Easter for the Rest of Us
I don’t think I’ve ever attended an Easter evening service. It feels a little odd to me. I have an intuitive sense that Easter is a morning affair. Easter is brilliant sunrises and chirping birds, pastel flowers and fluttering butterflies. And maybe that’s why I’ve always struggled a bit to celebrate Easter. I’m not sure I’m supposed to say that out loud, but it’s the truth. As someone well-acquainted with the world’s darkness, with a melancholy personality, I have never found Easter an easy holiday. Good Friday, Holy Saturday—that’s more my lane. So, being assigned to preach on Easter feels rather daunting.
Imagine my delight, then, when I discovered the prayer book has three services appointed for today: an Early Service, a Principal Service, and an Evening Service. Historically, I would imagine the three services are due to the immensity of the event we’re celebrating. The Resurrection changes everything. This is our highest feast day—the one upon which all others are based. It’s fitting, then, to worship three times today. But there’s a part of me that also hopes there are three services to correspond to three types of people. There’s the rise-in-the-dark, early-bird-catches-the-worm kind of folks. (Have you met Pastor Ronnie, for instance?) There’s the I’m-finally-ready-to-socialize-by-10:30-after-my-coffee-or-tea kind of folks. (Pastor Aaron, is that you perhaps?) And then there’s the I-missed-everything-because-I-stayed-up-too-late-and-accidentally-slept-in kind of folks. I have always wanted to be the first kind, but I am usually in the second category. And in my current season of life, I find myself sojourning more often in the third. Which is why I am grateful to be worshipping with you tonight on the evening of Easter. And it’s why I’ve titled this sermon: “Easter for the Rest of Us.”
In our gospel reading, Luke tells us of two disciples, one named Cleopas and the other unnamed. Some speculate the unnamed disciple is actually Cleopas’ wife, Mary, whom John’s Gospel tells us was present at the Crucifixion. Together they are traveling seven miles by foot to a village called Emmaus. These are not “famous” disciples of Jesus; they’re not part of Jesus’ inner circle or even the Big Twelve. And they are walking, which means they didn’t have the means to keep an animal for traveling. They are ordinary disciples, regular folks like you and me.
These two appear in Luke’s narrative immediately after the story of the women at the empty tomb. You remember: Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and others went to the tomb at dawn and found the stone rolled away, Jesus’ body gone, and angels announcing that he is risen. When the women share what has happened with the male disciples, Luke says “they did not believe the women, because their words seemed to them like nonsense” (Luke 24:11). One translation says “their words seemed like idle tales.”
As much as we may want to tsk-tsk the disciples for their disbelief, let’s be honest with ourselves. Disbelief is an understandable reaction to such a story. Modern people didn’t invent skepticism about the Resurrection. Even first-century folks knew that dead people don’t come back to life. And many refused to believe it, even among Jesus’ own disciples. So the evangelists incorporate skepticism about the Resurrection into their stories. And thank God that they did.
Luke introduces Cleopas and the other disciple on the afternoon of the “idle tales” from the women. And they’re doing what you’d expect them to be doing three days after a traumatic event like the Crucifixion: They’re walking and talking, and struggling to understand what has taken place. The Rev. Fleming Rutledge says it this way: “Their humdrum, obscure lives had been lifted out of the ordinary by the Master; they had been so proud, so hopeful, as they followed him. Now he was not only dead; he was disgraced and discredited in the eyes of the whole world” (Rutledge 264).
Remember that the Crucifixion wasn’t just any ole way to die. Like the spectacle of lynching in the United States, crucifixion was an obscene obliteration of the crucified one’s humanity. It marked the crucified person as subhuman, utterly contemptible, and unworthy of a decent execution. Not only that, but the execution was meant to blot out the very memory of the person crucified. Crucified people don’t show up in the annals of history, do they? So Rutledge wisely reminds us: “If the story of Jesus had ended with his death we would never have heard of him” (265).
Doubtless these ordinary disciples are processing the horrors they’ve endured. More than likely they’re experiencing shock, numbness, and grief. I’d also imagine a sense of betrayal for getting their hopes up, and anger at watching their dreams be shattered. More than likely there was also shame: They threw in their lot with a loser, leaving family and alienating friends, only to find themselves deserted by another would-be Messiah whom Rome squashed like a bug. They are at their lowest possible point, afraid and unsure of what comes next. It makes sense, then, that when Jesus draws near they can’t see him.
“While they were talking and discussing,” Luke says, “Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him” (Luke 24:15–16).
In the midst of their heartbreak, confusion, and shame, Jesus draws near. It’s not flashy, is it? No thunder or earthquakes; no blinding light or angelic announcements. His appearance is subtle and unassuming. “Jesus himself came near and went with them.” He just appears and begins walking with them, step-by-step keeping pace with their strides. And then he gently joins in their discussion. Jesus asks questions and presses for information and pretty soon he’s teaching them the scriptures. Even so, the two disciples don’t know him. Not even a hint of recognition! Why? Because “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.”
Friends, sometimes even Christians can’t recognize Jesus. Sometimes it’s because of our circumstances. Sometimes it’s because of besetting sin. Sometimes it’s because of pain. Many things can cloud our minds, numb our senses, and keep us in darkness. Whatever the reasons, it is a common experience even for Jesus’ disciples to be unable to see when he draws near. Surely, we think to ourselves, I would have known. I would have seen. But we ought not underestimate the power of sorrow, doubt, and despair. They can be so overpowering that even when God himself is face to face with us, leading us through God’s word, we can still fail to see him.
This can be more than a little galling for modern sensibilities. We like to think of ourselves as intelligent, creative, and free. We can do anything we put our minds to, as long as we want it badly enough. And then you have the Bible: “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” I know it doesn’t feel good, but can we not relate to this? As Jesus says to the pair, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe…” If I’m honest, I have to say to this evaluation: It’s true. I am. We are.
But I have good news, friends. God doesn’t leave us there. God wants to be known. God wants to be known. And our text tells us that God takes the initiative to reveal Jesus. When recognizing Jesus is not in our power—and it is not!—God reveals him to us. As Luke says, “[B]eginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures” (Luke 24:27). What a conversation that must have been! Seven miles walking is a pretty long way, but it must have passed so quickly. Because the best teacher who ever lived is opening the scriptures to them and explaining all the things about himself.
Before they know it, the pair has arrived at their destination. And the man they’ve been traveling with continues on. But they don’t want it to end. So, Luke says, “they urged him strongly… ‘Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.’ So he went in to stay with them” (24:28–29). He went in to stay with them. Just as he spent several hours leading them in the greatest Bible study of all time, now he becomes the gracious host in their own home. They think they are being hospitable to him, but it is Jesus who is being hospitable to them. They think they are preparing a meal for him; but it is he who is preparing a meal for them.
And here’s where they finally come to the realization—the climactic moment of revelation: “When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him” (24:30–31). Their eyes had been kept from recognizing him, but now God’s goodness and mercy intervene: They can see; they can know; and they recognize him.
Rembrandt has a beautiful painting of this moment. Jesus and one disciple are seated at a table in a dark room lit by a single candle between them. A servant works far in the background, also by candlelight, oblivious to what’s happening in the other room. Jesus appears as a dark profile, a reclining silhouette against the light source on the table. Central to the composition is the illuminated face of the disciple, eyes almost comically wide with wonder and awe. His body leans slightly away from the Lord, his hands drawing up toward his face. Your eyes naturally go back and forth between the shocked disciple and the serene profile of Christ, and then you finally see there’s a second disciple in the room. He or she has pushed away their chair and now bows, barely visible, at Christ’s knees. What else do you do when Christ is finally revealed to you? What else is there to do when Jesus shows up at your dinner table? You fall on your knees and worship.
The language Luke uses for Jesus’ revelation to the disciples in Emmaus seems to intentionally mirror language from the third chapter of Genesis. You remember how it went: The serpent deceived the woman about the fruit of the forbidden tree; so she “took some and ate it.” She gave some to her husband “who was with her, and he ate it” (Gen. 3:6). Then, scripture says, “the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked.” They take and eat. Their eyes were opened and they realized they were naked. And as a result, they are exiled from Eden forever.
Now, sitting around a humble table, in a darkened peasant cottage, Jesus takes too. But he takes bread at his Father’s bidding, in accordance with his Father’s will. And now he blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to his disciples. Adam and Eve took for themselves and had their eyes opened to sin, shame, and death. Now, by the mercy of God, Jesus’ disciples don’t take but receive. They receive from Jesus a gift: the gift of himself, which he gives freely. And upon receiving this gift, their eyes are opened, this time to healing, liberation, and eternal life.
Have you ever wondered why when we celebrate Eucharist you are not invited to take the elements for yourself? I realize that other churches do things differently, and that’s OK. I’m not knocking them. But in our tradition it’s important that you receive the elements—the bread and wine—from another, as a recognition that they are gifts. We don’t take eternal life, as our first parents sought to, we receive it. We don’t take Christ, we receive him. So we use our bodies every week to act out this reality in worship: You come hollowed-out and empty-handed and you receive Christ’s fullness, freely given.
Luke’s narrative continues. After their eyes are opened and they see him for who he is, the text says, “he vanished from their sight.” They see him, they know him, and then he’s gone again. How disorienting that must have been! And in response, “They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’” (24:31b–32). Notice how their past experience takes on new meaning in light of God’s revelation. Now, because God has revealed Jesus to them, they can recall his nearness on the road. Now they can look back and see that it was, in fact, Jesus amongst them all along.
I have a vivid memory from when I was around 10 years-old. My family had traveled to Binghamton, NY because of the sudden death of my maternal grandmother. I loved my Grandma Hunter dearly. She was gentle and kind; she taught me things and baked with me; and played with me. I was devastated by her death. And I remember one afternoon on that trip while the adults were busy talking and planning that I stole upstairs to my grandparents’ bedroom and curled up on my grandmother’s side of the bed. I can still feel the texture of the bedspread beneath my cheek as I laid there and wept. And I can still recall the awkwardness as I, for the first time in my life, prayed to God. We were not a religious family. We didn’t go to church, and neither did my grandparents. But my grief for my grandmother led me to cry out to Someone beyond myself and my family. I laid there and sobbed and begged God to take care of her and to take care of us.
Eventually I cried myself out and returned downstairs. There was no profound revelation. No signs or wonders. But now, many years later, I look back on that experience with eyes of faith. I still don’t know where exactly God was in my grandparents’ bedroom or in my chaotic and unstable life beyond. But I know my young heart burned within me and God was there. My tearful, faltering attempts at prayer were assuredly in response to God’s initiative. Because God wants to be known. “Jesus himself came near” to me; I just couldn’t see him yet.
It’s that lack of recognition that proves so hard for many of us to deal with. Sometimes in the humdrum moments of our lives, we do not feel Jesus’ nearness. Sometimes in the hardest moments of our lives, we feel only absence. We know by faith—sometimes only by the barest of mental assents—that Jesus is with us. But we don’t know it. We don’t feel it, sense it, recognize it with our guts. Maybe we feel and sense only coldness and loneliness. Thus, the scriptures speak truly when they say that we are not, on our own, capable of recognizing Jesus in our midst. We have to face this reality squarely, as uncomfortable as it may be. God must reveal Jesus to us. Once God has revealed Jesus, then we can look back on our anguished moments and see that he was there all along.
But what are we to do in the meantime? Luke’s gospel points the way. After they recognize Jesus and he vanishes, Cleopas and the other disciple return to Jerusalem. They backtrack the seven miles and find the eleven and their companions. “Then they told what had happened on the road and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread” (24:33, 35). Now in the midst of this fuller gathering, Jesus shows up again to all of them: “Jesus himself stood among them and said to them, ‘Peace be with you’” (24:36). And now he shows even more signs. He extends to them his scarred hands and feet. He eats and drinks to demonstrate his unmistakable aliveness. And he teaches them some more: “‘These are my words that I spoke to you while I was still with you—that everything written about me in the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms must be fulfilled.’ Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures” (24:44–45).
How they must have wondered to themselves, “Is this really happening? Am I imagining all of this?” They saw him beaten and tortured and killed. He was dead and now he’s alive. They’d lost their friend forever, but somehow he’s found them again. And now they eat and drink together and talk long into the night. How precious those few hours around the table must have been. And how simultaneously baffling too. How are they going to explain this to others? Who will possibly believe them? Will they even believe it themselves?
I wasn’t exaggerating earlier when I said that Easter doesn’t come easily for me. I am a natural skeptic—an over-analyzer extraordinaire. Maybe you can relate. You want to believe. You want to have hope that Resurrection is real and a new creation has dawned. You want to trust that Jesus is Lord and his resurrection has overcome the world. But what do you do when you can’t recognize him? What do you do when you don’t see the Risen Christ anywhere? I think Luke tells us: You do precisely what we’re doing tonight. You gather with other disciples. You listen to the opened scriptures. You receive the broken bread and poured-out wine. Because these are the instances in which God has repeatedly revealed Jesus to his people. Are there such things as mountaintop miracles and ecstatic visions? Yes. But these are by no means the norm. For the rest of us, Easter is experienced in the mundane and ordinary: Eating and drinking, talking and listening, walking and praying.
The truth is, even when folks have extraordinary encounters, there is no guarantee it will lead to recognition. Luke tells us even in this climactic encounter with all the disciples there were still those who were startled and terrified, disbelieving and wondering. The disciples were in the same room, sitting at the same table, breathing the same air, sharing the same meal with their friend and teacher, and some were still doubting. Because recognition is not from us; it is a gift from God. The best we can do, then, as we long for recognition and revelation is to show up and give ourselves to the things Jesus says will reveal him.
I once heard theologian Stanley Hauerwas say that being a theologian is the only way he could be a Christian—and I resonate with that. I’m a priest and theologian not because I have it all figured out but because I desperately need my vows and my work to stay anchored. And God has been merciful to give those to me. I need the prayer book and Bible reading, weekly worship and community meals. They are the bread crumbs I follow through faith’s woods. They are the handholds I grip while scaling faith’s mountain. They are the stakes and poles for I use for refuge under faith’s shelter. Without them, I’d be lost, stumbling, and soaked through.
How long has it been since Jesus appeared to you? When was the last time you recognized his presence? No matter how long it’s been, I’m glad you’re here. My invitation to you this Easter season is the one I think Jesus gives to all of us: Keep showing up. Keep showing up to stand and confess. Keep showing up to sit and pray. Keep showing up with your hands open and arms outstretched. We can’t make revelation happen, but God can. We can’t manifest Jesus’ presence, but God can.
That’s why we clergy, musicians, and volunteers keep doing this church thing every week no matter who else joins us. Because we believe God wants to be known. We believe Jesus is alive and he is a gracious and hospitable host. We believe Jesus is still changing lives and bringing light to the darkness. And we believe Jesus is still pleased to reveal himself through the gathered people, the spoken word, and the bread and wine. So happy Easter to the rest of us. Let’s pray together:
Lord Jesus, stay with us, for evening is at hand and the day is past; be our companion in the way, kindle our hearts, and awaken hope, that we may know you as you are revealed in Scripture and the breaking of bread. Grant this for the sake of your love.
Amen.
