Luke 24:13-35
“But We Had Hoped”
Much of this sermon was borrowed from
Rev. Alexis Fuller-Wright
Our Gospel Lesson for this morning begins with “Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus.”
“On that same day” meaning Easter Day the same day that Jesus’ rose from the dead.
You might think it a bit odd that I am preaching an Easter Sermon in October…
…but today is World Communion Sunday and in the Christian World every Sunday is “the day of Resurrection.”
Earlier that day, the Mary Magdalene went to the tomb to take spices she had prepared, but found the stone that had been in front of Jesus’ tomb rolled away, the body was gone, the tomb was empty!
At this point the disciples had heard about this and some of them believed her.
And now it is a few hours later, and we find ourselves on a dusty road outside of Jerusalem, where two people are traveling on foot.
We don’t know much about them, apparently they were considered to be two of Jesus’ disciples, just not two of the original twelve.
A number of scholars that the unnamed disciple is Cleopas’ wife, Mary because a woman named Mary the wife of Clopas is said to have been one of the women standing near the cross of Jesus at the Crucifixion in John.
They think it might be a spelling error of Clopas’ name.
In any event, with heavy hearts they are discussing all that they have seen and heard as they walk the road to Emmaus.
And suddenly, a stranger shows up and walks with them for a while.
He asks them what they’re talking about, and they stop in their tracks, with their faces downcast they get into a conversation with this person.
They told him about Jesus of Nazareth, a mighty prophet, who had been handed over to be put to death by the authorities.
“But,” they said, “we had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel.”
It’s heart-rending line: “But we had hoped…”
“We had hoped things would be different.”
“We had hoped that Jesus would defeat Herod and Pilate and the rest of the ones who ruthlessly rule our land and our people.”
“We had hoped our friend and teacher would still be alive…would still be teaching and leading us.”
“We left everything to follow him.”
“We staked our reputations, even our lives on him.”
“We had hoped things would be different now.”
“We had hoped…”
If you are like me, you have said these words at one point or another.
“We had hoped the relationship would work out.”
“We had hoped there would be a job offer.”
“We had hoped our loved one would be able to stay sober this time.”
“We had hoped God wouldn’t feel so far away.”
We are surrounded by so many unfulfilled hopes.
“We had hoped that the chemo and radiation would work.”
“We had hoped there would be a job offer.”
“We had hoped our children would grow up in a safer world.”
There is disappointment and heartbreak bound up in those four simple words: “But we had hoped…”
The words we speak on our roads to Emmaus are words of pain, disappointment, and yearning.
They are words we say when we are at the end of our hopes—when our expectations have been dashed, our dreams are dead, and there’s nothing left to do but try and figure out where to go from here.
In spite of this, we Christians are called to be people of hope.
For we are believers in the gospel promise that they way things are is not the way things will always be…that change is possible, and that life really can be different.
But like those disciples on the Emmaus road, sometimes our hopes will lead to heartbreak.
Sometimes, all we can do is wallow in, “We had hoped…”
And that’s just part of life.
Because the promise of our faith is not that our hearts will never break or that our hopes will never go unfulfilled.
And it’s not that we will always be safe or that our needs will always be met.
The promise is that in moments of despair Jesus is beside us.
The promise of the Gospels as a whole, is that when our hearts break—not if, but when—we will not be abandoned.
We will not be alone.
We will be able to find peace in the midst of suffering and healing in unexpected places.
I can’t help but notice that as soon as Jesus falls into step with the disciples on the road, he invites them to tell their story: “What are you discussing together as you walk along?”
Shocked by the question, they tell Jesus everything.
They share with him the story of their faith—its rise and fall.
They tell Jesus how high their expectations had been for their now-crucified leader.
And they describe their devastation at his death.
They tell Jesus the whole story.
And Jesus listens.
He hears them out, offering them the balm of being heard.
And then—when they’re done—he tells the story back to them, but as he does so, the story changes.
In his retelling, it becomes what it always was—something far bigger, deeper, wiser and richer that the disciples on the Emmaus road understood.
“Here’s what you’re leaving out,” Jesus seems to say.
“Here’s what you’re missing.”
As theologian Debi Thomas writes: “When Jesus tells the story, he restores both its context and its wonder.
He grounds the story in memory, in tradition, in history, in Scripture.
He helps the disciples comprehend their place in a narrative that long proceeds them, a narrative big enough to hold their disappointment without being defeated by it.
When Jesus tells the story, the death of the Messiah finds its place in a sweeping, cosmic arc of redemption, hope and divine love that spans centuries.”
And perhaps that is one of the most important gifts that WE the Church has to offer a scared and grieving world today.
A broader perspective.
A deeper hope.
When we find ourselves on our own Emmaus roads, our lenses can tend to become very small.
We often lose sight of the big picture.
But when we are part of a community of faith, like this one, we have the opportunity to place our lives in the broader, more expansive context of God’s all-encompassing story.
Like Cleopas and his wife, we need Jesus to meet us on the road to help us find ourselves in a bigger, better story.
Jesus hasn’t left us.
In fact, Jesus is present now when we in the breaking of bread, just as he was in during that encounter 2,000 years ago.
We are told that “when he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them.
Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him…”
As Christians, Holy Communion is a time in which we seek to see and know, once again, who Jesus is and what Jesus has done for us.
As United Methodist Christians, Holy Communion is one of two sacraments.
The other is baptism.
It’s a means of grace and Christ’s REAL PRESENCE is with us in a special way.
John Wesley believed that people could even be converted at the Communion Table—as their eyes are opened and they recognize Christ.
John Wesley’s mother, Susanna, had been a believer her entire life.
She had also been a scholar in her own right.
But it wasn’t until August of 1739 that she had her own experience of personal assurance of salvation—that God had forgiven her all her sins, whereas before that she had reservations about that type of assurance.
And her eyes were opened to it at Communion.
Susanna wrote in her journal, “When my son Hall was pronouncing those words, in delivering the cup to me, ‘The blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given thee,’ the words struck through my heart, and I knew God for Christ’s sake had forgiven me all my sins.”
Following this experience, Susanna Welsey finally affiliated herself with the Methodist movement of renewal and its doctrines.
When they saw the risen Christ, the two disciples got up and returned right away to Jerusalem.
They found their friends who were saying, “It is true! The Lord has risen…”
All the dark shadows had disappeared.
They had invited Christ in, and their eyes had been opened.
So let’s keep on walking.
Let’s keep telling the story.
Let’s keep honoring the stranger.
Let’s keep breaking bread together even when things haven’t turned out as we hoped.
For it’s in those small interactions where God often shows up most astonishingly.
Amen.
