April 23, 2023: Third Sunday of Easter, Cycle A Acts 2:14, 22-28 Psalm 16:1-2, 5, 7-8, 9-10, 11 1 Peter 1:17-21 Luke 24:13-35 Which Way to My Burning Heart?A reflection by Richard Young I write this Easter reflection during Lent, when it’s barely still winter. This leaves me a bit disoriented. I step out of a time of serious self-assessment, a traditionally penitential season of reform and renewal, and happily walk to Emmaus with my friends, entering into my favorite post-resurrection story. This time-shift, which plays games with my mind, is a blessing, because it tells me something about the state of mind of Cleopas and his friend. Like me, they also had to make a profound shift in consciousness. Chicago priest/poet John Shea re-tells Luke’s tale this way: On the road that escapes Jerusalem and winds along the ridge to Emmaus two disillusioned youths dragged home their crucified dream. They had smelled messiah in the air and rose to that scarred and ancient hope only to mourn what might have been. And now a sudden stranger falls upon their loss with excited words about mustard seeds and surprises hidden at the heart of death and that evil must be kissed upon the lips and that every scream is redeemed for it echoes in the ear of God and do you not understand what died upon the cross was fear. They protested their right to despair but he said, “My Father’s laughter fills the silence of the tomb.” Because they did not understand they offered him food. And in the breaking of the bread they knew the impostor for who he was – the arsonist of the heart.
The disillusioned walkers on the way to Emmaus were grieving – mourning “what might have been.” They were still stuck in winter – their own version of Lent. Perhaps they saw their “winter of discontent” (to borrow a John Steinbeck title) the way my mother did when I was a child and the way many still do now: as a time to tame one’s inner darkness by giving up sweets or some other pleasure. Maybe they thought they could find salvation by fasting and praying, by pricking their peccadillos and disciplining their diets. If only they did enough of that, perhaps it would be messiah-time. They had hoped that Jesus would be “the one who would set Israel free.” Their disappointment could not have been more intense. Their friend was dead, Rome was still oppressing them, and all that was left to do was drag home their “crucified dream.” Like all mourners, they needed someone to listen to their pain – to hear their complaints about how once again a great prophet whom they had loved was ignored and disdained, condemned and tortured, killed and buried. It was confusing. How could someone so full of love NOT be of God? How could they go on with this hole in their hearts? Seven miles to Emmaus – a long way to ponder those questions. But they caught a break. A stranger would become a friend. He was “all ears,” and he would let them grieve. An old proverb comes to mind: “Friendship doubles our joy and divides our grief.” But the story says that after some reflecting on reports of an empty tomb and a lot of discussion of the Scriptures, they broke bread together. One did not eat with just anybody in biblical times. Sharing a meal was an act of true emotional intimacy. The stranger was no longer a stranger; he became a companion – a word that literally means “bread fellow.” And once they took a bite, “their eyes were opened,” and their hearts burned. The One who had divided their grief was now more than doubling their joy. The “arsonist of the heart” moved them to make the life-changing leap from winter to spring, from the seriousness of Lent to the delight of Easter. Luke has given us a picture, a sample, of the changes that had been going on among Jesus’ followers after his death. People who knew he had died were suddenly experiencing him as alive. People who had hoped for a military messiah to “set Israel free” found something far better. People who broke bread in his name felt his undeniable presence in that meal, in the love of community, and in the wisdom of the Scriptures. The journey metaphor is often applied to our growth and development, our process of maturing in life; thus, we talk about the spiritual journey. Our gospel walkers on the way to Emmaus were taking steps toward a new phase in their consciousness, a new way to encounter the divine. It involved going from grief to grace, from winter to spring, from Lent to Easter. Theirs was a spiritual journey that mirrors where we all must walk, if we want to be fully alive. The story says that Cleopas and his friend did not go all the way to Emmaus. Instead, they turned around and returned to Jerusalem, where they could reunite with their fellow disciples to tell about the amazing, eye-opening experience they had, when they broke bread. Journeys are like that sometimes. Theyget interrupted by holy “strangers,” manifestations of the Christ. And that interruption can motivate a change in destination, so that real community can be experienced. I like to think that my own Dignity community many years ago became the new alternative destination in my life. I started out on a road to a more “traditional” community – one of which institutional church officials would approve. But there was a detour. It took me to a more satisfying experience of Eucharist. It led me to a blessed collection of other walkers on the road to the Risen One and his vision of a more just world. It also took me to a loving husband and a domestic life that is far more Easter than Lent. My prayer is that your journey will take you to such a place, a place at which you can joyfully proclaim, “Are not our hearts burning inside us?” |
