So, a couple of disciples are walking down the road from Jerusalem to the little tiny town of Emmaus, about 7 miles away. I don't imagine them hurrying too much, seven miles isn't that far, and although you can walk a mile in a quarter hour or so, you really have to book, and I can't imagine they are doing that in their condition of sorrow, their condition of a abject grief, because just two days ago, their master was nailed up onto a cross and allowed to suffocate to death, and it was the end of a dream.
And as they walk, they're talking about all that has happened in the last few days, and as they walk, a man joins them and tags along. Now, we know it's Jesus, because Luke tells us, but the two men don't. And here's a troubling and mysterious thing: we're told that they are prevented from recognizing him. And so the first thing I always think about when I consider this passage is prevented by what? Or by whom?
We know that Luke had something in mind because of the passive construction of the sentence, the "was prevented," but he doesn't tell us about who or what is doing the preventing. Was it something that would have been obvious to a first-century audience? Does he mean it to be a cliffhanger, a to-be-continued into the next installment? If he did, he blew it, because it's not in the sequel, it's not in Acts, at least not explicitly ...
So what's the story here? Could it be a supernatural thing? Could it be God doing the preventing, for some inscrutable God-reason or another? Could it be like in the Old Testament, where God hardens the heart of the Pharaoh? Or could it be something about Jesus ... maybe he doesn't look like he used to. After all, Mary Magdalene thought he was the gardener, until he said her name . . .
For whatever reason, they're kept from recognizing him, even after he speaks to them, asking what they're talking about. And at that, they stop as if the weight of what has happened, of what they're about to tell this stranger, was too heavy to say in motion. And they're so astonished that this man doesn't know what happened that they just stand and gape. Cleopas is certainly surprised, because he asks him--rather sarcastically, I think--"are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who doesn't know what happened?" As if one more execution of one more Jewish rabble-rouser would get the whole town talking. But Jesus says "what happened?" and Cleopas starts in, telling him about all the stuff that had been going on, about how Jesus was a prophet “mighty in deed and word,” and how the religious authorities had turned him over to the Romans to be condemned and crucified, and how they were just sure he’d been the one to take Israel away from the Romans, and all that had been ruined, and some women told this fantastic story, about an empty tomb and some angels, but when the men went there, there was just an empty hole . . .
And you can almost hear the pathos, almost hear the lamentation, and maybe just a touch of self-pity, and when he stops to catch his breath, maybe to contemplate anew the complete tragedy of what they’d all been through—never mind that the tragedy didn’t happen to them—Jesus jumps in: “Oh, how foolish you are,” he says, and he’s clearly exasperated, “and how slow to understand what the prophets have said.” And it's worth noting that it's clearly a set-up. He knows very well what's going on, and he probably had a pretty good idea what their answer would be. He sets them up for another one of his teachable moments, this time about the nature of the Scriptures and what they really mean, which he proceeds to tell them in great detail, he gets out his pocket Torah and power-point slides and explains to them just where it says that the messiah must suffer and die, all the way from Moses on forward.
And it seems to me that this points to at least one answer to our question—maybe it isn’t something from outside the disciples that prevents them from recognizing him, maybe it isn’t Jesus’ changed appearance or God hardening their minds like the Pharaoh’s heart . . . Maybe it is something inside them, some prejudice or belief, that is preventing them from recognizing the risen lord.
And what could that be? Let’s look at Cleopas’ lament . . . they thought Jesus was going to be the one to redeem Israel, and the Greek word our translation renders as “redeem” means redeem in the sense of liberate, set free from oppression, and of course he means set them free from the Roman occupation, liberate them from the crushing weight of the Imperial boot. And as we’ve seen in the past, this was a common belief in Israel about the Messiah: that he would be a great military leader, who would lead an uprising against Romans and their collaborationist toadies, and throw them forcibly out of Palestine. Cleopas and his friend had been so sure that Jesus was their kind of Messiah, a Messiah who would kick some Roman rear and take down some Roman names, that his death stopped them in their tracks. Because how could he be the Messiah if he was nailed to a tree?
And now they were stuck—stuck at the fatality, stopped by the crucifixion. Held fast in their grief and mired in their sorrow . . . they were prevented from identifying Jesus by their own failure to comprehend his true nature, even though they’d had plenty of evidence for it in the past, and had even been told outright that he would be arrested, killed and be raised again.
I don’t know about you, but I sometimes get like those two sorry disciples . . . I get focused on the pain in this world, focused on its sorrow, and I can’t move on to the resurrection. There is so much violence, so much war, that I cannot see the hope that the resurrection portends. I hear about the hundreds of school-girls kidnapped in Nigeria, or ethnic cleansing in the Sudan, or the latest massacre at an American achool, and I despair, and am caught-up in the hopelessness of it all. And just like those first disciples, I have a hard time recognizing the risen Christ when I see him in the world.
Well. As they near Emmaus, Jesus makes as if to go on, but Cleopas and the other disciple urge him strongly to stay with them, because the day is almost over and evening is nigh, and right here is the turning point in the entire story . . . it isn’t when Jesus berates them and explains the scripture, nor is it in Cleopas’ self-pitying lament. The turning point is when they offer Jesus hospitality, despite him being a stranger, as Cleopas emphasized his earlier, incredulous question.
And even if hospitality is a Middle Eastern social requirement, it still requires a certain amount of chutz-pah, a certain amount of courage. Hospitality expresses deep vulnerability; welcoming a stranger is always risky, and the tables might be turned—for better or for worse. The Palestinian roads could be dangerous, even that close to Jerusalem, and they still had no idea who Jesus was.
But they take the chance, they open themselves up and invite Jesus to supper, and all of a sudden, the tables are turned, and Jesus is the host instead of the guest, and he takes the bread and blesses the bread. Then he breaks the bread and gives the bread to Cleopas and his friend. And in those actions—take, bless, break and give—their eyes are opened and they recognized the saviour. And note again the passive voice: they didn’t open their own eyes, something—or some one—did the opening. And what was it? Take, bless, break and give . . . the four movements of the Lord’s Supper that he instituted in the upper room. Take, bless, break and give . . . the actions that recall for them the self-emptying sacrifice of Jesus, the Christ. Take, bless, break and give.
Do you remember when Abram and Sarai are camped at the oaks of Mamre? The extend hospitality to three strangers and behold! They are given a theophany, a revelation from God. It is through their hospitality that God speaks to them, even though Sarai—not yet Sarah—laughs it off. It’s the same way with the Cleopas and his friend: their hospitality has opened a space, a window for grace to enter in.
It has been suggested that hospitality is the indispensible to evangelism these days, that welcoming the stranger is the key to spreading the gospel in thought, word and deed. Certainly, it hasn’t been that way in the past, especially, perhaps, in mainline churches. They’ve had a tendency to set up shop on some prime piece of real estate and expect people to just show up. At the same time, as this has proven less and less workable, they’ve turned inward, worrying more about survival than extending hospitality to folks not like them. Many times, they become just one more club, like the flower club or Rotary, instead of vessels of God’s grace for those who desperately need it.
In a few minutes I’ll take the bread and bless it, then break it and give it, but it won’t be me who is doing it, but Christ through me. In communion, Christ becomes the host, we are only vessels, but we are important vessels nevertheless. It is through our hospitality—which begins with the Lord’s Supper, but extends into all that we do—that God’s grace flows into the world. The church offers hospitality—not just to its own members, but to the entire world, to every stranger in it—the church offers hospitality through the Eucharist in the name of Jesus Christ, and grace rushes through that hospitality like an ever-flowing stream. Amen.
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