Last Sunday I
worshiped at a church in the Boston area. I know that parish pretty well
because about twelve years ago I almost became their rector. I had been in the
discernment process for a while, feeling strongly like the Spirit was leading
me somewhere, and that particular church just felt right for a number of
reasons. So much so that I thought, clearly, that was where I was supposed to
be. I submitted all the paperwork, and had some good interviews. They visited
me in Worcester. I really hoped that I would end up there. And then they chose
someone else, someone they thought would be a better match. And I felt crushed,
really disappointed. But last Sunday, with some people from that very search
committee sitting in in the same pew I was in and the one behind me, I enjoyed
the service but felt so happy that I had not been called to that parish. It
hurt at the time, but I had also been around the block enough times in my life
at that point to know Christ was with me and that the Spirit was moving
somehow. And, indeed, it was shortly afterwards that I was contacted by this
woman named Katherine Talley asking me to consider putting my name in for this
church in Charlottesville, Virginia.
The rest, as they
say, is history, and I am so glad I am here, but that episode came to mind as I
sat with this Gospel. But to explain why, let me share one other thing with
you. Years ago I heard someone say something that has stayed with me, something
so obvious that I was embarrassed I had never noticed it before. In the Gospels,
every miracle begins on the platform of a problem. Every one of them starts
with a problem: that man has leprosy; that woman’s daughter is sick; they ran
out of wine at the wedding; those crowds are hungry. The greatest miracle of
all, the resurrection of Jesus, begins with the thorniest problem of all —
death. So in this passage from Luke today, we have a miraculous appearance of
Christ brought on by a problem: brutal disappointment. Looking sad and talking
about the death of Jesus, these two disciples said, We had hoped he was the one. And this is where I connect with them.
Just as I hoped for a different outcome in that search process, they had also
hoped for a very different outcome than Jesus being crucified.
And we can all
relate to this. Who among us has not had their hopes dashed at one time or
another, if not many times? We all know what it feels like to be disappointed.
We had hoped to land that job . . . we had hoped the chemo would work . . .we
had hoped our loved ones would make better decisions . . .we had hoped for a
happy occasion or a successful project . . . . We had hoped — and it didn’t happen. It hurts
to experience that ourselves, and I don’t know about you, but as a parent, it
hurts even worse to watch my children experience it, to see them hope excitedly
for something and to witness their disappointment and pain when it doesn’t come
to pass. Crushed hope is a problem . . . but every miracle begins on the
platform of a problem.
And whether we
are dealing with bitter disappointment or any other problem, there is one
miracle we should look for in this season of resurrection. And this road to
Emmaus story illustrates it beautifully. These dejected disciples are trudging
the seven miles out to this village, accompanied by this seeming stranger,
talking to him, listening to him, eventually having dinner with him until,
finally, they get it and realize that Jesus is right there with them. But,
interestingly, even before they recognize him, they know he’s there, they know
it deep inside themselves: Were not our
hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road? On the
platform of their problem comes the miracle of Presence, the Presence of the
Risen Christ. And that same miracle is available to all of us, all of the time.
The last thing
the Resurrected Jesus says to his disciples in Matthew’s Gospel is, Remember I am with you always, to the end of
the age. The gift of the Holy Spirit is crucial in the New Testament and
crucial in our faith today because the Spirit is the Presence of God in Christ
with us now. That Presence will not necessarily alter our circumstances or free
us from the challenges of living, but it changes everything, including the way
we view all of our problems. As a priest, I have the privilege of walking
closely with people who are dealing with everything from minor annoyances to
catastrophic tragedies, and I see the same thing over and over. The people who
thrive, who find meaningful and abundant life no matter what, are those who
recognize that Christ really is present, with them always, even in the worst
circumstances. And that Christ is always working for greater love, always
working for fuller life. Always — even at the moment of death. Desmond Tutu,
the great Anglican archbishop who fought against apartheid in South Africa and
then helped to heal the wounds left over from it, was once asked whether, in
light of all the intractable problems in our world, he felt optimistic. And he
said, “Oh, no, I don’t feel optimistic at all. But I am full of hope.” As
followers of Christ, we don’t blithely believe that somehow things will always
get better in the future: rather, we know that Christ is here with us now, in
the present, and that is the basis of our hope.
I imagine that
all of us here face a whole slew of challenges and problems at this moment in
our lives. But it all just primes us for the miracle of Presence. It took a while
for those two disciples on the road to recognize Jesus, but even before they
recognized him, they knew he was there. We know it, too. We don’t have to
imagine it or talk ourselves into it. If there is anything clear in the
resurrection narratives, it is that Christ wants us to know he is with us. The
Holy Spirit, the Spirit of Christ, is right now moving in you and in me to
assure us of that Presence, praying within us in sighs too deep for words. Be open enough to trust that, and every
problem we have will become a platform for Presence and a gateway to God.
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