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The Third Sunday of Easter Alleluia! Christ is risen! Today as we celebrate the third Sunday of Easter, we continue the celebration we began two weeks ago at the Great Vigil of Easter where we heard the story of the first witnesses of the resurrection, the women, Mary Magdalen and the other Mary, who came to the tomb to find the stone rolled away. We share their joy, their exultation, their relief that the darkness of death is not the last word. With them, we encounter the risen Christ, and like them, we are compelled to worship in his presence. For those of us who were raised as Christians, who have known nothing else, it’s far too easy to stop there, to revel in the joy of the resurrection, in what is for us a reaffirmation of what we knew on some level already. We know—or at least we think we do—what the empty tomb means. We have all the stories, we have the witness of the apostles, we have the church and 2000 years of teachings, teachings and doctrine and dogma that have grown up to make sense of all this, to bolster our understandings and to undergird our faith. With all that it’s easy to take Easter for granted, to celebrate and move on. And so in today’s gospel we return to the day of the resurrection, the third day after the crucifixion, the first day of the new week. We find two of Jesus’ disciples, not two of the group we know by name, the inner circle of the 12, but two of the many that thronged about Jesus during his ministry, two about whom we know nothing except that one was named Cleopas. These two are leaving Jerusalem. Whatever brought them to Jerusalem—the celebration of the Passover, Jesus’ preaching and teaching—whatever it is finished and they are on their way to Emmaus, perhaps their home, perhaps to return to their families, their daily lives. As these two walk, they talk—going over the events of the past few days, trying to make sense of what has happened. They are deep in conversation when a stranger joins them. “What are you talking about?” he inquires. And the two men are incredulous—where has he been that he has not heard about what happened in Jerusalem, how this man Jesus, the one on whom their hopes and the hopes of many had been pinned, had been hung on a cross. But not only that, his tomb had been found empty, and some women from their group have claimed that Jesus is alive! They themselves had seen only the empty tomb, and they didn’t know what to make of it. Blessing the bread at a meal is not something out of the ordinary in Jewish culture—it happens at every meal. But in that ordinary moment something extraordinary happens—the disciples suddenly recognize this stranger with whom they’ve spent the afternoon as none other than Jesus himself, the very Jesus whom they’d spent the day discussing. At that point, Jesus vanishes from their presence, and transformed, they hurry through the darkness back to Jerusalem to tell the other disciples what has happened. This is the longest of all the resurrection appearance stories and it’s the most multi-layered. In its most literal reading, this story tells us of the transformation that took place when the disciples, no doubt a dispirited and disheartened bunch, encountered the risen Jesus. Of all the evidence that the resurrection actually took place, this transformation of the disciples may be the strongest and most compelling. That a group of followers who during Jesus’ lifetime struggled to grasp his teaching, wrestled with their beliefs, and witnessed his degrading and painful death could almost over night be transformed into effective preachers and teachers who spread Jesus’ message over great distances is a commanding witness to the power of encountering the risen Jesus. But this story is compelling and hopeful even beyond its historical context. Like so many other stories in scripture, the tale of the two men on the road to Emmaus is a testament to the power of seeing, really seeing. When the two disciples first encounter Jesus on the road, Luke tells us “their eyes are kept from recognizing him.” That phrase used to bother me—I think I read as some external force—maybe even God—preventing them from seeing Jesus. But I’ve come to understand that part of the story differently. More than likely what kept these disciples from seeing Jesus was their own resistance, their own doubts, their own unwillingness to see what was right in front of them. The same sorts of things that keep me, keep us from seeing what is right in front of us here and now. What will it take for us to recognize Jesus? What do we need to do to remove those things that prevent us from seeing him? Do we need to let go of our materialism? Our ego? Our need to be in control? Our comfort with the status quo? Our doubts? Our fears? But we can’t stop here. Experiencing Jesus in the breaking of the bread may be a matter of great personal consolation and solace for us just as it must have been for the disciples in Emmaus, but just as that experience transformed them and sent them back out to spread the good news, so too must it transform us and send us back out into the world as well. So transformed and nourished we must keep our eyes open, we must be ready to see Jesus in the world around us—in the beauty of creation, but also in those places torn by storm and strife; in the faces of our loved ones but also in the faces of those who are homeless and hungry and sick and afraid; in the company of friends, but also in the presence of our enemies. Our transformation is not complete until we are able not only to see Jesus in the world but also to be Jesus in the world—his hands, his feet, his love working to transform the world as well. Just as the transformation of the disciples serves as witness to the power of the resurrection for us, so may our transformation serve as witness to the world around us. And then may we all join in the glad refrain: Alleluia! Christ is risen!
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