A sermon preached by the Revd Canon Dr Alison Joyce, on the Third Sunday of Easter (6th April 2008)
I was thinking of you all last Sunday. While you were all here keeping the flame of faith alive in the heart of Edgbaston, I was in Sweden with a group of teenage musicians, playing at a service in an exquisite little wooden chapel by the sea, on the archipelago to the east of Stockholm.
One of our number had agreed to read the first lesson during the service but, unfortunately, on the previous day had lost her voice so was unable to oblige. So I nobly stepped into the breach, and volunteered to read the lesson in her place. Which was fine, until it became clear that there was no English translation of the Bible available; at which point I distinctly remember hearing myself say, with uncharacteristic, indeed cavalier recklessness: ‘That’s not a problem – I shall read it in Swedish!’
Now apart from the minor detail that my entire Swedish vocabulary consists of about half-a-dozen words, Swedish, as a language, is pronounced in ways that, to the English-speaking outsider, frequently bear no obvious relation to the way in which they are written. So last Saturday night ended up being one of the more surreal experiences of my life, as I found myself (with the help of a couple of glasses of wine), being coached through the Swedish text of Isaiah 43:10-13 by the current Swedish national veteran cycle champion (in whose house I happened to be staying), who gave me all kinds of helpful hints, such as urging me to model my intonation on that of the Swedish chef who used to appear in the Muppets. It was one of those occasions when you suddenly sit back and think to yourself – now, hang on a minute – how on earth did I end up here?
Fortunately it all went swimmingly, and I was warmly congratulated on the quality of my Swedish pronunciation (although I am aware that this was probably a measure of the congregation’s politeness, rather than their honesty); the music was wonderful, and everyone had a thoroughly enjoyable and memorable time.
Travel can be such an interesting and important experience, particularly when it involves that kind of ‘quality’ engagement. And yet, so much depends upon the spirit in which we travel, and indeed the manner in which we do it. There are many different types of journey, just as there are many different ways of travelling.
My father’s job used to take him overseas quite often, and I can remember being very excited the first time he travelled to Brazil, because I was keen to hear all about his experience of South America. In the event, I was disappointed. He had arrived at the airport in Brazilia, where he had been collected by the limousine that took him to his air-conditioned hotel; he was then picked up by another car to take him to an air-conditioned conference suite for various meetings; then back to his hotel; and eventually back to the airport. During his stay he had seen nothing of the country, the people, or even the climate. It was as if he had been shielded from all these things by a combination of wealth and technology. He could just as easily have been in New York, or in Singapore.
At the opposite end of the travel spectrum from my father’s business trip is the type of journey made by the Jesuit Gerard Hughes, a Catholic priest who was, for many years, based down the road from here at the Jesuit house in Harborne. In 1975, Gerard Hughes travelled from Weybridge to Rome on foot (with the assistance of the ferry that got him over the Channel), and he wrote a marvellous account of his adventures in this book, In Search of a Way, subtitled: Two Journeys of Spiritual Discovery – because his journey did indeed prove to be twofold: there was the outer journey, which was to do with the hardships, and the joys, and the miseries and the excitement of his physical journey, blisters and all – but at the same time there was the inner journey: the spiritual journey, the journey which, as he points out in his introduction, still continues.
Looking back on his journey to Rome (and his journey into God which happened alongside it), Gerard Hughes wrote this:
The real obstacle on our journey to God is not heat, thirst, blisters, road blocks, or other people, but the inner workings of our own minds, our inherited and unquestioned ways of perceiving ourselves and the reality around us. These are the most threatening and frightening obstacles, and the most difficult to overcome.
In other words, the most important thing we have to learn to do on our Christian journey is to learn how to see; to learn to look at the world with new eyes: to learn to be aware of God in the most unexpected places. And our gospel reading today is about precisely that – it is about learning to see.
Luke’s account of the disciples’ encounter with the Risen Christ on the road to Emmaus is one of my favourite gospel stories. The two disciples are walking along, deeply downcast because Jesus is dead. The Risen Lord approaches them and asks what they are talking about. And because they do not recognise him, they tell him the whole story: how great a prophet and teacher Jesus had been; how all their hopes had rested on him as the one who could have set Israel free; how he had been sentenced to death, and crucified; and how some of the women had reported his body gone from the tomb, and come back with some story about him still being alive. In response, the Risen Christ explains all to these dejected disciples:
He said to them ‘You foolish men! So slow to believe the full message of the prophets! Was it not ordained that the Christ should suffer and so enter into his glory?’ Then, starting with the prophets, he explained to them the passages throughout the scriptures that were about himself.
So Jesus explains it all to them, spells it all out for them, complete with biblical references, but what is so interesting is that despite all of that they still don’t realise that the person who is speaking to them is the very Jesus whose death they are mourning! It is only when, having been persuaded to stay with them, the Risen Lord breaks bread and shares it with them, that their eyes are finally opened.
When describing the resurrection appearances, the Bible asks us to grapple with a really complicated thought: that, on the one hand, Jesus – the real Jesus – was totally and utterly and absolutely alive, and could be known as such; and yet, at the same time, he is completely unrecognisable by the disciples when they first meet him: Mary in the garden thinks he is the gardener; the disciples on the Road to Emmaus have absolutely no idea who their travelling companion is, even when he explains to them what has happened. What possible sense can we make of this strange paradox? What kind of a reality is the Bible describing here? How on earth can you spend time with someone you know well and fail to recognise them?
Let me draw an interesting analogy, going back to my experience at that little chapel in Sweden last Sunday. The entire service was, of course, in a language that was basically unknown to me. So had I been hearing those particular words in any context other than a church context (if, for example, I had been handed the Order of Service that we were given at a soccer match), I would not have had a clue about what most of them meant; and yet, because it was in the context of worship, and because so many of the elements of Lutheran worship are familiar to Anglicans, I knew exactly what was going on and, indeed, could join in the service with astonishing ease and without any assistance from anyone: the Lord’s Prayer, the Creed, the Responses after the readings - all were entirely recognisable.
In that context the totally unfamiliar and incomprehensible, suddenly and astonishingly, not only made sense, but felt utterly familiar. In the same way, the Risen Christ appeared to the disciples in a different form, and yet it suddenly became totally apparent to them who he was. And again, it was the context that was the key: in the case of the Emmaus Road story, it was the shared meal; the fellowship; the breaking of bread. Suddenly, everything became dazzlingly clear to them: Jesus was raised from the dead, and was with them. And it was at that moment that Jesus withdrew from their sight: their certain knowledge of him meant that they no longer needed him there, because they knew without question that it really was him; that he was alive; that death could not hold him.
One final little observation about this story: when the two disciples are travelling to Emmaus, dejected and downcast, it is Jesus who comes to them, who seeks them out, just as the Good Shepherd seeks out his lost sheep. But it is only when they, in turn, reach out to him – by asking him to stay with them – that their eyes can be opened to his true identity. It is Christ who reaches out to us – but until we are prepared to invite him to spend time with us, we will never be able to see him for who he truly is. The initiative is his; the choice is ours.
Amen