Shall we stand still or walk forward?

Is this a time for standing still or walking ahead? Of course, the answer is both. Today’s awesome gospel is a favorite of mine and many. Yet, I hear it differently this year. Everything is different this year.

The story starts with a walk. A walk after a traumatic experience. Maybe Cleopas and the unnamed walker have PTSD after hearing about the tragic crucifixion of their rabbi, their leader, their Lord. They’ve left the big city. They’re walking on a country road to Emmaus, seven miles outside Jerusalem. Not much to say about Emmaus. Scholars can’t even locate it.

I understand going for a walk when things look bleak. Many of us are trying to get of our homes once each day. A respite. A bit of fresh air. A dose of spring. Some exercise. Some movement. Maybe a new perspective.

I still remember the day, decades ago, when I received a letter telling me I didn’t get the job I so desperately hoped for. It was pre-email. Even though I was among the final three candidates, I didn’t get a phone call but a rejection letter. In that devastating moment I didn’t know what to do. So I just started walking toward the lake. I just walked. I don’t know if I was trying to process what had happened. Whether I cried as I walked. I knew I would eventually call a friend and my parents. But in the moment, I simply walked.

The Emmaus walkers are side by side, close enough to hear each other’s breathing as they go up a hill. They’re talking about what has transpired for them. And then a stranger appears and walks with them. We can’t imagine such a thing today. A stranger? No mask. No six feet of distancing. The stranger simply asks: “what are you talking about? What is on your mind?” Good advice for us these days. Ask and then listen. Let folks express what they’re feeling. No judgment. No rushing to give advice. The challenges of these days are beyond quick solutions.

Here’s the first memorable moment. When the risen Christ—the stranger— asks them what they’ve been talking about, they stand still. They stop. And their sadness is palpable. They say to the stranger, in words we might form today, “Dude! Where you have been? Are you the only in the metropolitan Jerusalem area that hasn’t heard?” And then they pour out their hearts. They name their disappointment. They stand still and take stock.

Marc Brackett is the founding director of the Yale Center for Emotional Intelligence. The current pandemic is changing the emotional landscape of our society, he says. Often most people can’t identify feelings beyond the triad of mad, sad, and glad. Brackett says, however, a recent study shows that 95% of the feelings people name now are anxiety, stress, and fear. Only 5% are positive feelings. And they aren’t joy or happiness. Rather, a bit of hope and optimism.

The walkers on the road to Emmaus use three poignant words that resonate deep in our bones: we had hoped. We had hope that he was God’s promised Messiah. We had hoped that he would redeem Jerusalem. We had hoped that he would bring an end to suffering and heartache. We had hoped that everything would be alright. And now he is dead.

We know these three words. We had hoped this pandemic wouldn’t disrupt all our plans. We had hoped there would a test, a treatment, a vaccine sooner rather than later. We had hoped our government would have responded sooner or more clearly. We hoped we wouldn’t lose our job. We had hoped. We had hoped to carry the baby to full term. We had hoped that the cancer would be in remission. We had hoped the depression would subside. We had hoped that our work for racial justice would have borne more fruit instead of inequities being exposed. We had hoped that God would spare us and the earth from ravaging suffering.

Emotional intelligence means attending to all of our feelings—contradictory and mysterious as they are. And it seems more important more now than ever. If you haven’t practiced meditation, mindfulness or other calming exercises, now may be the time to plug into our spiritual tradition.

It will take some standing still to do these things. Turning off the TV, the computer, the phone. Being with what is deep inside you. Hearing the birds sing outside your window. Breathing deeply into what is. And being open to what will be.

As the walk to Emmaus continues, Jesus hears the sad tale of the walkers. And then he reframes by locating the story within the larger biblical narrative. He pairs suffering and glory. He reminds them that pain and joy are interwoven—not only in the Jesus story but in ours as well.

Oh, how we could use some reframing these days. Stand still. Be still. We are part of humanity’s larger story of struggle and resilience century after century. We are connected to people all over the globe suffering unimaginable loss, grief, and uncertainty.

As the walkers get near Emmaus, the risen Jesus keeps walking on. Think of it. He didn’t show up in a large crowd, a political rally, or a victory parade— but in a humble walk with two grieving people. But the walk changes everything. Their hearts burn within them as Jesus opens the scriptures. What emerges is courage, resilience and the hope to keep walking into an unknown future.

In this stranger they sense something or Someone they didn’t even know they needed. Stay with us, they plead. Stay with us, for it is almost evening. Stay with us.

And then they are at the table. This stranger, this guest becomes the host. He breaks the bread. And it is then, it is then that their eyes are opened. It is then, in the meal, that they recognize him. It is then, amid hospitality and the sharing of food, that everything comes together.

Preachers love connecting this text to eucharist. And I have, every single time I’ve preached on this gem of a text. It is the story of our Sunday mornings. First, our hearts burn within us as the risen Christ comes among us in the scriptures. And then our eyes are opened in the breaking of the bread.

And yet now we are in our homes, separate from each other. We haven’t communed in six or more weeks. We don’t know when we will be back to worship in our church spaces. And we are crestfallen, heartbroken, deeply sad.

Some churches are offering online communion, having folks get some bread and wine in front of their screens. Sacramental denominations discourage this practice. Lutheran pastors are divided, however. We are certainly experiencing community and God’s presence virtually. At the same time, I contend that we understand sacraments to be a physical gathering of bodies around bread, wine, and water. Yet as the wider church wrestles with a longer than expected road back to large worship gatherings, I wonder what kind of innovative thinking or practices may emerge.

For example, on Maundy Thursday we offered an Agape meal option with a blessing of bread, wine, and other food at your home tables. This is the time to see the sacramental character of all of our eating and drinking. This is the time to include mealtime prayers in your home, whether alone or with others. Some of you know “come, Lord Jesus” or “bless us, O Lord,” or “God is great, God is good.” But it can be as simple as “O give thanks to the Lord who is good.” Or even a moment of silence. Think of it as a holy pause to be still, to look at and smell your food, to take a slow, mindful, grateful breath.

Jesus continues to surprise us—to open our eyes to holy presence in places and people we would never expect. God opens our eyes this Sunday! In the midst of a pandemic, we give thanks for all who are the face, the hands, the feet of Jesus for our wounded world, especially those most vulnerable, those most marginalized.

God opens your eyes this Sunday! You are the risen body of Christ as you work and serve, pray and dream for a new tomorrow. Whether in your homes, on a walk, or eventually as you return to schools and workplaces.

God opens your eyes this Sunday! With heavy hearts, you may be more open than ever to see Easter revealed among us in surprising ways. You may be more open than ever to envision a new society, a new church, a new way of walking on the earth. You may be more open than ever to share your deepest heartache and listening with compassion as others do the same.

You will indeed walk on, as the beloved song from Carousel names. “Walk on, with hope in your heart and you’ll never walk alone.” Community, indeed.

But now more than ever, we may also find the gift in standing still. In being with what is. In expressing our fears, our tears, our hopes, our prayers. In leaving silence for someone else to cry or to lament. With burning hearts, with open eyes—and with one another—we will walk on. And I am sure of this: through the resurrection of Christ, a new tomorrow, filled with Easter hope, is already dawning.