April 6, 2008 Des Moines

Luke 24:13-35

Compelling Reasons for Remodeling

The lectionary for Eastertide is being kind to us this year. “Eastertide,” you know, is the season following and reflecting upon the celebration of the resurrection in the church’s special way of organizing the seasons of the year according to the Christian story. And a “lectionary” is a schedule of suggested Bible readings for each Sunday of the year.

While there are several lectionaries around, many Protestant churches follow one called “The Revised Common Lectionary,” an ecumenically crafted three-year cycle of readings. For each Sunday of those three years is suggested an Old Testament reading, a Psalm reading, and from the New Testament a reading from the letters or Acts, and from one of the Gospels. Our “Words of Awareness” spoken responsively early in the service are routinely drawn from the lectionary Psalm suggested for the day. The first year in the lectionary cycle concentrates on the Gospel of Matthew, the second on Mark, and the third on Luke, with readings from John scattered throughout. It doesn’t always work that way – we are, for example, in the first year of the cycle – the “Matthew” year, and yet you’ll notice that the Scripture reading for this morning comes from Luke. But for the most part this year Matthew is in the spotlight.

There are certainly limitations to lectionary preaching – some of the starts and stops of the selected passages, for example, seem to be the result of an oddly sharpened knife; some precious stories and teachings get neglected altogether in favor of others; and sometimes none of the four suggested readings seem to really connect with what’s going on at the time. Which is why few preachers in our tradition chain themselves to the suggestions. Throughout the recent Lenten season, you will recall, the main drivers for my preaching were the verses of a familiar hymn; last year the same was true. And several times I have preached sermon series on the stories of Dr. Seuss – and I can assure you that Dr. Seuss shows up in none of the three years of the Revised Common Lectionary.

But there are also advantages to paying at least some attention to a broad and well-rounded exposure to Scripture as a whole. It’s easy, after all, to just cozy up to your favorite parts; wrapping the warm and fuzzy sentiments like the 23^rd Psalm and 1 Corinthians 13 around us like an old chenille sweater. “Come to me all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Mmmmn. Doesn’t that feel good? “Nothing shall separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Ah! That is so soft and comforting and warm. “I have observed the misery of my people…I have heard their cry…I know their sufferings and I have come down to deliver them...” It doesn’t get any more reassuring than that.

The problem, though, is that there are other parts of Scripture – woollier, scratchier parts – that we also need to hear, even though they aren't quite so comfortable:

l Like “love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

l Like “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”

l Like “I hate, I despise your festivals, and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies. Take away from me the noise of your songs. But let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

While the lectionary never lets us forget the soothing and comforting embrace of God, neither does it allow us to sidestep God’s swift kicks to our inflated egos, selfish tendencies, and exclusionary prejudices. And we need those kicks as much as we crave those hugs.

But if the lectionary doesn’t always serve us what we would prefer to consume, this Eastertide – these six weeks or so that follow Easter Sunday – it is as if the readings were chosen uniquely for us. By “us” I am certainly not speaking exclusively. These stories have important relevance for all Christians these days. The suggested readings encourage us to linger among the lilies, inhaling deeply of their sweetness and caressing gently their promise. Jesus is alive, they remind us over and over again, and his living invigorates and infuses our own, and then beckons us to consider how to accommodate this notion of a living Lord.

But by “us” I’m also speaking quite specifically to us – this congregation known as First Christian Church living and worshiping in Des Moines, Iowa in 2008. Congregations aren’t, after all, some generic embodiment of Everyman, commonly and essentially the same as every Christian community throughout time and around the globe. We certainly share our similarities, but we are also rooted in our specificity. There are certain things that are unique about living in Iowa, as those who have lived elsewhere can attest; certain things also unique about living in this city of this state. And there are certain unique things about living now – as people who have experienced previous generations can attest. And there is something unique about gathering at this particular intersection as a people of Christian faith.

So what kind of conversation is this Easter story having with us as Christians particular to this time and place and circumstance?

According to the narrator, it is the evening after Easter morning. The women have been to the tomb and found it empty, and they have reported their discovery to the others. And now sometime deeper into the day two of Jesus’ followers are walking the seven miles from Jerusalem to the village of Emmaus. Now, seven miles isn’t my everyday kind of hike, but it is clear from the account that their trip is shortened by having plenty to talk about along the way. These are, after all, followers of Jesus who has, all within a matter of days, been roughly arrested, hastily shoved into a meat grinder of a judicial process, extruded onto an executioner's cross alongside a couple of other felons, and now mysteriously disappeared.

“How are we to deal with such a series of events,” they batted back and forth, “and what are we to make of these new rumors?”

Then suddenly on the road they have company. A stranger takes up with them and joins not only their walk, but also their conversation. Luke is very clear about who this stranger is – it is Jesus – but is equally clear that the two disciples don’t recognize him. He quizzes them about their conversation, and contributes his own insights. They share with him their experiences, their hopes and disappointments, and now their puzzlement, and he shares with them his understanding of Scripture. It was, apparently, an interesting give and take that, whatever else, helped them pass the time – like sometimes happens between seat-mates on an airplane.

But it didn’t finally change anything. They were still just a couple of friends and a stranger batting around ideas on the road between here and there.

Nonetheless, it was companionable time they had spent, and as they neared Emmaus the two extended hospitality to the one. “Stay with us,” they invited. “It’s almost dark; it’s time for supper. Come and join us.” And he did.

And this is where it gets interesting, and, I might add, particularly relevant to us. This “stranger” went into their house with them, and over dinner he ceases to be “strange.” There, around the table, it finally hit them. “He took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him.” Only then did they think back over the “head talk” they had shared on the road and discover within it a different dimension of truth. Back on the road, according to the narrator, Jesus had “interpreted to them the things about himself in all the Scriptures, beginning with Moses and all the prophets,” but despite the extensive Bible lesson Jesus remained a stranger. It wasn’t until here, in the midst of broken bread around a dinner table, that their eyes were opened and this stranger became a savior.

I have had that kind of experience before – as perhaps have you: “table talk” in the midst of which the ordinary and even superficial open to reveal an insight or a relationship larger and profoundly deeper than I had imagined. Fellowship can wield that kind of power. Veils that routinely hide us from one another are commonly rent as bread is broken and shared. Little wonder that students of social behavior lament the virtual abandonment of family meals, because there, around those shared tables, children and parents come to know each other in ways difficult to replace.

Some things can happen in a classroom, other things can occur in a sanctuary. But there are those dynamics of Christian community that can only realized around tables, in the practice and experience of fellowship genuinely engaged. If true community is to be formed – if our particular sense of calling as a congregation is to be moved forward – it will only occur through our careful attention to the ways we practice and facilitate Christian fellowship.

Which helps me to comprehend that this dream of renovating Fellowship Hall is not just “prettying up a dining room;” it is reverencing the holy ministry in which the numb and confused and the lost and the broken and even those who are simply strangers come to see and recognize the living presence of Christ in their midst. Those, I would submit, are some pretty compelling reasons for remodeling.

Merely cookies and coffee? If you listen carefully, you might just hear in the snap of an Oreo being broken the sound of bread being blessed and broken; in the steam of coffee being served the fragrance of wine poured and shared. Who knows, in the midst of it all, just who you might find yourself talking to;

...who might be recognized, received and embraced?