inside and share a meal with them.
And so it was, the story goes, that the Risen Christ was made known to them in the breaking of the bread. And in that moment they remembered how their hearts had been burning, how their souls had been stirred, as he spoke to them on the road. That seems to be another way of recognizing the Holy.
The Emmaus story seems to be saying that we will find the Risen Christ, that we, too, will find hope for our hearts and rest for our souls when we let people into our homes and our lives, when we share not only what we have but how we feel.
But apparently it works the other way around as well: We can also encounter the Risen Christ when others reveal their needs and wounds to us.
In Luke’s Gospel, the Risen Christ doesn’t just appear to the disciples, he asks them for something to eat. He’s hungry.
And so it is that just as the Word became flesh and lived as one of us, the Risen Christ lives among us still, much as you or me: wounded by the ways of the world, bearing the scars of injustice and fear, and with an appetite that wants satisfying.
Rather than a disembodied, spiritualized version of “love wins,” maybe the Risen Christ is just as inconvenient, and even more down to earth, than that troublemaker Jesus of Nazareth.
He is the single mother waiting in line at the soup kitchen, the innocent man wasting away behind bars, the bullied trans kid desperate for acceptance. The Risen Christ is the refugee family swimming against the tide, the exhausted parent trying to do it all, the addict struggling to get clean, the unhoused person begging for spare change, the starving children of Gaza, and the traumatized Jews of Israel and the world over.
The Risen Christ may well be our least favorite, most annoying, always-hungry acquaintance. How will we respond?
Do we have anything to eat? Are we willing to share? Will we invite them to stay?
