2023 04 23 Sermon
In the Breaking of Bread
Easter 3 A
Luke 24:13-35
Rev. Karl-John N. Stone
My family just returned from a wonderful, whirlwind spring break trip to Italy. The weather was great, the scenery was great, the site-seeing was great, the art was great, the people were great, the language was great, and of course the food was great. One of the pleasures of visiting Italy is always the food, but last Sunday we had a unique experience. My wife Beth Ann found out about these cooking classes that chefs will do. We reserved our spot with Chef Moreno at his restaurant in the mountains above Lake Como, only to learn about six weeks ago that quite sadly and suddenly he died from a heart attack. We offered our sympathy to his widow by email, and decided to find another option. This time, Beth Ann found out about cooking demonstrations that chefs will do in their home kitchens. They show you step by step how they cook a typical four-course Italian meal, which you then get to enjoy eating.
We reserved Sunday dinner at noon for our family, and at the appointed time walked up the cobblestones of a steep, narrow, pedestrian-only street in a little lake-side village called Varenna. Our host, Monica, was waiting outside the door for us with her apron on. She ushered us in the door and down the steps, into a small medieval-era stone house that she had transformed into her “home kitchen”. After introductions and appetizers, she began cooking as her grandma had taught her.
We attempted to speak what little Italian we had learned, but she spoke English well, and as our conversation unfolded we told her that we were pastors. This small comment was all the prompt she needed to tell us about her current spiritual struggle. “You’re lucky,” she said. “You’re lucky that you can believe. I want to believe but I can’t. That is very hard for me right now.” It turns out that her husband of 40 years, who was only 59 years old, died suddenly of a heart attack six months ago—just like her neighbor, Chef Moreno, had died only six weeks ago. “I can feel his spirit here with me [in this kitchen], but I can’t believe. I try to pray but I can’t pray. I don’t know how to believe there is something more.”
Monica is not the first person to find it hard to believe. On the same day when Jesus had appeared to Mary Magdalene [the gospel of Luke reports], two disciples were going to a village called Emmaus and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him… “We had hoped Jesus was the one to redeem Israel. Besides all this, some women of our group astounded us. They went to the tomb early this morning but did not find his body. They saw a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Some others went to the tomb and found it empty; but they did not see him.”… [As they came to Emmaus] Jesus went in to their home to stay with them. When he was at table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and he vanished from their sight…He had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.
The risen Christ comes among us every time we gather as his people, and as we break the bread and share the cup of his real presence, as he promised in the Last Supper. And he keeps finding other ways to be present, too. There in Varenna, Italy, as we broke bread in Monica’s kitchen, and as she poured out her soul and her grief and lament—ever so briefly—while offering us welcoming hospitality and cooking the food she loved, and talking about the deceased husband she loved—there I would say we quite suddenly and surprisingly found ourselves walking the road to Emmaus and talking, but using different words—our own words—about the hope we look for in Christ, to be part of the communion of saints; and about the desire for resurrection to eternal life.
Monica’s lament about the difficulty of believing made me think of a verse from the gospel of Mark [9:24], where Jesus heals a boy from an unclean spirit and the boy’s father says to Jesus, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.” This is a good reminder that belief and unbelief very often co-exist at the same time within the same person; and that the desire to have faith—even when you feel you don’t have it—is in itself a form of faith. And the desire to pray, even when you find yourself unable to pray, is in itself a form of prayer.
I think this is the kind of thing that the disciples on the road to Emmaus were going through, when the risen Jesus came near and walked and talked with them—but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. In their conversation with Jesus, they poured out their souls and grief and lament and doubt, because even though they had already heard the news about the empty tomb, and the crucified Jesus being seen alive, they couldn’t quite believe.
It was only in hindsight that it started to make sense. Even though they could see him; even though he was right there, walking and talking with them, it took a long time until they actually recognized him. Seeing and recognizing are not the same thing. And very often we’re looking for a “big sign”, while the scriptures always describe the resurrected Jesus showing up in very ordinary settings. Like: on a roadway, in a garden, broiling fish on a beach, sitting around a table and breaking bread. The risen Jesus shows up in such ordinary places, that it becomes so easy for us to miss him!
And then, when by some gift of grace our eyes are opened, and we recognize “oh yeah—this is it—this is the presence of Christ”, he vanishes from our sight, as if to tell us that faith is a journey not a destination. You don’t get the luxury of stopping time and keeping Jesus in a box to take out whenever you need a little shot of divine presence. Instead, faith requires that we keep turning towards the ordinary, because that’s where Jesus is. Keep turning towards the ordinary; keep turning towards other people; keep turning towards honesty; even keep turning towards your grief, and letting God know whatever’s on your mind, whatever you’re struggling with, even your unbelief and inability to pray.
That’s where Jesus is, because his risen presence is a new kind of physical presence. He is the same person yet different. As the gospel of Mark [16:12] describes the risen Christ, “he appeared but under another form.” So as I looked back in hindsight, I finally recognized him in a kitchen in Varenna, Italy, while we were on vacation. If we had not turned with open hearts toward our host Monica, and if she had not turned toward us, we would not have seen Jesus who was right there in our midst. And when I recognized him, just as quickly he vanished from sight.
This way of Jesus being present is quite the opposite of the tragic incidents of the past week, where people have been shot and killed or terribly injured just for driving down a wrong driveway or knocking on a neighbor’s door. If people can’t turn toward their neighbors with compassion for making simple mistakes that we all make, how can they possibly recognize Jesus when he shows up?
He is risen, so he will keep on showing up whether we see him or not. But we cannot hold on to him. He will always vanish from our sight when we recognize him, because he wants us to keep turning towards other people, and to keep our hearts open to the possibility that we might see Christ in anyone or anything at any time. Amen.