What Just Happened Here? Preached at Wollaston Congregational Church On April 28th, 2019 Scripture: Luke 24:13-35 The gospel reading recommended by the Revised Common Lectionary for today, the second Sunday of Easter Year C, is from the gospel of John. It tells a familiar tale we often hear on the Sunday after Easter about the risen Jesus appearing to the disciples in a locked room. The disciple Thomas is not there and doesn’t believe the others when they tell him the tale. John’s story is good, but for this Sunday, this first week after Easter it seems to be rushing us along too quickly. The switch from Luke’s gospel we heard last week to John is jarring. There is more to ponder about what happened in Luke’s story, after the women had come to the empty tomb on that first morning. There is a story of what happens just a little later that day, while the disciples are still in a place of asking “What just happened here?” And so this is the story we are thinking about today. “What (the …) just happened here?” (you can add an expletive if you like) is the question we are left with when life events throw us off balance. It might be a sudden death, a catastrophic event, or a conversation that rapidly escalates into a fight or a shouting match. It might be a rejection when we were hoping for affirmation, the end of a relationship we thought was going great, or a “no” when we were assuming a “yes.” It is a sudden shift in the landscape, something that throws us off our path: a literal or figurative earthquake. The question is our response to something that simply doesn’t make sense, something for which there is no clear meaning. And this is what I imagine for the disciples on this first day of the week, that they are in this stunned, shocked place, looking at one another and asking “What the … just happened here?” The women had gone to the tomb very early in the morning, intending to anoint Jesus’ body with oil and spices. Maybe their response to “what just happened here?” is to be doing. Maybe their hands need to be busy. They need to believe that they are doing something positive, something helpful. They had been following Jesus, believing in his ministry with body, heart and soul, these past three years. They simply cannot stop moving at this sudden halt: this execution of Jesus on the cross. Other disciples, Cleopas and his companion, go for a walk. They decide to travel the 7 miles from Jerusalem to Emmaus. This is how they process. They talk as they walk. I can relate, walking is definitely a way to process for me. In the wake of sudden climactic change, it takes a while for me to articulate what just happened. Once arrangements have been made, mechanically, automatically, I need to get on my sneakers and get out into the air. I remember after I experienced the miscarriage of my first pregnancy I took a few days at home from work. “Go out on walks” one of my co-workers said. She was right, she knew me very well. There was nothing to say, no explanation for why this hope of a child didn’t come to fruition. In the open air, my sobs and tears could come and go. In the spaciousness of no invented explanations I could grieve. And so, the story of Cleopas and his companion draws me in. I can imagine the placement of each step. I imagine the lengthy silence, before they begin to speak; the deep inhales of the springtime air; the side-by-side companionship, the spaciousness of it all. Then suddenly, they are joined by another companion, another walker along the way. It’s funny for those of us who know how the story ends. The two disciples think they have somehow run into the only person in all Jerusalem who hasn’t heard of the things that have taken place over the past days. When they have put some steps between themselves and Jerusalem, they articulate the situation beautifully. They tell about their disappointment that the ministry of Jesus had not worked out the way they expected. They tell the stranger about the confusion of the women’s discovery at the tomb. The stranger has some deep insight, though, and explains the scriptures to them. He tells them that their expectations are off base, that the coming of the one who redeems Israel does not mean taking Jerusalem with power and might. Instead, the route to Jesus’ glory is through his suffering. He points to the prophets and the scriptures and asks “has the coming of God ever been any different?” The stranger’s engagement with them is so compelling they are not willing to let him go. They practically grab him by the arm and drag him to the place where they will be staying the night. Finally, as the stranger takes bread and breaks it, they recognize him. It is an act they have seen him do so many times before, most recently at that very last supper. He is Jesus. He has been with them all along the way. As soon as they recognize him, he disappears. It seems that this is what the appearance is all about: letting them know who he is. And so, without a moment’s rest, not even a bite of the supper in front of them, they run back to Jerusalem to share the news. They tell of how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread. Author, professor and psychologist, Pauline Boss, specializes in ambiguous loss, and has written about what she calls the “myth of closure.” Ambiguous loss arises when a loved one is psychologically absent and physically present, or when they are psychologically present but physically absent. An example of the first is a parent suffering from advanced dementia, so that they cannot recognize or remember their child. They are physically present to the child, but psychologically absent. Their family members may grieve their loss even while they are still alive. An example of the second case is a military service person missing in action, or someone who was onboard an airplane that went missing without trace, or perhaps a long-ago kidnapped child. The family cannot fully grieve the loss, because they have no remains. They cannot be absolutely certain the person is dead. In both cases, people experience ambiguous loss. I recently heard an interview with Pauline Boss on the NPR program, On Point. And as I immersed myself in Luke’s gospel account of the events following Jesus’ crucifixion, I began to wonder whether the disciples were experiencing ambiguous loss. They had seen Jesus die on the cross, and yet when the women went to the tomb early on the first day of the week the body was gone. Angels tell them a mysterious story, that he has risen. But they have not yet found Jesus’ physical presence. They are excited and hopeful, but also doubtful. The angels’ story makes no sense to them. At this point in the story Cleopas and his companion begin their walk to Emmaus. En route, of course, they meet the risen Jesus. For a brief while, Jesus is both psychologically and physically present to them. Or should I say he is spiritually and physically present to them. Then he is gone. These appearances continue with the disciples on and off for the next forty days. At the end of that time, Jesus ascends to the Father and his presence becomes purely spiritual. Perhaps in the biblical scheme of things – that magic number 40 - is how long the disciples need to sit and process their grief. There is no rushing loss, it simply has to be experienced. Pauline Boss reminds listeners that there is no timetable for grief, especially ambiguous grief. When she speaks with people about their losses she asks “how long has it been?” It could be 10 years or 14, and yet they are still grieving. She reminds us that the best thing to say in these circumstances is simply “I am sorry.” There is nothing we can do or say to fix grief and loss. We can only be with the grieving person, in their grief. We can only companion them along the road. There is no rushing to any destination. [1] And perhaps, this is what is happening here. Jesus is companioning the disciples along the road of their grief. Perhaps this is a story to let us know that Jesus will companion us along our roads. At the time we may not know it, we may not recognize him. It is only when we get to the destination and look back that we realize he was present all along, like the “footprints in the sand” poem. These past weeks there have been “What the … just happened here?” moments around the world and in daily lives …
These events shift the landscape for us, in dramatic, irreversible ways – in the same way that Jesus’ crucifixion and risen appearances did for the first disciples. The Emmaus story reminds us that Jesus is to be found in the midst of it all, our companion along the way, breaking bread with us at our destination. May all God’s people say … Amen [1] https://onbeing.org/programs/pauline-boss-the-myth-of-closure-dec2018/#transcript
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