Luke 24:13-35 · On the Road to Emmaus
The Fourth Day Comes
Luke 24:13-35
Sermon
by Maxie Dunnam
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The Emmaus walk is one of the most significant, spiritual renewal experiences in which I have ever participated. You may have heard something about this experience, perhaps you read about it in The Courier a few weeks ago. Almost 100 membership of Christ Church have shared in it, and at the end of April, members of our church and other churches in Memphis will lead the first Memphis Emmaus for men. And then toward the end of May, we will have an Emmaus experience for women. The pivotal event in this ministry is a 72 hour retreat conference type experience, in which we rehearse the meaning of the gospel and the Christian faith and way. This is done in a community of amazing, almost unbelievable care and love and sacrifice and prayer. Persons are given the opportunity to experience anew, or for the first time, the gracious love of God freely given, and to examine their own commitment and discipleship. Unreservedly, I commend this experience to anyone who wants to take a fresh look at themselves in relation to Christ who are open to renewed and deeper commitment to Christ and his church.

But that invitation is not the reason for my sharing in this fashion. The Emmaus walk follows the motif of the Emmaus road story in the Gospel of Luke, which we have read for both our scripture lessons today. The three days that climax with the resurrection – for an Emmaus pilgrim, every day after that is referred to as the fourth day, and that has meaning for us all. The fourth day always follows the third day of resurrection. Our lives are made up not primarily of third day resurrections, but of fourth days – and that’s what I want to talk about this Sunday after Easter. The fourth day comes. The question is this – confident of the resurrection, but away from the ecstasy and excitement and energy of that experience – how do we live the fourth day? First rehearse the gospel. Cleopas and his companion were two followers of Jesus. They had counted on this man. With others, they had believed that he was THE MAN – the son of man – the long awaited Messiah who would redeem Israel. There had been a lot of convincing evidence – the power of his preaching; his healing ministry; the miracles he performed; his mastery, even of nature. He refused to be controlled either by political or religious power blocks. The prophetic witness of his presence with the poor and oppressed which had always been the jubilee affirmation of Israel. That sensitized their longing. He even based his first sermon on that passage from Isaiah which proclaimed a day of jubilee. A day when God would bring relief to the poor, relief to the captives, recovering of sight for the blind, healing for the sick, liberation for the oppressed. And the Jews believed all that. They believed that when the Messiah came, that is exactly what would take place. And they looked excitedly for that day. Jesus witnessed to it in every thing he did and said. So there was evidence that was THE MAN – the son of man. The Messiah. Then it happened – the terror, the unbelievable nightmare of darkness, which engulfed him and them so suddenly, shattering their spirits and devastating their lives. They crucified Him. They took Him out to a place of degradation and shame and strung Him up like a common criminal. Little wonder that Cleopas and other followers of Jesus huddled together that Saturday, scared for their skin, too stunned even for grief, uncertain and limp, all their dreams in ruins. This man. Their Man – was dead. There were rumors whispered abroad that the tomb was empty – that the women who came back that sunrise morning, came with a wild story about an angel speaking to them, about the stone being rolled back and the grave clothes lying limp in the cave. But rumors are rumors. In their depressed state of mind, such stories seem like, according to the scripture, idle tales.

So Cleopas and his companion headed out of town, downcast, defeated, doubtful, wanting to put some space between them and the way they had committed their lives in previous days. And this is the scene as we enter the gospel drama. Dejected and in despair, these two men are leaving Jerusalem, headed for Emmaus. Now bring the story home to ourselves – two things are of special note. First, Emmaus is every person’s town. Emmaus is every person’s town. I’ve been to the Emmaus of the gospel story only once, on my first visit to the Holy Land in 1968. That Emmaus is a village west of Jerusalem on the main road to the seacoast. But I’ve been to a lot of other Emmauses. For Emmaus is every person’s town. It could have been any place for Cleopas and his companion, just as long as it was 7 miles distance from frustration and confusion and grief and despair. They wanted to get out of town, to get away from it all in order to try to forget. To sort out their feelings and somehow find a way to start again, with chins dragging and hope at low ebb, they head west together, talking again as if somehow it would go away. Retelling the story in order to give each other ease and relief from the pain of the tragedy they had known.

We know where Emmaus is, don’t we? Don’t we? We’ve all been there in one way or another, at some time in our lives. Emmaus is whatever we do or wherever we go to salvage and sort out our feelings, to summon the courage and the desire to keep going on or to try and forget. Emmaus is whatever we do and wherever we go to reclaim our sanity when our world goes to pieces. When our ideals and dreams are violated and distorted, when we discover that the world seems to hold nothing sacred. When love and goodness are rejected and profaned by selfish persons with almost demonic intent. It may happen at the betrayal of one we respect very much, or as the one we love the most with whom we shared the intimacy of marriage leaves us for another person. The death of our spouse or a parent may take us there. It may occur when we’re terminated by a long-time employer without explanation. Or when an illness confines us and there is no respite from pain. Or when illness strikes a child and we’re helpless and can do nothing but sit by the side of that bed and hold the child’s hand, as that child hovers between life and death. It may come with advancing age, when we’re forced to pull roots of a lifetime and leave our home and accept the limitations of decreasing vitality. We may head for Emmaus when our involvement in the struggle to right some wrong winds up in utter defeat, and the cause to which we gave our life is undermined by the greed and deceit of trusted leaders. It may happen when our business fails, and those whom we considered our friends suddenly shun us and treat us forgotten strangers. Or it may come at a personal moral crisis, when we wake up to the fact of how miserable we’ve made our own life or the lives of those who love us. And we have to decide whether we want to change, let go of the old and turn to God and start all over again, pick up and build a new life. Yes, at the turning points and traumas of life, like those disciplines of old, we head for some Emmaus, to get away from it all and to wait it out and to seek how to discover how to live with it. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Emmaus is every person’s town.

Then there is a second truth to be garnered from this story. I hope it will be etched clearly in your mind. In our walk to Emmaus, in the midst of or in the aftermath of defeat and despair, of suffering and pain, of confusion and doubt, there’s always the friend who joins us - always the friend who joins us. And note three things about this encounter with a stranger, who joined those disciples on the road to Emmaus – one, they didn’t know who he was. Now what’s important about that, you ask? It’s all important. Jesus often comes to us incognito. Mother Theresa says he comes most often through those who are suffering, the poorest of the poor. those disenfranchised with the world. She tells the story of walking past an open drain and catching a glimpse of movement within it. She investigated and found a dying man, whom she took to her home, where he could die in love and peace, and that was the beginning of this fantastic ministry that has been recognized even by the giving to Mother Theresa of the Nobel Peace Prize. That man that day said, I live like an animal in the streets, now I will die like an angel. How wonderful to see a person die in love, Mother Theresa exclaims. The dying man in the gutter is Jesus in depressing disguise. Whenever you meet Jesus, smile at him, she tells her Sisters in her ministry. And if you don’t want to smile at Jesus, she tells them, then pack up and go home. I like that. But not alone in the dramatic commitment and ministry of a Mother Theresa, he comes through a friend who will sit and listen to us. Jesus comes through a husband or a wife, who keeps on loving us when we’re selfish and uncaring, callous, even mean. He comes through a person who loves us enough to be honest with us, to help us to face up to ourselves and to see ourselves as we are. He comes through a friend who won’t let us off the hook, but keeps our feet to the fire, telling us and calling us to live out our Christian commitment. Jesus often comes incognito. The second thing to note is that this stranger on the road helped them to make sense out of things. The whole situation seemed to these two men to have no explanation. Their hopes and dreams were shattered. There is all the poignant, wistful, bewildered regret in the world in their sorrowing words – we were hoping. We were hoping that he was the one that one that was going to rescue Israel. They’re the words of men whose hopes are dead and buried. And then Jesus came and talked with them and the meaning of life became clear to them as he opened to the scripture and the darkness became light. A storyteller makes one of his characters say to the one with whom he’s fallen in love – I never knew what life meant until I saw it in your eyes. It is only in Jesus, even in the bewildering times, that we Christians learn what life really means.

Then the third thing to note is the courtesy of the stranger on the road. It’s captured in that 28th and 29th verses. So they drew near to the village, the scripture says, the village to which they were going. Jesus appeared to be going further, but they constrained him saying – stay with us, for it is toward evening and the day is now far spent. Jesus does not force himself upon us. He waited for an invitation to come in. And here is focused for us, the greatest gift God has given us, it comes to focus here - the gift of free will. I wonder if, in the years that followed, Cleopas and his companion ever reflected upon what might have happened had they not invited Jesus to come for supper. I’ve thought about it a lot. Where would I be, had I not invited Jesus into my life when I felt that strange presence and that insistent knocking on the door of my heart, as I listened to the country Baptist preacher proclaim and explain the gospel? I wonder where I would be if I had not invited Jesus to lead me vocationally when I felt that heavy pull to be a preacher of the gospel, and couldn’t understand how I could ever fulfill a calling like that. What about you? Have you heard that gentle and persistent knock, but refuse to open the door? Young person, has Christ called you in some specific way to preach, to teach, to be a missionary, to be a hospital administrator or nurse or doctor, a church musician, a Christian educator? Have you felt the strange and unexplained pull on your life - drawing you to spend your life in a specific Christian vocation and service? Have you talked to anyone about it? You see, the choice is ours. Jesus won’t force himself upon us. We have to invite him in. So, know this – on your road to Emmaus, whatever drives you there, Jesus will come. He may incognito, but he’ll come and he’ll help you make sense out of life. But he won’t force himself upon you. He is the eternal gentleman. He is the eternal gentleman, all courteous and respectful of your uniqueness and freedom. But life will never be the same for you in terms of meaning and purpose and joy and eternal salvation, unless you invite him in. For there is something that each one of you is called to be, but can never be without Jesus Christ. There’s something each one of you is called to be, but will never be without Jesus Christ.

Now the final thing I want to say, which is really the theme of the sermon. The fourth day comes, and we have to live on those fourth days – away from the ecstasy and excitement and energy of third day resurrection, and that’s the reason for the Sunday after Easter. Now our clue for living through all the fourth days is in the way that Jesus was finally known, even on the third day. In that powerful, simple, straightforward in verses 30 and 31 of our scripture lesson – when He was at the table with them, he took bread and blessed it and broke it and gave it to them. And their eyes were opened and they recognized Him. Look closely at this. Though our understanding of Holy Communion is grounded in this Emmaus meal, as well as the Passover Supper in the Upper Room, this was not a ritual or a special occasion that had been prepared for like the Passover had been. It was an ordinary meal in an ordinary house at an ordinary time, with an ordinary piece of bread being shared by two ordinary men and Jesus. So what’s the point? The point is crucial. It is ordinary days that make up most of our lives. And it is in ordinary ways that the Lord is made known to us – in the breaking of a common piece of bread and the sharing of a cup of wine, the resurrected Lord was known to those crushed and despairing men at Emmaus. A Scottish poet captured it in a very earthy way. If you don’t know a little bit about country living, you won’t understand some of this. Sometimes when everything goes wrong, when days are short and nights are long, when wash days bring so dull a sky, that not a single thing will dry, and when the kitchen chimney smokes and when there’s naught so queer as folks, when friends deplore my faded youth, and when the baby cuts a tooth, while John the baby lasts but one clings round my skirts till day is done, and fat good tempered Jane is glum, and butcher’s man forgets to come, sometimes I feel on days like this, I get a sudden gleam of bliss, not on some sunny day of ease he’ll come, but on a day like this. On a day like this - a fourth day – when we’re involved in our work, with our family, in a trying ordeal, in depressing circumstances, in dull routine, he will come.

So in closing, let me share two specific guidelines for living the fourth day - those days when we are away from the ecstasy energy and excitement of vital religious experience. One, remember that we live by faith, not by feelings. We live by faith, not by feelings. We don’t always feel Jesus’ presence. We certainly will not always feel on top, even ok. In fact, we may as often feel more dead than alive. But our faith is resurrection faith. Jesus is alive. We live by faith, not by feelings. And Two, live now – today – your fourth day, as though he is here even though you don’t feel his presence. Get that now. Live as though he is here even though you don’t feel his presence. Living in that fashion by faith, you will be amazed at how often you’ll experience the reality of his presence, and how your life will be shot through with purpose and power. The fourth day comes, and repeats itself over and over and over again. But there is no fourth day without the possibility of the presence of the living Lord. Remember that. It’ll serve you well in the days ahead. Let us pray.

Maxie Dunnam, by Maxie Dunnam