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Jay Weldon The Disciples Knew the
Lord Jesus in the Breaking of the Bread In his masterpiece Walden, Henry David Thoreau writes about the pursuit of solitude, saying this, “many men go fishing all of their lives without really knowing that it is not really fish they are after.” Thoreau notices this, that people were in need of solitude, and so they spent their time fishing. It speaks a deeper truth to me, not just about the pursuit of solitude, but about our individual and collective pursuits in life. We spend our lives looking for something, unknowingly needing something far different. Our gospel today reminds me of this quote. Cleopas and his companion, another disciple, perhaps a woman, are wondering away from Jerusalem—out of town, away from a more hectic and difficult life—toward Emmaus. They probably don’t even know why. They heard this news—alleluia, Christ is risen—and it seems to make no difference. They are walking back to their old lives. They have been a part of the fulfillment and resolution of Israel’s great hope, but hearing that Jesus is risen is strangely not enough for them that day. They are headed back to Emmaus and away from the redemption that they knew they needed. Some men go fishing all of their lives without really knowing that it is not really fish they are after. In a way, this story—especially their reaction—doesn’t make sense to me. I have always imagined the Easter scene so differently. I imagine it mainly the way Hollywood has taught me, that on that first Easter morning, the sun slowly comes out from behind a cloud, revealing that the stone is rolled away. A couple of angels hover around the tomb, there are church bells pealing in the background, and the disciples run off, smiling and hugging each other. This scene shows us that it was perhaps different, at least for some. The crucifixion and resurrection was, at least the first time, not so freeing for everyone. In 1945, Tom Galloway had his own strange, not so freeing Good Friday experience. Tom was a soldier from Mobile, Alabama, who was being held in a prisoner of war camp outside of Schweinfuerth, Germany. It was April of 1945 and General Patton had led American troops into Mainz and across the Rhein. Knowing that his own son-in-law was being held in that same camp, he decided to lead a rescue effort to Schweinfuerth. General Patton was advised that the operation was too dangerous, that there were still too many German soldiers in Bavaria, and that he should wait before heading deeper into Germany. Thinking instead of his daughter and her husband, he went against better advice and sent soldiers into northern Bavaria to liberate the American soldiers. It was Maundy Thursday, 1945, when American soldiers arrived to perform their operation of liberation, but during the night, German soldiers repositioned themselves outside the camp. As the soldiers came out of the camp, some were immediately recaptured and others were able to escape. Tom Galloway and a couple of his compatriots were able to escape, but soon realized that they had nowhere to run. “Today is Good Friday, it’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and we’re in Bavaria,” he said to his friends. “They’re all Catholics, so they’ve all got to be in church right now. We can hide in one of these houses or barns.” He later recounted, “We found the only Protestants in all of Bavaria!” They were sent back to the POW camp and remained there until the real liberation came. Tom and his fellow soldiers only thought they had been liberated that Good Friday. I have sometimes noticed that we too have similar post-Easter roads to travel. Like Tom Galloway, we soon realize that our hearts and minds aren’t as free as we thought they would be. Like Cleopas and his companion, just hearing the news of Jesus’ resurrection didn’t change us like we hoped it would, and we soon find ourselves heading back to our old lives. How long did it take you on Easter, after you left church and said your alleluias, before those first thought came creeping in? How did you react when that first person cut you off in their car, or when you cut them off? I hope your Easter story was better than mine, but it didn’t take me long. That’s why I find so much truth in what Mr. Thoreau observes. We go fishing all of our lives not even wanting fish. We come to hear the news that Jesus is risen only to find that just hearing and believing isn’t what we needed. Cleopas and his companion needed more than just to hear and believe. They had every reason to believe. He had heard it from others, from those same people who originally told us. Luke tells us that Jesus himself explained to them about Moses and the prophets and why he had to die and rise again. Yet they still didn’t recognize him; they still didn’t see. Even after they heard the news, they still needed to experience the risen Jesus. There is a strange irony to this story, the way in which they do not recognize that it is Jesus walking with them. We could surmise that it is a simple case of not recognizing Jesus out of context, the way we may not recognize our dentist at a baseball game without the latex gloves and mask. But I think there is a real beauty to the story. A ghost or apparition doesn’t need to eat. A vision of Jesus wouldn’t sit with them, bless the bread, break it, and share it with them. It was in this action that they recognized the living Jesus, not through simple knowledge and belief, but through experiencing his presence. I don’t believe that the promises of Good Friday—that our sins are forgiven, that Christ has reconciled the world to God—are hollow. They are not. I do not believe that the promises of Easter—that Christ is risen, that Christ has triumphed over death, that Christ has overcome the world—are hollow. They are not. I have heard another promise most of my life that, while also not hollow, does seem incomplete. That promise is that we will find fullness of life, transformation, and wholeness in simply knowing and believing that Jesus is risen. The Easter event, the resurrection, pushes us beyond knowledge and belief. Like Cleopas and his companion, we need to move from knowledge to experience, to know Christ in the breaking of the bread, to know Christ in the many other ways that he is still alive in us. Easter was not a one-time event; it is a daily event. When we open our eyes to see Christ alive in our midst, that is Easter. That is resurrection. The last church that I served in Atlanta had a beautiful and prominent communion chalice on the altar. It was large, polished silver, with a large and black X on the front. I often wondered why there was such a large, black X on the chalice. “X marks the spot,” I thought, but that didn’t really seem theological or spiritual at all. Our pastor told me that the X was actually called St. Andrew’s Cross. After the resurrection, Andrew went out as a missionary, to share with others the good news of Jesus, but like so many others in those days he was arrested and put to death by pagans. On an island in Greece, Andrew was put to death, and in an ironic twist was to be crucified like Jesus. The legend says that Andrew didn’t deem himself worthy to die like Jesus, and so he asked them to use an X-shaped cross, so that he wouldn’t die upright like Jesus. At first I thought it was a lovely story, but then I saw the deeper meaning, why it was on the communion chalice. The purpose of a communion chalice is not to stand upright, but to be tipped over so that you and I can drink out of it. When you turn the X of St. Andrew’s cross sideways to drink out of the chalice, it comes to look like the cross of Jesus. St. Andrew’s cross on the chalice pointed me back to Jesus. I think about that some weeks when I have the privilege of offering you the chalice. The truth is that I see Christ, not just in this bread and wine, but also in you as you come. You may know that your sins are forgiven, you may believe those words of alleluia, but you come still needing transformation, to experience the living Jesus. You come looking to see and experience the living Jesus in this bread and wine, but I see Christ in you. I see him in the elderly who limp toward the altar, still faithful to the story of redemption. I see it in stranger who wanders in, looking for more than one can find in the outside world. I see it in the mother who cares for her children, saying, “cross your hands and say “amen” when you get the bread.” I see it in the eyes of those children who look deeply into the chalice, expecting a lifetime of knowing and experiencing God’s love and redemption in their lives. In this simple act, I see that Christ is alive in us. In this beautiful sacrament, I realize that we are still being redeemed. Not just in knowing and believing, but in experiencing, I see how Christ can be and is still present in us. Therefore let us keep the feast. Alleluia!
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