This morning’s Gospel begins dark and somber, a story of dashed hopes and disorientation. Two disciples walk along despondently. We thought he was the One; but look what happened. Everything fell apart. They leave Jerusalem, the holy city, the scene of tragic crucifixion. What they do not yet understand is that it has become the scene of God’s greatest triumph.
Then Jesus himself shows up, just another Stranger on his way out of Jerusalem. But they’re so stuck in their confusion that they cannot recognize him. Jesus listens, interested in what’s weighing on their hearts. Why are you so sad? What are you two discussing? What are we discussing? Cleopas asks in exasperation. Are you the only one who doesn’t know what happened? Gee, no. What? says Jesus. (Probably one of the more comical moments in all of Scripture.) He the risen Lord riddled with the holes of his passion, plays dumb. He knows the story alright; it’s written all over his body, even into the depths of his pierced heart.
So they explain. The empty tomb, the report of a few women with a message from angels, which of course is totally unreliable. Who’d believe them? They can’t make sense of any of it. And then this Stranger tells them frankly that they’re being fools, much too slow to understand the wisdom of God. The Christ had to suffer all these things before entering into his glory. And then this most beautiful phrase, “he interpreted to them what referred to him in all the Scriptures.” In all the Scripture. All of it, all of Torah, all the prophecies have been fulfilled in his beautiful, wounded body. It was supposed to be like this. A wounded Messiah. Now their hearts suddenly become all fire.
They don’t want him to leave. They beg him, please stay with us.
And so a supper at a small inn. And I like to imagine that maybe just maybe there
is a detail of the Emmaus supper we never hear about. It was late afternoon on
the road, after all, the light was fading fast; Jesus was only shadowy Stranger.
The two disciples never saw his wounds. Now they sit at table, the lamps at the
inn are lit, and then they see – it is Jesus breaking the bread with two hands
marked with deep holes. He breaks the bread; he is the Broken Bread. Brokenness
signals resurrection hope. Jesus disguised as a Stranger is finally
recognized in “the ritual gesture of the community fellowship meal.” Take, bless, break, eat.
They see him, and they understand. Passion and promise are one. Out of love God in Christ suffered death to foil death and save us from unending death. They leave the inn and rush back to Jerusalem, now the place of hope beyond hope. The witness of unreliable women is most trustworthy after all. We too have seen him, they say, we sat at table with him. Disappointment and despair have been transformed. The Lord is truly risen.
Truth is, they never realized who they were following. What he was in for, what they are in for as his followers, no matter how often he had tried to explain. And so we may smugly assess their foolishness, thinking we’d know better. But which one of us understands what we’ve gotten ourselves into as companions of Jesus? Baptized into him, we have been baptized into his death; so intimately conformed to him, that we must not shrink back as our own lives increasingly take on the contours of the cross, better still its sharp angles. But the good news is that passion and promise are always one. In Christ, our suffering can never be separated from our hope for new life in him. It’s just as Peter explains Jesus’ resurrection this morning, quoting a psalm we love, “you will not leave my soul among the dead, nor let your beloved know decay. You will show me the path of life, the fullness of joy in your presence.” Fullness of joy - because God’s love is stronger than death. And confusion is grace if we dare to bring our faith in him rather than demands for clarity that require God to meet our criteria.
But so often, too often we too are fools, too slow to understand. And our lives in the cloister are often a continuous repetition of that trek to Emmaus. Disappointed, our best hopes dashed, we very often plod glumly along. So self-absorbed, we forget that Jesus is right beside us. We feel like impostors. Our best hopes for progress in love and kindness, progress in prayer and holiness cannot be achieved. Plus the world is falling apart. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Then he explains. “Guess what?” and he shows us his wounded body. Everything’s supposed to fall apart so God can reverse it all. God’s power is at its best in our weakness.
Someone
we love has seen our sad predicament and has come down to be with us now;
always eager to turn things upside-down. He makes opportunities for mercy out
of the disasters of our sinfulness. But how slow we are to understand that
confusion is grace, how reluctant to trust that God wants to turn things over
and show us beautiful opportunities for his grace in the mess. If we await
neatness or easy success and fanfare, we will always be disappointed.
All will be well; and all manner of things will be well, for in his own body Jesus has reversed everything, and brought us home to the Father. The “horizon of God’s reign is immeasurable,” it eliminates death and leads to eternal life. And it begins here and now, if we will open our eyes and our hearts to see. From “the very beginning, God's intention was nothing other than this world, the world in which we live now - perfected, healed and sanctified.” He is risen. We have been ransomed from our futile conduct, with the precious blood of the wounded Christ.
True, everything’s
falling apart around us, within us. But this may be great, good news, for in Christ
we have been grasped by the love of God and drawn irrevocably into the fullness
of his desire for us. We too live continually in that space between what we had
hoped for and what has come about. Not our plan, but his plan. God comes relentlessly searching after
us. And the Father’s invitation is ongoing: Will you allow me to
conform you to my Son? Will you allow me space
enough to accomplish my will in you, through you, as I did in him? How
shall we respond? Can we let God have his way with us? Will I surrender?
We are foolish, indeed, O Lord so please stay with us; shows that it is OK to suffer if we are with you. Stay with us in our foolishness. Teach us your divine foolishness, the mad folly of your love for us. Give us the broken bread you are and let us see you there.
Caravaggio, Supper at Emmaus, oil on canvas, 1601, National Gallery, London. Homily by one of the monks with insights from Luke Timothy Johnson, Gerhard Lohfink. and Robert Barron.
