Through Stained Glass--Choosing Astonishment, a sermon

Grammatical Caveat: Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation (i.e., are written for the ear), the written accounts occasionally deviate from proper and generally accepted principles of grammar and punctuation. Most often, these deviations are not mistakes per se but are indicative of an attempt to aid the listener in the delivery of the sermon.

“Choosing Astonishment”

Luke 24.13-35

Sunday, April 26, 2020

Third Sunday of Easter Year A

What does it mean to be astonished?

It means to be greatly surprised, impressed, or amazed.

To be astonished, we must be open to a sense of freshness, wonder, gratitude, and awe instead of taking things for granted or getting numb from the pressure of work and life.

As I write this sermon, the world is celebrating Earth Day. Across the world, the human family is expressing gratitude for this beautiful, yet fragile, but also resilient, gift that is the earth. The intricacies of creation leave me astonished for many reasons. One is the fact that creation is the first expression of God’s love. It is one way we get a glimpse at the heart of God.

The towering presence of an oak tree tells me that so much life has happened before me, and it endured all of it. A wilting daffodil offers a perspective that there is a season for all things, but also, they’ll be back next year, reminding me once more of the promise of resurrection. The geese honking overhead calls me to morning prayer, and the indigo color of the night sky beckons me to rest from a day's work, praying, “Stay with me, Lord, for the day is almost over.”

If you haven’t figured out, it doesn’t take much for me to be astonished. It doesn’t take much for me to ponder the reality that we are here, now, nearly fourteen billion years after the cosmos bubbled into being. We are here because of a Love that breathed it all into being at the beginning. Such astonishment brings you into the truth of things, into a relationship with the inherent mysteries and overwhelming gifts of existence, scaled from the molecular system of life to the love and forgiveness in human hearts to the dark substance that glues the universe together.

The road to Emmaus is full of astonishing moments. Two disillusioned, dejected, and downcast disciples are in the middle of a seven-mile somber saunter on a road of broken dreams when the incognito Jesus joins their journey. We aren’t sure why they don’t recognize him, but the author gives us a clue in the way they respond to Christ's question—they stood still, looking sad. The helplessness and hopelessness of all that happened have their attention. Perhaps this is why they are bewildered at the fact that the stranger hadn't heard the news. However, it is his question that initiated the astonishing transformation.

To put it simply—the disciples needed to stop. In their stopping, they can name their grief, express their bleakness, and confess how they've lost heart. We know this, don't we? How many of us have been so distressed ourselves that we miss God's presence right in front of us? The story resonates with us because we've been there. The soles of our shoes have traversed this road of broken hearts that seems to lead us away from resurrection. Still, Jesus listens to it all.

The lonely road reveals to us how Christ hears our anguish and our disbelief. As Jesus leans into their frustration and walks along with their dejection, he leans into our lives as well. Jesus shares our feelings.

Jesus knows what it means to be human and even die a death like ours. When Jesus falls in with these two dejected men, he knows very well what is in their hearts. Christ knows death and the tomb; Christ knows what it means to be mortal. Which is why he responds the way he does to Cleopas.

At first, Jesus' response startles me a bit. However, at a closer look, it is quite astonishing what Jesus is telling them. By opening the Scriptures to them, Jesus recounts the salvific story of God and reveals to them that death and dissolution of life are real. He takes seriously not only their feelings regarding death and dissolution but also their longing for freedom as well. He tells them that the Jesus on whom they had pinned all their hopes, the Jesus who was indeed dead and buried, this Jesus is alive. He says them that for the Jesus whom they admired so much, death and dissolution have become the way to liberation.

Here is when the disciples felt their hearts begin to burn—the sense something new is happening, opening up before them. Jesus kindles in them something for which they had no words, but which was so authentic, so real, that it overcame their dark night of the soul moment. I love how Jesus cares for the disciples at this moment. He doesn't offer a, "Oh, it isn’t as bad as it seems,” or “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle” comment. Instead, he said something entirely new, “The most tragic, the most painful, the most hopeless circumstances can become the way to the liberation you long for most of all.” Jesus challenges the disciples, as well as the readers, to see human existence from an entirely different angle, one that is beyond the reach of our common sense. Jesus brings into focus the paradox of faith.

It wasn’t a moment of enlightenment that came upon them. Luke doesn’t say, “Then it dawned on them,” nor does Luke say, “A light was turned on." Instead, he makes it known that the disciples knew who Jesus was by the burning in their hearts. The burning heart revealed something utterly new to these disciples. At the center of their being, at the core of our humanity, something was generated that could disarm death and rob despair of power. It was something much more than a new outlook on things, new confidence, or a new joy in living; something that can be described only as a new life or a new spirit. 

In their astonishment, the disciples ask the stranger who appears to be heading elsewhere to stay. What happens next is something anyone who has ever hosted a party doesn’t expect—the guest suddenly becomes the host, and we see the movement of the Christian life. “When he was at table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.” The eyes of the disciples were open, and Christ vanished from their presence.

As I mentioned earlier, it was more than an epiphany. It was a moment of astonishment. Not only their eyes and minds were opened to something greater happening to them, but their hearts were consumed with fire. Maybe they had a flashback to the last supper they shared with Jesus, or perhaps it is as simple as the text suggests. Either way, the opening of Scripture to them on their walk, and then in the breaking of bread in their home, the doorway to grace opened. All because the disciples took a risk to welcome the stranger into their homes and their hearts. We see a mutual relationship rooted in trust and hope.

To do that is scary. To open our hearts, let alone our doors, to the stranger in our lives. Even to one another, it can be intimidating. Hospitality expresses deep vulnerability; welcoming a stranger or allowing someone to see us at our most real self, is always risky because the tables might be turned—for good or ill. However, the revelation of Christ to the disciples took time, right? Seven miles and then a meal, to be exact. What this story reminds us is how God's story, God's grace manifest in our sacraments, transcends our pitiful attempts to constrain God’s love. Today’s story tells us how Christ meets us whenever we gather not only at the Lord's Table—but any table that provides a self-giving welcome.

Today's story is a bit ironic for us as we shelter-in-place. At the heart of this story is a movement away from isolation towards community. Christ joins himself with those along the way, who then make space for him in their home. The astonishing thing about God is how God always, ALWAYS, creates space for the other so that real community can be experienced—for us to enter into the flow of selfless, self-emptying love of the Trinity.

My challenge for you, friends, is to find ways to be astonished by the presence of the Risen Christ. How might we do that? Keep walking. Keeping telling the story of God’s salvific work in the world. Keep honoring the stranger. Pay attention and be astounded by the things that make your hearts burn.

Remember, Christ is risen. The Risen Christ is no less on the road to Emmaus than he is in the parking lot at the Knights of Columbus.

Look for him. Listen for him. And when he shows up, ask him to stay, and then, be astonished.