The Opening of Eyes

A sermon preached at the Episcopal Church of the Advocate

Easter III (May 4, 2014)

The poet David Whyte says it this way:

"Life is no passing memory of what has been

nor the remaining pages in a great book 

waiting to be read.

[Life] is the opening of eyes long closed. 

It is the vision of far off things

seen for the silence they hold.

It is the heart after years

of secret conversing,

speaking out loud in the clear air."

     Life is the opening of eyes long closed. 

When we meet them, 

these two travelers heading to Emmaus, 

they are confused, bewildered, despairing.

One tradition says that the two are husband and wife -- 

leaving Jerusalem, defeated by the shadow of a cross,

heading home to Emmaus to see if there, there was a life beyond the shadow.

And as they walk, they talk.

It was only a seven-mile journey between Jerusalem and Emmaus,

but somewhere within those seven miles, 

the couple are joined in their walk by a seeming stranger,

a rather chatty and inquisitive fellow who seems to know nothing of current events.

"What are you talking about?" he asks. (The way we read that begins to interpret the entire story.) 

Cleopas -- the one of the two travelers who in Luke's account has his name recorded -- answers:

"Are you the only one in Jerusalem who doesn't know what's happened? The things that have happened in these last days?"

"What things?" the stranger inquires. 

"The things about Jesus of Nazareth." 

You can almost hear the weariness in his voice; 

it is the fatigue of the grieving -- 

that hollow echo in a voice 

that doesn't want to tell it again. 

But they do. 

They tell him of the itinerant Galileean that they loved, 

a preacher, mighty in word and deed, 

a prophet, loved by God and by people, 

put to death by Rome, crucified no less. 

They had so much hope for Him. 

They had so much hope because of Him.

And they tell him that the women of their group 

today astounded them with a fantastical tale of an empty tomb --

a story that they quickly and carefully verified, 

and it was as the women said. 

Body gone. Linens left. What it means -- they're not sure. 

But we know what they've decided; we know because they're on the road.

They are heading home to do what grieving people do:

pick up the pieces, 

figure out if there is life after, 

begin again again.

They had thought He was the One to save Israel.

The stranger --

the same guy who just moments before 

had seemed innocent or incompetent,

or at the very least a little uninformed --

begins to teach. 

He's not the most charitable instructor -- you probably noticed that in the reading --

"you foolish people with your dull minds and slow hearts" --

it's not the way any teacher of mine started a class.

But what He lacks in charm, He makes up for in comprehensiveness --

Starting with Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy 

and going all the way to the end of the Hebrew Scriptures,

the stranger explains why Jesus died and why Jesus lives.

It was a crash course in the Hebrew Bible 

that took the better part of the seven-mile walk to Emmaus.

When they make it to town, the stranger acted like He was going to keep going,

but instead, Cleopas and the one without name, invite Him to stay the night.

And He goes home with them, and there, at dinner,

the stranger in their midst does something so familiar, 

something so readily recognizable,

that they knew at once who He was:

He took bread. Blessed it. Broke it. Gave it. 

It was so familiar.

They had seen it before. 

On hillsides and by lakeshores

where thousands had been fed.

They had seen it before.

At the dinner tables of the humble and the haughty

who had invited Him home.

They had seen it before.

At celebrations and feasts,

sprawling and intimate. 

And they had heard that just a few days ago

at the Passover feast 

that He had done it again. 

That He had taken bread. Blessed, broke and gave it to them. 

But that this time He had called it His Body, 

and said it would be broken for them,

and that they should eat it in remembrance of Him. 

They had seen it before. 

They had heard it before.

And when they saw it again in Emmaus,

their eyes were opened, and they knew.

The fears of despairing days disappeared. 

They had thought He was the One who would redeem, and He is. 

They had thought that the preacher, the prophet was going to change everything, and He did.

The stranger is no stranger but a Savior. 

"Life is no passing memory of what has been

nor the remaining pages in a great book 

waiting to be read.

[Life] is the opening of eyes long closed."

It still happens, you know?

Not always, but sometimes.

Sometimes gathered here, our eyes are opened and we glimpse Him.

Sometimes in the words of Thomas Merton:

"in the breaking of the Bread [we see]

the Stranger who was our companion yesterday and the day before."

Sometimes, in the taking, blessing, breaking and giving,

We see something so familiar, so readily recognizable,

That we know the Host. That we see Him in our midst.

Here at the Advocate, 

We say that one of our core values is transformation, 

which if anything is about the opening of eyes.

It's about seeing what is and what is really real. 

It is about seeing The Risen Christ with us. 

And when it happens, 

Our fears give way to faith.

Despair gives way to hope.

Grief gives way to grace.

Our shame and sorrow recede, and

Our Savior is in our midst.

Sometimes, gathered around this table, 

Our eyes are opened, and 

When it happens, it feels like life.