Third Sunday of Easter

This Sunday we read the very familiar Emmaus story.  This little story sums up our worship liturgy.  Think about the four-part movement of the narrative: 1) the two travelers are met on the road, 2) have the scriptures opened, 3) share in a meal that reveals the identity and presence of Christ, 4) and then are sent to share and live the good news.  This is remarkably parallel to the Christian pattern of worship involving gathering, word, meal, and sending.  Luke closes to end his Gospel with a story about two disciples that makes a promise when we worship we will be encountered by the risen Christ. It is fitting today that after a time of fasting from celebrating the Eucharist.  Today we will receive this special presence with the risen Christ right here in our homes.

There is much to love about this road to Emmaus story, but what caught me is the four words that pop up right in the middle of this story, four words that I think are among the most heartbreaking and realistic in Scripture: “But we had hoped …”  Wow aren’t those words so very relevant for today.

“But we had hoped …” So much is said in those four words, as they speak of a future that is not to be, a dream that created energy and enthusiasm but did not materialize, a promise that created faith that proved to be false. It speaks of a future that is closed off, now irrelevant, maybe even dead. And there are few things more tragic than a dead future. Once challenged to write a short-story in six words, Ernest Hemingway supposedly replied by writing on a napkin: “For Sale: Baby shoes, never used.”  You can fill in the bank here of how the words “but we had hoped” .  It’s not just the tragedy of what happened that hurts, but the gaping hole of all that could have happened but won’t.

“But we had hoped …” In our own faith community in the past six weeks I could fill in the these words.  We had hoped for the baptism, we had hoped to take that cruse, we had hoped we could have had that wedding, we had hoped we could have had confirmation, We had hoped we could get over to see him, we had hoped we could have been there are Easter, we had hoped we would not have gotten laid off, we had hoped this virus would have been over by now, we has hoped we had more money saved, we had hope we could have been their when she died.  I have not made these up as illustrations,  I have heard them from you over the last six weeks.   There is much in life that is beautiful, inspiring, and more, all of which deserves our gratitude. But there is also disappointment, heartbreak, and failure. And all too often we tend to gloss over this, and especially in this Easter season. 

We like to hear future tenses. We like it when people say that everything will be okay, that they will be fine,  that they will get everything back to normal. We like future tenses so much that we reward people in deep grief for reassuring us that the sun will rise tomorrow and that life will go on. But in this unguarded moment, the Emmaus disciples give voice to a discovery that many of us share. Often, often when it matters most, we find ourselves speaking of matters of hope (and faith) in the imperfect tense: we had hoped.  Or if not gloss over it, at least feel the pressure to move by it too quickly toward some kind of resolution, fleeing the cross-like experiences of life for the promise of resurrection.   A friend shares the news of a death of his mother,  and we sympathize for a moment before changing the topic. Or a colleague shares her disappointment at not getting a promotion, and we remind her that at least she has a job, so many people are losing their jobs.  Or we see a friend who has just gone through a dreadful loss, and we avoid him or her altogether because we just don’t know what to say. We don’t mean to be callous or insensitive, we are just at such a loss with … loss. We feel inadequate to the task of confronting the darkness of our lives and this world and so flee to the light in denial.

Maybe this perspective is understandable especially among us Christians because after all, we are people of the resurrection. And so when reading this story we often hurry to the part where the disciples are celebrating with the Risen Christ.   During these times can we be a place that welcomes broken hearts.  Now I know that is much easier to say than to do.  I’m not talking about treating our broken hearts as a means to an end -- you know, let’s acknowledge the cross so that we can get on to the resurrection. Rather, I’m talking about recognizing that part of being human is being broken. And it is to these heartbroken disciples – and to all of us today that the Risen Christ comes, walking along with us on the road, astonished that we don’t see as we ought, teaching us the Scriptures that we may understand, sharing his presence through bread and wine, and granting burning hearts that prompt us back into the world.

But all of that starts with broken hearts, and it is Ok to share your disappointments.  You are allowed to share your disappointment that the cancer returned, the addiction wasn’t overcome, the beloved died, the friend betrayed, the child misbehaved, the job didn’t materialize,... and so on and so on.  You are invited and allowed to grieve a future that will never be, in order that you may possibly hear and receive the future God has created and prepared for you, when you are ready to hear it as you are able.

            Merging out of Holy Week, the confident Easter refrains of joy, triumph, defiance, belonging, and commission usually lead us to assume that resurrection means the end of disappointment. Everyone’s supposed to smile and shout, “He is risen indeed.” But Easter faith can be both a resurrection hope and a lamenting restlessness at the same time.   Jesus doesn’t reveal himself to Cleopas and his companion right away but waits. Why does he wait? Jesus is neither testing, scolding, nor humiliating the shell-shocked couple. He is, literally, journeying with them. There he is, present, as they express their disappointment and confusion. He does not cut them off. The time will come to redirect his friends, but first he lets them proceed one heavy step after another.  Lament takes time. And sometimes lament is the journey that leads us to recognition and new life.  That new life walks alongside us, patiently, whether we know it or not.  Amen