I remember many things from my visit to the Holy Land in 2016. I remember with fondness the beautiful rolling hills of the Judean wilderness and Ein Karem, where the visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary to Elizabeth is commemorated. I remember kissing the stone in Bethlehem marking the spot where it’s believed that Jesus was born. I remember wading into the Jordan River where Jesus was baptized, nervously staring at armed Jordanian soldiers across the river, because we had been told that there could still be some landmines hidden on the bed of the river. I remember the incredible Church of the Holy Sepulcher, which houses the site of Golgotha, where Jesus was crucified, as well as the place where his tomb was.
But I also remember that holiest church in Christendom divided into pieces, some portions allocated to Orthodox Christians, some to Armenian Christians, others to Roman Catholics. Anglicans weren’t allowed to celebrate Mass at any of the altars there. I remember feeling the palpable tension between denominations in that holy place, vying for power and control. I remember being hastened from my posture of adoration at Jesus’s burial place by abrupt and rude guards of the tomb, so that other tourists could have their seven or eight seconds there.
The Holy Land is a confusing place. It has an illogic that masquerades as logic. Even though it should be the place of truest peace on earth, it’s one of the most volatile. Where love should reign, hate predominates. Where swords should be beaten into ploughshares, soldiers who look like they’re still teenagers roam the streets of Old City with machine guns.
But in that beautiful land, there is also a place called Abu Ghosh. It’s the place believed to be Emmaus. On my pilgrimage some years ago, as we journeyed there, we were told that it was not a safe place. We were told that the Roman Catholic monastery we would be visiting, which housed both men and women, was infrequently visited. Many people were afraid to visit this unstable region of Israel.
So, when we pulled into the drive of the monastery, I remember this. I remember monks and nuns coming out to greet us. I remember a welcome so warm that it surpassed the welcome we received or didn’t receive at any other site in the Holy Land. I remember a profound gratitude radiating from the monks and nuns because we had chosen to visit them.
We moved into the ancient church for Mass. And there, a group of Roman Catholic monks and nuns allowed an Anglican priest to celebrate Mass at the altar. I was astounded. On our trip were men and women priests, and they were all graciously welcomed. The monks and nuns even joined in the Mass with us. In this quiet, remote place, in the place where two early disciples finally recognized Jesus in the breaking of the bread, I saw a fleeting glimpse of Christian charity, unity, hospitality, peace, and love. I saw the illogic of that goodness trump the world’s unholy quests for logic.
And then it was over. The bread was broken, the wine was poured. We were dismissed and sent into the world to love and serve the Lord in peace. We climbed back onto our buses, and we road back to Jerusalem. We road back to a city seething with hatred and violence. We road back to a city arbitrarily and defiantly partitioned, where altars were controlled by the religious hierarchy and denominations fought over their last square footage of space in a holy site. At Emmaus, the Risen Christ had been clearly known to us in the opening of Scripture and in the breaking of bread, in divisions momentarily put aside, and in true hospitality. And then it was as if Jesus had vanished from our sight.
In Luke’s Gospel, when Cleopas and the other unnamed disciple encounter Jesus on the road to Emmaus, it’s three days after they had seen humanity at its worst. Walking from Jerusalem, they left the ugliness of human betrayal, fear, denial, mocking, hatred, and crucifixion. They walked along that road to Emmaus stewing over everything that had happened. Talking and discussing, trying to find logic in the empty tomb that was discovered, the absence of a body, the seemingly preposterous claims of the women at the tomb who said they saw angels.
Here’s what I imagine Cleopas and the other disciple thinking inside, although they don’t give voice to it. The friend we thought was the hope of Israel may have just been a fraud. Where in all this is the God we worship and adore? Was God not powerful enough to save the one who preached and taught about love? When all our hope was centered around someone who is now dead, is there any future for us? And if so, what is it?
And although those disciples are wrestling with many emotions in their hearts, for most of their journey on that road to Emmaus, they appear to be lost in their heads. They are hashing it out in conversation, trying to rationalize. They are looking for logic where there is none.
But something happens on that road to Emmaus. The logic they had sought is disassembled by Jesus. When they think that suffering and death can have no part in the world’s redemption, the Risen Christ reinterprets Scripture for them. When they think that they need to articulate a cohesive argument in their minds, as if they could philosophize the resurrection, Jesus spends the evening with them, takes a loaf of bread, blesses it, breaks it, and shares it with them.
And this is the moment in which their eyes are opened by God. Until now, their eyes have been closed. Until now, they have been in their heads. Now, they have moved from head to heart. Now, it all makes sense. There is no logic to this mystery, and in the illogic of it all, they find their hope.
This hope was made known to me in Emmaus on that pilgrimage back in 2016. Before that Eucharistic encounter, I was seeking Christ’s presence in the holy sites where he walked, preached, taught, and healed. I was looking for him, and of course, he was there. But somehow, my eyes were still closed to his real presence, because I was in my head. Mere remembering was not enough to summon Jesus’s presence, because in the present, I still saw the illogic of human sin, strife, discord, contention, and harbingers of violence. I saw petty denominational differences manifested in territory grabbing. I saw lots of Christians trying to control the uncontrollable.
But at Emmaus, my eyes were opened. And the only one who could open my eyes was God. Christ was truly present among a diverse group of Christians assembled in an ancient church, hearing Scripture read and interpreted, and breaking bread together. No sinful bickering could keep him out. No manipulative schemes could pin him down. No jaded human logic could quench his beautiful illogic.
And suddenly, his presence vanished from our midst. He was present, and then absent once again. We pilgrims went on our way, but now it made sense. Usually, we are trying to force our eyes to open by ourselves. We are living in our heads, trying to rationalize our way to peace or understanding. But Christ is inviting us to let him interpret the Scriptures for us and let him give us his Body and Blood. He longs to be made known to us in the present by Holy Spirit’s power, not simply in our memories or intellectual schemes.
And here we have come today. We are perhaps lonely and confused, perhaps sad and bereft, perhaps feeling abandoned, perhaps wondering if the world has gone off the rails. Maybe you’re trying to rationalize your way to faith and understanding. Some of you may even think being here is just a waste of time, when you could be out there, doing something good in the name of Christ.
But you and I are exactly where we should and need to be. There’s no other place on earth in which the Risen Christ will make himself known more clearly. He has already told us that. There’s no other place where you will be changed more deeply. He has told us that, too. There’s nothing better that we can do for the sake of the world and our lives than to heed our Lord’s command to come here on the Lord’s Day, week after week after week. Come together as much as you can. Allow Christ to open Scripture for you. Come to the Lord’s altar, and let Christ feed you. You can never get enough of this.
And then, your eyes will be opened, not by the books you read, the teachers you admire, or your own effort. Your eyes will be opened by God, who is the only one who can bring the illogic of hope into an illogical world.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday of Easter
April 23, 2023