Luke 24:13-35
April 23, 2023
I once heard an anecdote about
Ernest Hemingway that tells how Hemingway was once challenged to write a story
in only six words. If the anecdote is true, Hemingway responded to the
challenge by writing the following six words on a napkin.
“For sale. Baby shoes. Never used.”
Think about those six words for a
moment. Think about what they imply. It doesn’t take much imagination to
envision the different scenarios that would bring about that particular for
sale ad. Regardless of any backstory we could construct, there is one certainty
from Hemmingway’s brief but powerful mini story: a future that someone imagined
and dreamed about was lost. Someone’ s hope had died.
“For sale. Baby shoes. Never used.”
There is so much happening in this
story about two unknown disciples walking the road to Emmaus, a story that is
unique to Luke’s gospel, that it is easy to miss or skip over three little
words found in verse 21 – we had hoped. Yet I think those three words tell a
story as poignant as Hemingway’s.
“But we had hoped that he was the
one to redeem Israel.” We had hoped.
We hear these words from the two
disciples, one unnamed and one named Cleopas – two disciples we haven’t met
before in any of the gospel accounts. The two men were walking toward Emmaus, a
town about seven miles away from Jerusalem. As they walked, they were
discussing the terrible events that had happened in the great city. A stranger
joined them on the road and asked them what they were discussing. The two
disciples were sad and surprised at this stranger’s seeming obliviousness to
what had taken place in Jerusalem over the last few days. Obviously, he was the
only person who did not know about the terrible events surrounding the death of
Jesus. So, they filled him in. They told the stranger about the way their
religious leaders – the chief priests and authorities – had handed over their
beloved teacher, Jesus, to the Romans. Cleopas and the other disciple shared
with their unexpected traveling companion how this same rabbi was put through a
mockery of a trial, was beaten and tortured, then was crucified and left to die
on a criminal’s cross. Finally these disciples, whom we have never met before
and will never meet again, uttered those three words that cut to the heart of
their grief and the heart of this story. We had hoped.
Grammatically speaking, this
sentence is written and spoken in the past perfect tense. The simplest
understanding of what that means and why it is relevant is that the past
perfect tense describes an action that was completed before another one took
place. It implies a “but.” We had hoped that he was the Messiah, the one to
redeem Israel, but he must not have been. We had hoped that Jesus
would change everything, but he didn’t. We had hoped that he
truly was the Son of God, and that all this talk about death was a mistake, but
it wasn’t. He died anyway. Jesus. Died. Anyway.
The two disciples knew the story the
women told. They went to the tomb, found it empty, but saw a vision of angels.
The angels reassured them that Jesus had risen. He was alive. The other
disciples checked out the tomb as well, but they received no vision.
Consequently, the disciples dismissed the women’s story as “an idle tale.” So,
as far as these two disciples could see or understand, everything was lost.
Their hopes and dreams that God would rescue them, that God’s long-promised
Messiah would free them from occupation were lost. Those dreams were dead and
done. Jesus died and so did their hope. We had hoped, but our hopes came to
nothing.
I think the disciples had broken
hearts. Their hopes for a different outcome, for themselves, for Israel, have
seemingly been disappointed. They have broken hearts. They had hoped. While it
feels wrong to express this just a few short weeks after Easter, especially when
we are called to live as Easter people with clear hope in the resurrection, I
know that we also have hearts that have been broken. I know that we have hopes
that did not come to fruition, dreams that have not been realized.
We had hoped that our loved one
would finally win the battle against cancer, but she didn’t. We had hoped that
our parents would see one more birthday, but they didn’t. We had hoped that our
children would not have their own hearts broken, but they didn’t. We had hoped
that a job would work out or a relationship would last, but they didn’t. We had
hoped. We had hoped. We had hoped.
There is no age limit for loss or
broken hearts or disappointed hopes. None of us are immune to the grief that
comes when what we had hoped for doesn’t happen. The only way to move through
life without a broken heart or a dream that dies is to live a life devoid of
love. The only way to protect our hearts is to refuse to open them to anyone or
anything. And that’s not living, is it? It seems to me that every one of us
comes here today with some lost hope. Every one of us is here bearing some
disappointment. Every one of us sitting here in the sanctuary could tell a
story that begins with the words, “We had hoped.”
And yet I think that as people of
faith, we are afraid to speak those words. We have this idea that if we have
faith, we have no business admitting hopelessness. We are the ones who are in
the hope business, after all. We do hope. We are hoping. We hope and will
continue to hope till hope is no longer needed or necessary. That’s the
promise. Admitting, “we had hoped,” seems unfaithful. And it seems that Jesus chides the disciples
for speaking those three words aloud as well.
“Oh, how foolish you are, and how
slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!”
But was Jesus admonishing these two
disciples for having broken hearts, for feeling hopeless, or was it more about
calling them to account for hearts and minds that were closed to the truth of
the resurrection? I don’t think that Jesus was reproachful of their broken
hearts or their lack of hope. I think Jesus was pushing them to see with more
than just their eyes. I don’t think Jesus was frustrated with them for what
they were feeling. After all Jesus met them on that road. While this expression
may seem cliched, Jesus met them where they were. He walked with them on that
road. He walked with them and felt their broken hearts and understood their
disappointed hopes. He opened the scriptures to them, reminding them that there
was more to God at work in the world than they or anyone could see. He taught
them about all the promises that had been made about the Messiah and were now
fulfilled. He met them on the road, he broke bread with them, so that their
broken hearts could become burning ones.
Those are two more words that I
struggle to understand in this story. The disciples are left with burning
hearts. When Jesus eats with them, when Jesus breaks bread with them, they are
finally able to recognize him, and then he disappears from their sight. And in
light of this full recognition, they proclaim to one another,
“Were not our hearts burning within
us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures
to us?”
I don’t know about you, but when I
hear the words “burning hearts,” I tend to think of heart burn. Heart burn
hurts. Heart burn seems very similar to heart ache and heart break. But maybe
the burning hearts that the disciples experienced was not so much about pain
but about reawakening? Maybe their hearts burned because they were being broken
wide open, open to God, open to the promises of scripture, open to the Love
that had been let loose in the world? Maybe their hearts burned because they
were being made new?
The resurrection is not about making
life perfect, it is about making life new. The resurrection did not eradicate
the messiness that comes with life and love. But the love of God in Christ, is
love that imbues all creation with possibility, and refuses to give up on us in
spite of ourselves. It is a love that binds up our broken hearts. It is a love
that takes seriously our disappointments and our lost hopes. It is love that
reassures us that there is more in this world, in this life, than we can see or
understand. There is much, much more.
Jesus, the risen Christ, met those
disciples on the road to Emmaus. He met them where they were. He met them in
their disappointment and discouragement. He knew their hopes had been dashed.
But his willingness to walk with them transformed their broken hearts to
burning ones.
Jesus, the risen Christ, meets us
where we are. He meets us in the ashes of our hopes. He meets us in the midst
of our pain and longing. He transforms our broken hearts into burning ones. He
transforms our broken hearts into burning ones.
Let all of God’s children say,
“Alleluia.”
Amen.
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