I really love this Gospel story – partly, I think, because there’s so much emotion in it. Often Biblical narrative is very spare – it tells you what happens, and you have to guess or imagine how people felt or reacted. But in this story, we get a sense of some of what people were feeling. Let’s talk through it.

First, we’ve got to turn the clock back to Easter Sunday. Back in Jerusalem, some of the women who followed Jesus have just discovered that Jesus’ tomb is empty. These two disciples have heard that news – but the idea that Jesus has risen from the dead is beyond their imagining. Maybe they think that enemies stole his body. They, and probably many others, still assume that Jesus’s movement died with him, that that beautiful, hopeful moment is over, and that they might as well go home. 

Who are they? Luke names one of them: Cleopas. In John’s Gospel, among the women keeping watch at the cross, he names a “Mary, wife of Clopas.” Clopas and Cleopas are pretty much the same name, especially in the ancient world where spelling was not standardized. And these people are returning to a shared home in the village of Emmaus. It seems very natural to conclude that these two disciples are Mary and Cleopas, a couple, who had been part of Jesus’ extended group of followers. I don’t know why Luke, who often takes some care to include women in his narrative, doesn’t make that more clear; possibly it seemed obvious to him? 

So Mary and Cleopas are going home. But even though they think everything is over, they’re not over it. They’re still talking with each other about all these things that have happened. Talking AND discussing – txzhe second Greek word there has a connotation of investigating, seeking, examining. They’re trying to make sense of it all. As you would be! 

And as they’re walking and talking, this friendly stranger starts walking with them. He asks, What are you talking about? 

Actually, I am NOT a Greek expert, but it looks to me like Jesus says, “What are the words that you’re tossing at each other?” Which is amusingly sassy, under the circumstances! I may be overreading this but it kind of makes me feel like Jesus is just bursting with delight at the surprise he has for them.

They don’t recognize him, of course. That happens a lot with the risen Jesus – his friends, even the closest, don’t recognize him at first, but then there’s a moment at which they are suddenly completely sure it’s really him. It makes an odd kind of sense to me; it can be hard to recognize even someone you know well out of context, when you’re not expecting to see them, and there’s definitely a hint that the risen Christ could choose not to be recognized – as seems to be the case here. 

They stood still, looking sad. The friendly stranger’s playful question stops them in their tracks. The prospect of telling someone what has happened is so heavy that they have to pause and gather themselves. Then Clopas is a little sassy back: “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who hasn’t heard about everything that’s been happening??” Have you been living under a rock, buddy?… 

The friendly stranger says “What things?!” And so they start to explain: There was this guy Jesus, who was a prophet mighty in word and deed, and they killed him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel. That phrasing is just so poignant – naming a hope, a great big hope, that they used to have. A hope that’s lost, now. Dashed.

But then – they tell the friendly stranger – things got weird. Some of the women from our group went to the tomb this morning and found it empty. They said they saw angels who told them that Jesus is alive. Some of us went to look, but we didn’t see any angels or Jesus either. So we really don’t know what to think. We’re going home, because what else is there to do; but we’re still talking about it, because there’s a lot to talk about. 

Then the friendly stranger says, You guys! Come on! Don’t you remember that the prophets said the Messiah must suffer and die? … And he starts to teach them about all the ways Jesus’ life and death echoed themes and prophecies in Jewish Scripture. 

After hours of walking and talking they’re approaching the village, Emmaus. The stranger is going to walk on, but Mary and Clopas ask him to stay with them. They invite him in – I wonder whether they had other family keeping the home fires burning, or whether the house was closed up, dusty, with almost no food, because they’d been on the road with Jesus? … Somehow they beg and borrow enough food to put a meal on the table; hospitality is a high value in that part of the world. They sit down to eat together. The friendly stranger takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it, gives it to them – and something about those actions turns a key in a lock and suddenly, suddenly, he’s not a stranger any more at all, but their friend, their rabbi, their Lord. He vanishes… and they are left saying to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us?” I love that: We knew. We knew even when we didn’t know yet. All through that long walk, that long talk: something special was happening. Something incredible. We knew.

And even though it’s got to be dark by now and the roads are dangerous at night, that same hour they get up and rush back to Jerusalem. This is news that can’t wait till morning. And they find the rest of the disciples gathered and talking excitedly about the fact that Simon Peter has seen the risen Jesus. Now they have a story to share as well. Imagine the energy in that room – the excitement, the struggle between skepticism and longing, the eager curiosity. It can’t be true – but what if it is? What if it is? 

Sometimes when we read a piece of Scripture together, in Compline or at the beginning of a meeting, we ask the question: Where does this Scripture text connect with your life? 

The connection I feel with this Gospel passage today is not with the particular events, but with the emotions in the story: grief, tenderness, excitement. 

Eleven days from today, on May 1, I start a two-month sabbatical,  a time away from St. Dunstan’s. 

Last week I was away on retreat with my clergy renewal cohort at Holy Wisdom Monastery for a few days – a good time to listen to myself and to God, and to feel my feelings. One of the things I felt was a big wave of sadness: I’m going to my church. A lot. This isn’t just the church where I’m the pastor; it’s my church. 

But on the same retreat I spent some time with my plans for my sabbatical time, and felt some excitement and joy about having the time to follow through on some ideas and intentions. 

For my first sabbatical, eight years ago in 2018, I had a big grant and a big project – exploring all-ages worship – that was explicitly something to bring back to St. Dunstan’s afterwards. This time there’s no big project. Or maybe the big project is: Rest. Be away. Do some of the things that I’d like to do, and never have time to do, in my life as a full-time pastor.

Sounds great for me! What’s in it for you? Well, I think you’ll hear some things from the people who’ll be leading and preaching in my absence that you wouldn’t have heard from me. So that’s an enrichment for you. 

My intention is to come back rested and renewed. I hope that will be a good thing for everybody! 

It’s also good for me and for the parish as a system to figure out the things I am doing – especially the things that are not intrinsic to my role as priest or rector – and experiment with handing them off to other people, or having them happen in other ways, or in some cases not happen for a while. When I return I may pick some of those things back up, or we may handle them more collaboratively going forward. Maybe some things will settle out as happening in other ways, or not being that important. 

It’s a good opportunity for us all to figure out what I do, and have the chance to notice and reflect on whether those are the things the parish wants and needs me to be doing. 

That’s good and important work for us to stay healthy and sustainable together, in what’s becoming quite a long pastorate.

The hardest part of this time away is also the most important part: stepping out of these relationships for a while.

In our Maundy Thursday Zoom service we read and discussed a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke, that described Jesus as preparing to leave “those to whom he most belonged.” 

Let me stress: I am not Jesus and this is not a Jesus situation! 

But that phrase really caught my attention – caught my feelings – that evening, and came back to me as I was working on this sermon. Apart from my family, you are the people to whom I most belong. And I love you. In fact, I often think of my vocation as your priest, in terms of loving you with God’s love. 

And I can’t help worrying about the gaps I may leave. 

That person who often feels isolated or lonely – will they find other connection points? 

That person who’s told only me about some quiet struggle – will they just carry it alone for two months? 

The person who trusts me enough to ask if they need a little financial help this month – will they feel comfortable asking someone else? 

The new person who’s just had a couple of tentative half-conversations with me – will somebody else pick up that thread? 

The elder with fragile health – will somebody else notice and check in if they miss Zoom church for a couple of weeks? 

At the same time: I am often painfully aware of my limitations, that I’m just not able to visit folks as often as I feel like I should, or spend time regularly in one on one conversation with everyone who’d like that kind of time with me. I don’t notice or track all the needs or struggles, as much as I’d like to. 

And people here do a pretty good job looking out for each other. One of the things that gives me the greatest joy in my ministry is seeing people be church for each other, totally independent of me. Extending friendship and kindness and support in all kinds of ways. It’s such a beautiful thing – those moments when I see us loving one another deeply from the heart, in the words of First Peter. 

First Peter is an epistle – a letter of the early church – with which I’ve never spent a lot of time. It seems like it probably wasn’t actually written by the apostle Peter, though smart people can see that in different ways. It’s a teaching letter, probably from the late first century, that circles around questions of baptism, Christian identity, and Christian community. 

In the first chapter, the author lays out the metaphor of baptism as birth into a new family. In verses 3 and 4, in the reading assigned for last week, this author writes, “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! By his great mercy he has given us a new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ, and into an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you.” 

New birth, and a new inheritance – a gift or treasure that comes to you because you are part of a family. A few verses later, the text reminds the readers to be obedient children, leaving behind their old ways and living into holiness. And today’s reading ends with a slightly awkward but pertinent metaphor about conception: You have been given new birth—not from the type of seed that decays but from seed that doesn’t. This seed is God’s life-giving and enduring word.

We’re part of a new family – and just like every family has its habits and values, we’re called to live in particular ways as members of God’s family, the church. 

This author writes, “As he who called you is holy, be holy yourselves in all your [behavior], for it is written, “You shall be holy, for I am holy.” Since you call upon a Father who judges all people according to their actions without favoritism, you should conduct yourselves with reverence during the time of your dwelling in a strange land.” What strange land? – 1 Peter describes the church several times as exiles, people living in a place where they don’t belong. That idea harkens back to some of the core experiences of Jewish history – enslavement in Egypt, conquest and exile in Babylon – and puts a new spin on it: Christians are strangers in a strange land because of their faith, and because of others’ hostility to their faith. In the Common English Bible translation, this author names his readers right at the beginning of the letter as “God’s chosen strangers,” which I really love! 

So: as exiles, strangers, people set apart or called out of the world to be this new family, we’re meant to live in a particular way. There are lots of things that could mean – that holy, chosen, intentional life – but this author names one thing it means right up front: “Love each other deeply and earnestly. Do this because you have been given new birth.”

Love each other deeply and earnestly. The bedrock of life as God’s family, the church: the joy and responsibility of loving one another. Not just our church friends, though I love those church friendships, but everybody who’s come seeking shelter, connection, meaning, help, belonging here. Squirmy, shy, grumpy, loud, weird or normal, young and old and new, sick or struggling, regular or very occasional, God’s chosen strangers, we owe each other love. We owe each other care. And that should’t be overwhelming because it’s something God equips us for. Something the Holy Spirit can do in and among and through and for us us, if we welcome Her. 

This text from 1 Peter blesses me right now because it reminds me that the vocation, the holy joyful duty of loving this set of people, is not unique to my role as your priest. It’s something we share, as a local branch of God’s worldwide family. In eleven days I’ll put on my email auto-responder, take Facebook off my phone, stop showing up at church, and trust you all – and the Holy Spirit – to love each other deeply and earnestly. On my behalf; on God’s behalf; and because you are each and all lovable and beloved.  

Amen.