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United Church of Paducah
4600 Buckner Lane
Paducah, KY 42001
(270) 442-3722
Worship Times
Sunday Service: 10:00a
Refreshments &
Fellowship: 11:15a
Christian Education
For All Ages:
11:20a - Noon
Nursery Services Provided Handicap Accessible
All Are Welcome!
A Congregation Of The
"Never place a period where God has placed a comma." - Gracie
Allen
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From April 6, 2008
Out of the Ordinary
Luke 24:13-35
Toward the end of a seminary semester, a
classmate's spouse asked me how things were going. I replied
that I was heavy into a paper about Christ. "It's such a
shame we don't know what Jesus really looked like," she said
wistfully. "You would think, given who he was, that a
painter or sculptor would have made him the subject of a
work of art."
Yes, I said, that is too bad. What I didn't have the heart
to say is that it would take a long time, centuries really,
before Jesus would be raised to that level of importance.
And even then their efforts would be the product of
imagination alone; anyone who might have known Jesus was
long gone and scripture offered no clues.
Yet even those who did know Jesus, even those who were most
familiar with the shape of his jaw and the angle of his
shoulders, even they were unsure about what Jesus looked
like--after God raised Jesus up after death, that is. After
Jesus was released from the tomb, Jesus' best friends had a
hard time making the connection between the fellow they
followed all the way to the cross and the one who was not
defeated by it.
Does that not strike you as curious? Isn't it odd that on
that first Easter those who closest to Jesus have a hard
time recognizing him? Think about those occasional news
stories about siblings who are reunited after being
separated since childhood. In the stands at a Cardinals
game, or on a sidewalk in New York, on a layover at some
airport, all they had to do was look into each other's eyes
and they knew. They knew they weren't looking back at a
stranger but at a blood brother or sister.
Why would a separation of just a few days make it so hard
for Jesus' friends to recognize him? Maybe it was the burden
of grief they were carrying. Maybe it clouded their seeing;
maybe it interfered with their powers of recognition.
Or maybe it was that when Jesus had assured them he would be
raised up after the third day, they presumed he would be
surrounded by mystical pyrotechnics, divine fireworks.
That's what happened on the Mount of Transfiguration.
Partway through his ministry, Peter, John, and James
witnessed Jesus cloaked in a dazzling white light, flanked
by the prophets Moses and Elijah.
But when Jesus was raised from the dead, he wasn't bathed in
glory looking larger than life. He was so ordinary that Mary
mistook him for the gardener. Today in Luke we remember that
when Jesus appears to friends, he's just another Joe on the
way to Emmaus. He's nobody special, just a stranger making
the same seven-mile trek to Emmaus as grief-stricken Cleopas
and his companion. There's nothing remarkable about him at
all.
Except two things, perhaps. He does have a heart for their
sorrowing. And as the two describe what has just happened in
Jerusalem, he has the big picture, God's big picture, one
told in holy word, which he does his darnedest to help these
two see.
But they don't. Or maybe it's that they can't. They're too
overwrought about what has happened to their teacher, their
savior, back in Jerusalem.
Rather than insisting they listen more or think harder about
what he's saying, this ordinary stranger doesn't grow
impatient or push them. He graciously accepts their limits
and then quietly picks up the pace a bit, perhaps thinking
they need space to sort things out. But just as he begins to
pass them by, they feel oddly touched. So they call out to
him. Share an evening meal and a safe place to bed down,
they implore.
It is a most genuine invitation, even if it is not at all
out of the ordinary. This gesture of hospitality is
consistent with their upbringing, a practice common among
desert people, one woven tightly into the fabric of their
faith. Extending an invitation, this is just something you
did back then--something akin to that automatic kindness we
offer when we're in line at the grocery store and volunteer
to step out of the way so someone with a few things doesn't
have to wait while the checker deals with our overflowing
cart.
The stranger accepts their offer of hospitality. And soon
the men are passing plates back and forth--this one with
figs, that one with lentils. Feeling most at home, the
stranger reaches for the loaf that rests on the table. He
picks it up, blesses it, and then offers it.
As he does this, he looks into their eyes in a way that
sparks a memory of someone they loved more than life
itselfand a light goes on, one that illumines the darkness
they have carried for days. All at once they know who he is
and who they are, and know--finally--everything that needs
knowing. And then--zztt--their special guest is gone.
No bells peal. No angels descend. And yet everything is
different now. Their stranger was their Savior. They jump to
their feet and run like the dickens all the way to Jerusalem
to tell the others what they have just experienced.
In God's satchel are some mighty and powerful
attention-getting devices. Think Noah and the flood. Think
Moses and the burning bush. Think Saul, breathing threats
and murder against the disciples of the Lord, who gets
blinded by the pure light of God's truth on the road to
Damascus. Scripture is full of moments when what God does
ranks right up there with the best that Hollywood can dish
out.
But in my experience, God doesn't choose high drama very
often. God's much too gentle, much too kind, far too
understanding of human nature for that. Think of it: we have
enough in our lives that feels out of proportion and which
comes at us without warning. Why would God elect to freak us
out with high-powered flourishes?
Most of the time God prefers a far quieter approach. As far
as I can tell, and I thank God for this, when it comes to
breaking into our lives, God displays a bias for the
ordinary and commonplace over the extraordinary and the
oversized.
How many times have I prayed that God would sweep down and
do something bold and earth-shattering in my life or in the
world, only to pray later with deep and genuine gratitude
that God elected to deliver a response that was anything
but. It would have been too much.
Truly, the God of All Creation knows us well and knows that
when things get too big and too dramatic, they feel out of
control. And that's when we're apt to panic or shut down.
That's when we're least likely to be open to the divine
intent unfolding in our lives.
Our God, the one who fashioned the stars, the one whose idea
of generosity is a riverway like the Ohio or the
Mississippi, our God loves working in ways that honor our
size and our scope. Simple encounters and humble gestures
are the vehicles God uses so that what is really profound
and mighty can be approached safely and comprehended more
readily. It's out of the ordinary and the commonplace in our
lives that the Risen Christ is revealed.
You've had that happen so many times, I know. You're feeling
down, discouraged, disappointed and someone who has no idea
winds up saying just the thing you were needing to hear. Or
you're at a loss about how to proceed and someone makes what
seems like an off-handed remark that echoes long afterward,
a word of wisdom that leads you to realize that theirs was
the voice of God speaking itself into your life.
When I was in my mid-twenties, I was involved in a minor but
rather upsetting accident one evening; I was 60 miles from
home. After the highway patrolman finished taking the
report, a couple who had witnessed the accident offered to
follow me home because I was still quite shaken.
So rattled I couldn't get myself to drive down the freeway
much past 50, I worried the couple was growing impatient,
irritated even. When we finally we got to my exit, I
signaled, certain they would proceed onward. But their
headlights continued to appear in my mirror just as they had
been for the past hour.
Through light after light, turn after turn, for fifteen more
miles, they followed at a safe distance until at last I
pulled over in front of my house. Then they quickly flashed
their lights and drove on into the night.
It wasn't until the next day that it dawned on me. I had the
night before been visited by Christ in one of his clever
disguises.
Christ likes to do that, I suspect. He comes with no special
effects to walk alongside us in times of hurt and despair,
confusion and need. Insisting on nothing, he listens here;
he teaches us there. He pops up in this person or in that
happening, joining us and offering us life-giving communion
with him--even if we don't quite realize it.
Unpredictable in scheduling and unremarkable in appearance,
I can't help wondering when Jesus will show up next. Even if
we can't be certain of the when and where, we can be sure he
will show up. In your life. In mine. In our life together as
a congregation. In the world around us.
He's so inventive, Christ is. He reveals himself in so many
different ways. But you can be sure as clever as he is, he
will always be respectful of us.
Maybe, just maybe, if we keep our hearts open and pay close
attention to the happenings of the day, we can learn--just
as Cleopas and his friend did--how to recognize him. Right
here, right now, right in the middle of what--just a moment
before--seemed positively ordinary. Amen.
© Rev. Karen Winkel
United Church of Paducah (UCC) |
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