Open-Eyed

Sermon

For many of us, one of the hardest or worst things about this pandemic shutdown has been not being able to say goodbye to those who have died. It still feels a bit unreal that I’ll not see Dick Hensley again in that pew where he always sat, or see Kris Wolf ringing bells or processing in with the choir. There’s a woman in my neighborhood who has long white hair and every time she walks by the house my first thought is, “I should go out and say hi to Jeannie,” but of course, Jeannie is gone. The other day Gregg and I were buying a new mattress and our saleswoman reminded me so much of Leslie Wykoff that it almost hurt to leave the store.

The reality of loss hits us deeply, especially when that loss feels incomplete, and recognizing that brings us into the story world of today’s lesson from Luke. These two men, Cleopas and the other guy, have just experienced a horrific loss. Not only did their teacher die a tortured death, he was also wrongly convicted. All the hopes they had had for this man whom they thought was the long-awaited messiah were utterly dashed. It was the death of Jesus and the death of hope. To make matters worse, now there were rumors flying about that he wasn’t really dead, or he was alive again, or something like that that made no sense at all.

There are deep, primal emotions running beneath this story of the road to Emmaus. Grief is there, as is despair, but I think we see the tiniest flicker of hope, too, in the conversation of these two men. What if these rumors are true? What if Jesus is back? There is bewilderment and wonder and joy.

There are a thousand sermons to be preached on this text, but I will do my best to preach just one: is it possible to see what God is doing in our midst when so much of what is happening around us and to us and in us makes our vision blurred?

The argument can be made that all the great Bible stories are about this: God breaking through all the dregs of our human lives and giving us joy and blessing. The Emmaus story is no exception, and Luke tells it in such a way that we cannot help but be drawn in. There are the two disciples, Cleopas, who is never again mentioned in the whole of the New Testament, and the other guy, who doesn’t even merit a name. By making this story about two generic disciples, we easily imagine ourselves walking along that road.

And then there is Emmaus itself. Scholars are not in agreement about just where Emmaus was, and it is never mentioned beyond this story. Frederick Buechner says this about Emmaus: “[It] is the place we go in order to escape – a bar, a movie, wherever it is we throw up our hands and say, ‘Let the whole damned thing go hang. It makes no difference anyway.’ …Emmaus is whatever we do or wherever we go to make ourselves forget that the world holds nothing sacred: that even the wisest and bravest and loveliest decay and die; that even the noblest ideas that [people] have had – ideas about love and freedom and justice – have always in time been twisted out of shape by selfish [people] for selfish ends.” (The Magnificent Defeat, pp. 85-86)

And then – did you notice the curious use of the passive voice? As the disciples walk along, and as Jesus joins them, “their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” Maybe that’s just good storytelling, or maybe they needed to keep talking about their fear and grief and hope; maybe, like Mary in the garden in John’s telling of this story, they’re not quite ready for the resurrected Jesus.

Contemporary folks, therapists and doctors and social workers, would recognize that the disciples in this story are processing all the horrible things they’ve been through. These professionals would recognize that in order to move forward, in order not to get stuck in the trauma and in order not to let trauma affect the body, these disciples would need to metabolize their trauma, to borrow an idea from Resmaa Menakem. The awful things that happen to us, things we feel emotionally, also stay in our bodies. So we need to metabolize those awful things – admit that they happened, recall the whole of the event, and then do something physical to get that energy out – sing, dance, run around, laugh with friends, take a walk, notice the flowers blooming on the side of the road, smell the scent of spring in the air.

We might say that in walking and talking, the disciples are working through their trauma so that when Jesus finally breaks the bread, they are ready to recognize him—because they have been through a lot, and denying all the evil that had happened will not help them. Denying the evil doesn’t get us anywhere.

This past week we have been reminded once again of the evil around us, of the trauma of racism that still pervades this nation, of our strange love for automatic weapons that leads to yet one more mass shooting. One week ago, 20-year-old Black man Daunte Wright was pulled over for a traffic violation, and the officer shot and killed him, mistaking her gun for a taser. On March 29, 13-year-old Adam Toledo was shot and killed by police after stopping and putting his hands in the air. On Friday morning I woke to the news of the killing of eight people at a FedEx warehouse in Indianapolis.

Wildfire season has already begun, and while we have been enjoying this unusually sunny spring, we need the rain. Despite 30% of adults in the U.S. receiving the COVID vaccine, the virus is still with us. One more friend gets diagnosed with cancer. I could go on. But how, how is it possible to see what God is doing among us when these deaths and racism and climate change fill our eyes with tears of rage and sorrow?

I know what doesn’t work. Staying in one’s pajamas all day eating popcorn and binge-watching Netflix doesn’t open our eyes to anything. Keeping safe in our own little bubbles where our ideas and opinions are never challenged doesn’t open our eyes. Putting the proverbial lipstick on whatever ugly things are ever-present doesn’t help one bit.

So how is it possible to see what God is doing for the good of humanity when so much of what humanity does seems to obscure God?

Let’s take a page from the book of Luke and do what the disciples did: talk and walk. That’s pretty simplistic, I know. But…

In order to be able to open our eyes to see what God is doing in our midst, we need to both get outside of ourselves and stay within our bodies. Getting outside helps us get outside ourselves, and if you can’t walk for whatever reason, have someone drive you around with the windows down, or have someone push you in your wheelchair, or sit by a window. Get outside, if you’re able, walk briskly, pump your arms. Notice things. Notice that some of the dogwood have barely begun to bud, and others are at full flower. Notice that kids are starting to line up outside schools again. Notice the number of signs around the neighborhoods proclaiming that Black Lives Matter still.

And talk. Find someone to talk with. It may be a therapist or a coach or a neighbor or your mom or your friend or a stranger. With the nicer weather and more of us vaccinated, talk in person with those you can while wearing your masks. Pick up the phone. If you must, Facetime with your bff. Find someone you can be utterly honest with about everything swirling around you. And return the favor by listening to them.

And notice what’s happening in your body. Can you imagine those disciples sitting at the table with Jesus and what happened when he broke that loaf of bread? Their hearts must have started racing, their guts gurgling. Maybe they reached out their hands to touch him. Maybe their eyes widened and watered. Their amazement was felt in their bodies. So notice what’s happening in yours: which muscles are tight? How are those sinuses doing this spring? Do you feel tired behind your eyes? Are you taking deep breaths, and if not, why not? As you experience everything your body holds, remember that every body you see is also holding tension and tiredness and trauma. And every body also holds hope and joy too.

Being aware of ourselves and being aware of others trains us to be aware of God’s work among us. I suppose it’s possible to have a theological epiphany while binge watching something, but I bet it doesn’t happen often. And I know for some God becomes present while they are deep in meditation or prayer. And that is wonderful.

But today I invite you to consider what God is showing you despite of all the awful things that are happening and maybe even in the awful things that are happening. I think God is showing us how deeply tired of death we are. I’m so tired of friends and parishioners dying. I’m enraged by Black men dying at the hands of police. I’m fearful of the number of deaths by mass shootings.

But despite all that, God is also showing us how many people care, care enough to protest, to offer comfort, to demand change. God is showing us that kindness really does go a long way to make things better. God is showing us that we must love those in our midst right now, because, as we often say, life is short.

And finally, in this Emmaus story, God shows us that death never gets the last word. Life does—if only we have the eyes to see it.