Though the lectionary deals with the end of Luke's 24th chapter this week, I have chosen to discuss the first part of the chapter. I am continually intrigued by the account of the journey to Emmaus and the revelation that took place there.I prefer the first part of the chapter, because in that account, by the time that his followers recognize him, Jesus disappears from their midst. The assigned text for the day, from the latter part of the chapter, has Jesus appearing to the disciples, eating in front of them and showing them his wounds. It smacks too much of our need for proof, and I think we need to spend more time getting away from that kind of thinking.
The two people traveling to Emmaus, Cleopas, about whom we know nothing else, and an unnamed companion, are joined by a third person, who seems oblivious to the goings on of the past few days. The walk takes place on Sunday evening, so news of the purported resurrection of Jesus that morning had reached their ears, though they did not know what to make of it. The stranger who walked with them was surprised that they did not seem to grasp the natural progression of events, and he told them as much. He then taught them as one who knew about such things. Just as the conversation was getting really interesting, they reached their turn-off on the road and the stranger appeared to be going on ahead. Customary rules of hospitality bade them to invite him to their place for food and lodging, and he accepted. While they were eating, in the breaking of bread, Jesus was made known to them, and then he was gone.
We just hate it when that happens. Just as God is within reach, God hot-foots it out of there.But what is more important than the fact that Jesus was made known to them was the way they felt when he was with them. "Did our hearts not burn within us?" was the way the fellow travelers expressed their amazement. And that, I think, is at the heart of our longing for some kind of encounter with a physical manifestation of God. Ronald Goetz, writing in the Christian Century years ago, stated that what the believers experienced was "not a revivification of the man they had known, but rather, one knowable only by a miracle of self-disclosure." Goetz then went on to get at the heart of our longing by comparing it to the experience of the commingling of the bonds of affection that occurs between friends or lovers. Those first encounters are almost over-powering in the mutual experience of common interests, feelings and even passions. Can we remember the first date with a current or former lover? Remember the quickening of the pulse, the clammy skin when you finally got up the courage to actually hold hands? Recall the intense longing after you parted, whether for a day, or forever? On the flip side, how about those who remained friends or lovers after those initial feelings of shared affection? Have you found yourself trying to reclaim those early fireworks, only to find that now you seem bored, or at least uninspired with the relationship? Goetz stated that the Other, who became almost as real as one's own self, does not and cannot stay. Moods change, interest fades, the Thou becomes an It. That first moment cannot last. Like the heavenly manna of the Exodus, the experience of that initial love cannot be stored and preserved.
When Jesus vanished from the midst of his new friends, they had only the memory of how they felt when in his presence. It's fleeting nature is what made it so exciting, so precious, so remarkable. As they, and the early church would soon discover, that memory would have to be enough. And it must be enough still. We cannot recreate those moments of self-disclosure, either by God, or by friends and lovers. We can only treasure them, meditate on them and try to understand them in the context of our fleeting lives. They are blessings on the journey and signposts to the Kingdom that awaits us, in this world, and the next.
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