Unless We See 2: Their Eyes Were Kept from Seeing

Luke 24:13-35

We might not all be headed to Emmaus, but we’re all journeying. All of us—and by that I mean all 7 Billion of us—are on the road to somewhere. Odds are 7 billion to 1 that you’re the only person going through whatever it is you’re going through. I shared a Buddhist parable on Maundy Thursday about a woman who lost her daughter to death, and was so distraught that she carried her dead child throughout the land begging for someone to heal her. She eventually came to the Buddha, who understood the road of grief down which she was stumbling. “I can help you,” he told her, “if you can collect a sack of mustard seeds for medicine.” She eagerly agreed. But then the Buddha explained that “the mustard seeds must come from a house that has not been touched by death.” As this woman journeyed in search of the mustard seeds that might heal her child, she realized that there was no house that had not suffered loss. When she realized that her suffering was not unique, she was able to bury her daughter and release her grief.[1] How easy it is to think we’re walking alone—to not be able to see those who are walking with us.

Today’s scripture is sandwiched with two interesting phrases. The first is in verse 16, after we read that Jesus joins the disciples on the road we read that “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” The second comes at the end of today’s reading, when Jesus accepts their invitation to dinner and breaks bread in their presence. Verse 31 reads: “then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him.”

What do we do, what do we always say, when we break bread together? We recall and recite some version of these words: “When you do this, remember me.” Me, of course, referring to Jesus. To really understand what Communion is all about is to recall when those words were spoken, and what the following days entailed—to walk the road with Christ until we realize that Christ is actually walking the road with us. God chose to suffer and die in human form because he knew that we all would walk that road.

Today’s Scripture addresses the question: What keeps us from realizing and recognizing all that God chose to do for us? What distracts our eyes, our minds, our hearts? Maybe the better question to ask, however, is, after all that God has done, and with the odds of 7 billion to 1, what makes it so easy for us to think we’re walking alone?

To walk alone, or to think that we are alone, is one way of resigning ourselves to suffering, to joylessness, to hopelessness, to despair. But, as the Archbishop Desmond Tutu reminds us, “Despair can come from deep grief, but it can also be a defense against the risks of bitter disappointment and shattering heartbreak. Resignation and cynicism are easier, more self-soothing postures that do not require the raw vulnerability and tragic risk of hope. To choose hope is to step firmly forward into the howling wing, baring one’s chest to the elements, knowing that, in time, the storm will pass.”

What the Archbishop describes as a mechanism for avoiding vulnerability, is the exact reason why we practice confession each week. For me, I view the call to confession (and the Assurance of Pardon) as a condensed version of the Sacrament of Holy Communion: the reminder of Christ’s own chosen vulnerability and the grace that is available to us because of that choice. We practice confession in order to, metaphorically, “break the bread” in the face of our imaginary loneliness.

This is also the reason for our “Prayers of the People.” We pray to remember that the God who is with us is also with the other 7 billion, has been with the trillions before, and will be with the quintillions who follow. We pray to escape the “self-soothing postures,” as the Archbishop called them, and to present ourselves to the God-soothing posture: that of humility and vulnerability. Our practices of prayer and Sacrament are designed to move us down the road, closer to that place where our eyes will be opened, that place where our selfishness is supplanted by compassion. Here’s the thing with compassion, it requires us to acknowledge that we aren’t alone.

This is huge. This is what it’s all about. This is why I can say that the reason for religion, all religion, is to teach us how to be kind. It’s all connected to the revelation that we’re not alone. The recipe for compassion is also the recipe for joy. Here’s the secret recipe. Think about the road you travel, and then think about the other people who are on the road with you. It’s really that simple. “This recognition of our interdependence begins to soften our rigid sense of self, the boundaries that separate us from others.” Jesus breaks the bread in order that we can open our eyes and see. “This [recognition] leads to serenity and equanimity. It does not mean we don’t have strength to confront a problem, but we can confront it with creativity and compassion rather than rigidity and reactivity. When we [realize we’re not alone], we can empathize with [those who journey with us]. One starts to see the interdependence that envelops us all, which reveals that how we treat others is ultimately how we treat ourselves. We also are able to recognize that we don’t control all aspects of any situation. This leads to a greater sense of humility, humor, and acceptance.”[2]

Acceptance. The one thing that destroys our traction on the road, our ability to move forward, is denial of where our feet our planted. Denial is what caused the woman from the Buddhist parable to slip and slide across the countryside carrying her grief, unable to bury it, unable to journey on. And what lies at the end of the journey is joy. The table at which bread is broken we also refer to as the “Joyful Feast.”

“Joyful Feast” is also the name of a new worshipping community started by John Vest, the visiting professor for evangelism at Union Presbyterian Seminary. He and the students have been imagining, dreaming, creatively envisioning ways for the church to extend the table of joy to those who are slipping and sliding their way through the journey. One initiative they experimented with, last summer, was called “BBQ Church.” John Vest, in addition to being a wonderful preacher and teacher, is also an award winning BBQ chef. The man can cook a pig.

He would smoke butts and sausage while the students prepared slaws and roasted root vegetables and they’d invite the neighborhood to the feast. Then, around the dinner table, we’d worship, and sing, and share. The sharing was the focus. There weren’t sermons, but rather discussion questions to talk about at the table of 5 or 6 other folks with whom you’d been eating.

I was invited to provide the music for a couple of these feasts along with my jazz combo. We had a blast. One of these events was in August, shortly after my wife and I had, for the first time, mutually recognized that our marriage just wasn’t working. If you had asked me…I’d have said, “What joyful feast?” I don’t remember what the question was, but I do remember not feeling willing enough to make myself so vulnerable as to share the journey I was on. I was still in denial; I was still willing to go it alone. But I do remember how heavy that sat on my heart.

Speaking of “heart”…I think it was Ree and Bobby with whom I first shared the story of my journey. I did know that “pastors divorcing” had been a part of this church’s story. I have to admit that I was scared, maybe even embarrassed to bring it up. I’d failed. I was a hypocrite. How dare I preach about grace and love and forgiveness every week when I had reached the point of no return with the one to whom I had made those promises. But why did I feel as though I could share with Bobby and Ree? And then with the session? And then, about six months ago, I shared with you that I was walking on the road to divorce. How could I do such a thing? I think I know why. It’s because we had broken bread together.

It’s not only figuratively, but also literally, that the Sacrament of Communion forces the pastor to step out from behind the pulpit. To lead from the table invites pastors into a position of vulnerability. I had been there with you, before. There are no words to describe how uplifted and loved I felt to have some of you come up to me after worship that Sunday and share, “I’ve walked that road, too.” All I can say, in conclusion, is this: you have no idea how many people in this world are waiting for you to break bread with them, to join them in their difficult journeys, to open their eyes to the reality that they are not alone. I promise you this: If you can break bread with them out there, on the road, wherever it is that they feel stranded and tractionless…then you will, indeed, break bread with them here, at this table where God reminds us ALL (7 billion and counting), no matter where we are headed, that we are not alone in this journey.

I close in sharing these words from a cell-phone app, yes, cell-phone app, called “D365” that provides me with a daily devotional. This past week, reflecting on this same text, Elizabeth Cervasio had this to share:

“When our eyes are opened and we remember that we never walk the road alone, our difficult times are easier to manage. Trusting that God is bigger than your pain, your troubles, and bigger than death is freeing. And it’s a feeling that cannot and will not be contained.

“The way you live your life when you recognize Jesus is your constant companion on the road of faith will naturally reflect love and assurance to others. Our load becomes lighter, our joy more resounding. Nothing can keep you from the love of God; Jesus’ death and resurrection made sure of that. Keep that comforting knowledge in your heart, and others will see the risen Lord through you every step of the way.” Amen.

[1] Lama, Dalai, Desmond Tutu, Douglas Abrams. The Book of Joy. 2016, Avery. New York, NY. Page 112-113.

[2] Ibid. P. 201.