April 26, 2020

Easter 3A 2020 Luke 24:13-35

It must be because I spent too many years in school, either as a student or a teacher,
but I more often conceptualize time according to the academic year than the calendar
year. So this time between Easter and about Memorial Day has always felt like the last
burst of energy in a race toward the end of the year—yet an end that implies new
beginnings. Nature itself renews as flowers start blooming and trees spread green leaves
again. For quite a few years this was when I’d be wrapping up a semester of school and
preparing for a new season in outdoor ministry. This is the time we usually celebrate
graduations, then ask where the graduates will be going next for higher education or for a
job they have lined up to use their new degrees. So everything about this time, this year,
feels wrong to me. We’re cooped up inside too much to fully appreciate the greening of
the natural world. Although learning continues, schools are already “out” and summer
camp is at best postponed. It seems cruel not only that we can’t celebrate graduations but
that so many of the new beginnings and next steps those graduations imply are postponed
or uncertain or even cancelled. This always seemed like a season of hope to me, but this
year I’m having a hard time being hopeful.

It turns out that we are not the only ones to have had our hopes trampled by life and
death in this broken world. Jesus meets two disciples on the road to Emmaus late on the
first Resurrection day. We don’t know why they have left the other disciples, but Luke
tells us that they’ve made it seven miles on the road from Jerusalem and they haven’t yet
exhausted their topic of conversation—the events surrounding the first Easter. And, Luke
tells us, they look sad. We could go down the rabbit hole of wondering why they don’t
recognize Jesus at first—does he look different, does he sound different—but Luke never
tells us for certain. What we do know from their explanation to Jesus, whom they don’t
yet realize is Jesus, is not only that they are sad because of his death, but they are
disappointed because the hope they placed in him was gone as well. If the two words in
John’s gospel—Jesus wept—tell us more than the whole rest of scripture about the
character of our infinitely compassionate God, I would argue that Luke does the best job
of describing the human condition here: But we had hoped, the disciples say. But we
had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel…But we had hoped that we were
following the Messiah…But we had hoped that what the women said was true, yet we
didn’t see him…But we had hoped…

Aren’t those four words, but we had hoped, the perfect description for where we are
now, as individuals, as a church, as a nation, as the world? We had hoped it wasn’t going
to get this bad or last this long or interrupt this much or spread this far or hurt this many
or turn this deadly. Together we have suffered a series of dashed hopes in this terrible
season in history. But honestly, these are the words that we all too often find ourselves
uttering even when we’re not in the midst of a global crisis. But we had hoped that the
rumors weren’t true. But we had hoped that the diagnosis would be different. But we had
hoped that we’d have more time. But we had hoped that things were going to turn out
better. Hope is tough, resilient; we hold onto it fiercely and we fight hard before we let it
die. Even Jesus, who had predicted his own death over and over to his disciples and who
not only knew but was the will of God, still prayed in the garden, with hope that the cup
would be removed from him. We know what it means to have hoped.

So why doesn’t Jesus just tell Cleopas and his companion right from the beginning
who he is? Why does he walk the whole rest of the way to Emmaus with them? Why
does he interpret all of scripture to them, from Moses through all the prophets? Why
doesn’t he do whatever would have been necessary for him to do for them to recognize
him right from the start? Because Jesus knows what it means to hope, and what it means
when those hopes aren’t fulfilled. Jesus knows we can’t skip the disappointment and
focus on the next dream until we’ve grieved the loss of the dream we had. Jesus knows
that even when the future is much brighter than what we had hoped, we can’t see it until
we let go of the future we wish we had. Jesus makes room for our very human experience
of disappointed hope.

The disciples were thrilled when their eyes were opened and they recognized Jesus;
they suddenly had the energy to turn right around and make the whole trip straight back
to the rest of the disciples to announce their meeting with the Lord. Jesus’ resurrection
was a great thing—really a much better thing than what they had hoped for. But for that
new reality to heal their hurt, they first had to name the hopes that were not fulfilled.
Even though I knew this Easter was going to be so much more subdued than usual,
even though I knew that the restrictions that keep us apart weren’t going to change on
Easter Day, I was still surprised that I didn’t feel the same joy that Easter always brings.
But the thing is, we’re still in this. Although we trust that things will get better, although
we know that the isolation, the danger, the hardship won’t last forever, we’re still in the
middle of it now. So we grieve our lost hopes before we celebrate that new life which
will surely begin again. Jesus isn’t waiting for us up ahead where things are brighter and
better. Jesus is with us on the road we’re walking now. Jesus invites us to speak what we
had hoped and promises to hold the pieces of our broken dreams gently. Jesus walks with
us in loving patience and solidarity until we again are able to not just say Alleluia, but see
resurrection.