SERMON FOR APRIL 26, 2020, THE THIRD SUNDAY OF EASTER     TEXT: LUKE 24:13-35
     There was a picture hanging in the room where we met for confirmation class. It was not an original, not even a print of a great artwork. Something on the kitschy side, to be honest, like the little glow-in-the-dark cross with “God loves you” printed in purple that we received as children for good Sunday school attendance. And like that luminous cross, which hung over my bed for years, this picture brought me comfort. One saw the two disciples and their companion on their way to Emmaus. The road wound among trees, and the travelers passed in and out of sunlight and shadow. The three are clearly engaged in conversation. Jesus, of course, was the one in the middle, the one in white pointing toward heaven. I figured the artist caught him in the moment when he asked Cleopas and his friend, “Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?” Exit stage up.
     The two have told their bitter tale, and Jesus has heard them out. Bowed down as the pair had been with grief and disappointment, now their heads are lifted, their eyes are focused on him; now they are listening attentively. Their story from long ago made Jesus known to me, but in the moment captured by the picture, they are still in the dark. I knew what had not yet been revealed to them; I knew they were about to be surprised by joy. Last Sunday I talked about the resurrection appearances as recognition narratives. Mary Magdalene on Easter Sunday, Doubting Thomas on the Second Sunday of Easter and now for this Third Sunday of Easter, Cleopas and his friend, walking to Emmaus. “Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him,” Luke tells us.
     The evangelist structures his story to reflect the worship life of his community. The event happens on the day of the Resurrection, Sunday, which became the day for Christian worship. It involves the reading and interpretation of the Scriptures and the proclamation of their meaning for those listening. “Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures,” Luke writes. 
     Once they reach their destination, the men compel Jesus to stay with them rather than risk further potentially dangerous travel after dark. Then comes the sharing of the meal hosted by the risen Lord. “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over. So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blest and broke it, and gave it to them.” The words are almost identical to the ones Luke uses to describe the last supper.
     The two witnesses exclaim, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” Afterwards they return to Jerusalem and proclaim their good news by telling others “how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.” In the Emmaus story Luke offers reassurance to every generation of Christians who cannot see the risen Lord with their own eyes. Seeing did not bring the first disciples to understanding; they saw Jesus but did not recognize him. He had to make himself known to them before their eyes were opened and their hearts took fire and faith took root. He had to reveal himself through his teaching and his promise and the sharing of the bread, just as he did in Luke’s community, just as he does among us today.
     Working with this passage again, I remembered that years ago, when I was a young pastor, I chose this text for funerals. I can’t say I found much in the commentaries I read this week to suggest that as an obvious move. And it’s not one of the texts listed in the ELW pastoral manual for use at funerals. But I can retrace my thinking. One death stands out in particular. In fact, I talked about this loss in a sermon during the Easter season last year. Easter is a time when I am visited by my unquiet dead, in this case the 16-year-old president of my first youth group. He had a congenital heart defect. Despite successful surgeries to replace the faulty valve as he grew, he suddenly felt faint one winter night at the roller skating rink and asked the manager to phone his mama. While the man was making the call, Dwayne died, before his parents, before even the friends who were there with him knew anything was wrong. We held the memorial service in the evening to accommodate the school schedule, and the church was full of grieving teenagers and stunned parents. I turned to the Emmaus story because of that picture from my confirmation days — the two shell-shocked, broken-hearted disciples, who had hoped for a bright future, and then, when the darkness enveloped them, had not had the chance to say good-bye to their friend. But they were about to be surprised. 
     Most of the time I don’t dwell on the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come. I am absorbed by life in the here and now and the struggle to live it “in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ,” as St. Paul urges (Philippians 1:27). But these days there are too many deaths, too many people denied the opportunity to say good-bye to ones dearly loved, too many deprived of the chance to forgive some injury or to seek forgiveness for some wrong they have done, too many souls the world over choking on the words, “But we had hoped . . . .”  It is not possible to turn from the grave to live in the here and now, because the grave is present wherever you look. We cannot help but ask ourselves, “What will happen at the end of this road?” Those destined for Emmaus saw their friend again; he made himself known to them. We will recognize each other, and we will be at peace. That is the promise of the resurrection. The night of weeping may last many a night, but joy comes, surely it will come, with the morning (Psalm 30:5). Amen.