Creekside Church Sermon of April 18, 1999 "Everyday Easter " Luke 24:13-35	Rev. David Bibbee
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Monday creates a measure of apprehension. Growing up, it came over me on Sunday nights during the second half of the Ed Sullivan Show. We know exactly what the poet meant who coined the expression, "As unromantic as Monday morning." Monday starts the weekday grind. On Monday, life returns to normal. But I want you to consider Monday in light of Sunday. Does the worship and reflection of Sunday morning influence your approach to Monday morning? To get even more specific, is Monday any different if the Sunday in question is Easter Sunday?

This is a good question to ask two weeks this side of Easter. Has the celebration of Christ's victory over death and all its minions made a difference in how you feel come Monday? Has Easter made a discernable difference in the kind of employee or student you are; the kind of spouse or parent or child you are? Has Easter influenced your response to the difficulties and discouragements and defeats that are part of life? Has it seeped into the crannies and crevices of our lives in such a way that we can say Easter is within us? We all want to say yes, but we all know that Easter could be more real to us and more a part of us.

Luke has a story for us which sheds light on how Jesus is present even when he seems absent, and how his presence is known. It was Easter Sunday afternoon when two of Jesus' disciples were leaving Jerusalem for Emmaus. Their mood was somber as they reflected on the horrendous chain of events that had taken place. Friday was awful. They wanted to close their eyes to the unthinkable thing that was happening to Jesus. They wished they could have closed their ears to his cries, and the vulgar guard's taunts, and the pitiful wailing of Jesus' followers. Friday was awful. But Saturday was worse. Saturday was their first day without him. Time to face facts. Jesus was dead and all their hopes laid dead in the dust.

Friday was awful. Saturday was worse. Then came Sunday. Their Sunday was our Monday. It was a duty day. Back to work. Everything appeared to run normally. From the looks of things, you wouldn't know anything significant at all had happened. "Oh well ... life goes on." This was the topic of conversation on the road to Emmaus. Monday talk. No one knows for sure where the village of Emmaus was, but everyone knows where the condition of Emmaus is. It is anywhere you go to get away from all that has happened. Emmaus is where you go when you lose your job, your health, a relationship, a loved one. It's where you go when you have lost your way. If you're looking for some place you can go to forget and salvage as much of yourself as you can, then Emmaus is the place to go.

The other disciples were hiding and praying. Cleopas and his unnamed companion left town.

It was to these two that a stranger came. "Seems like you're having a deep conversation. What are you talking about?" They stopped and Cleopas said, "What are we talking about? Have you been in a coma, or what?" He then told Jesus about Jesus ... told about all the terrible things that had happened, and how they had hoped in him but he was dead, and how some women got carried away with their emotions and saw angels who said he was alive.

There is something striking about this story so far. It's not very dramatic. In fact it's very undramatic...like Monday. Just three men walking and talking. There was nothing striking about the stranger. He was like the guy you talk to on your way to work on Monday morning. But this stranger was Jesus, and he was with them, and they didn't know him.

The Jewish philosopher Martin Buber said there is an irony in every human conversation about God. "We can't talk about God," he said. "We can only talk with him." Buber said it's as funny as scholars sitting around a table talking like college sophomores about the existence of God, when God is standing in the corner of the room waiting to hear whether or not he exists. Luke says, "Their eyes were kept from recognizing him." Why? Did he have a different face? Was his voice an octave lower? Did he lose his Aramaic accent? Or, was Jesus' presence not apparent because their expectations kept them from seeing him?

I read about a professor at MIT who has studied something he calls, "probability blindness". His premise is that we do not see things as they really are because we allow what we expect to see to rule over what's really there. For example, the St. Louis arch is as wide as it is tall, but it looks taller. Taking measurements, your head knows the height and width are equal, but you can't convince your eyes. What you don't believe, you don't see.

Cleopas and his friend didn't expect to see Jesus alive, so they didn't. And don't think for a second it would have been different if you had been there. We are these men. They show us how little we see. But even more, we learn something important about Jesus. Frederick Buechner offers the observation that Jesus never approached from on high. Jesus did not come with stunning visual effects and digital sound. He always came in the midst of people, in the midst of real life and the questions real life asks." He didn't say to them or us, "Hey guys! It's me! Check me out ... it's really me!" No, he did something far more subtle. He walked the road to Emmaus with them.

Two weeks ago you sang, "Christ the Lord is risen today!" "King of Kings and Lord of Lords, and he shall reign forever and ever." I heard you with my own ears. By the sound of your voices and the looks on your faces it seemed that you believed it. But what I want you to ask yourselves today is this ... did those words make it out the door with you? Did the message that Christ is alive and in our midst carry you through Monday, or did Monday swallow it? Did Easter give you an infusion of hope and an assurance of his presence, or did Monday get in your eyes? What is more real-the problems you contend with, the self-limiting thinking we have formed as a church, the reluctance to risk and the monotonous litany, "We can't!", "We won't!", or is it Jesus Christ in the thick and thin of our lives?

He couldn't move. He couldn't talk. All he could do was look at you and smile. His name was Ben. He is the son of a physician. When Ben was two years old, he accidentally pulled a cabinet onto himself and crushed a portion of his spine. No one to blame. Just an awful accident. Ben's parents are faithful Christians. The first time their new pastor met the family was at a dinner party. The doctor carried his sixteen-year-old son in like sack of potatoes. "I don't think you've met our son, Pastor. This is Ben." Ben smiled. But it was obvious that his parents were burdened with guilt and grief over Ben's condition.

Soon after this meeting the pastor was leading a Bible study on the ninth chapter of John. It's the story of Jesus healing a blind man. Wanting the participants to experience the story in a dramatic fashion, the pastor assigned parts to members of the study group. The part of Jesus was read by Ben's father. They came to the part where the disciples asked Jesus, "Who sinned that this man should have been born blind...he or his parents?" The doctor looked at the words he was to read, but couldn't read them through the tears. All his pain welled up within him and he began to weep uncontrollably. Everyone was silent and patiently waited until he regained his composure. "Lord, who sinned that this man should be blind...he or his parents?" Then this Christian doctor read the words of Jesus, "Neither he nor his parents, but that the work of God might be made manifest in him."

The doctor swallowed hard and read the words again. "Neither he nor his parents, but that the work of God might be made manifest in him." Then he sat down. No one spoke. Words weren't necessary. It was no longer a story about Jesus and someone else. Jesus was present to a broken-hearted father, offering the gift of grace and healing. Jesus had revealed himself. Easter was with him.

The travelers drew near Emmaus while the stranger quoted scriptures. "It's getting late," the disciples said. "Won't you please stay with us?" He did, but at supper the guest became the host. He took the bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them. It was then that they received their sight. The stranger was a stranger no more, then he disappeared. They said, "Didn't our hearts burn while he talked with us on the road, opening the scriptures?" No, they did not! Luke did not mention heartburn in the preceding verses. They didn't have a clue it was Jesus while he shared scriptures with them.

It wasn't until supper, not until the breaking of bread that they recognized Him. He took the bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it. Sounds like communion doesn't it? It's something we've received many times. Something so simple, yet Jesus said that whenever we take the bread and remember him, he is present. If you feel removed from Easter, if you have wondered whether you have encountered the risen Christ, if you're not sure whether Easter has made a difference in your life, then spend time with this story. It's for you. It's about you. He doesn't come to us from above, but in the midst of the ordinary, everyday people and experiences of real life. On the road ... and at the supper table.

It's entirely possible to be walking right beside him and not know it. It's possible to have your head in the clouds of speculation "about" him and not see him there in the room with you. "He is everywhere incognito," one of my professors used to say. He's in the sacred page, and he's beyond the sacred page. He's in the breaking of bread, or wherever two or more are gathered in his name.

The great British preacher Leslie Weatherhead came home from a meeting disappointed, disillusioned, and mad. He collapsed in a chair with bitterness instead of blood in his veins. He wanted to write a letter to dress down an opponent and put him in his place. He was too tired to pray or even desire to pray. Then he tried something. He relaxed his body and mind, and left the door of his mind ajar. He said, "I had little more than a vague longing for the coming of the Friend who understands our worst moments, without losing belief in our best."

Then something happened. Indescribable peace flooded his spirit. An ineffable hush quieted his mind. "I have never had a vision," he wrote. "I've never heard a voice. I only know I didn't want to write the letter to bring the pride of an opponent to the dust. There is only one explanation. A gift was given and accepted. The Friend came."

The message I want to leave with you is this ... He comes. Not, "He came." Not, "He comes at Easter." The Friend comes as one unknown. He comes in the splendor of worship and in the calm quiet...he comes to us on those nothing as unromantic as Monday mornings. He is in our midst or on whatever road to whatever Emmaus we shall travel.

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