Luke
24:13-35
May 4,
2014
The road to Emmaus is a beloved
passage. This is true across
denominations, which is always so interesting to me, because at the heart of
this passage is the breaking of bread – communion – and that has been for
hundreds of years a point of division between the denominations. I promise not to expound on the theology of
communion. In fact, I wonder if St.
Francis of Assisi – our Easter person this morning – along with the Emmaus
story, might help us transcend the divisions a bit and find a way for all of us
to deepen our understanding, and experience, of communion.
St. Francis, of course, lived
long before the Reformation when the Protestant church was born – so we get
nothing of these divisions from him. Add
to that he was not primarily a theologian… in the sense of writing about
doctrine and systematics. Though he was
always adamant that people have reverence for the Eucharist – communion – it was
because of his experience, not his doctrine.
Communion was absolutely
central for him. In all of his writings
the most frequent theme you find is the importance of communion. It was, just as it was for the people on the
road in the gospel of Luke, one of the most important ways he connected to
Jesus, and one of the most significant ways he deepened his faith.
St. Francis was born around
1181 in Assisi – a small town in Italy.
He came from a wealthy family and lived a fairly raucous life with his
friends as a youth and young adult. But
when he was about 20 he joined a military expedition, and he was captured and
spent a year in jail. This began to
reorient him. He became withdrawn and
spent a lot of time alone, hoping for a sign from God about what he should do
with his life. He spent much time at a
church in San Damiano.
One day, while there, he said a
prayer: “Most high glorious God, enlighten the darkness of my heart and give me
true faith, certain hope, and perfect charity; give me perception and
knowledge, Lord, that I might carry out your holy and true command.” And upon this, he left his family – to the
great pain of his parents – and began to live at San Damiano.
He then had what he would name
as his conversion experience. God, he
said, led him to the leper colony outside Assisi. Francis had always been disgusted and
repulsed by lepers, so this was a turning point for him. Francis wrote, “When I was in my sins, just
to see lepers was very bitter for me.
And the Lord himself took me among them, and I showed mercy to them. And on leaving them, what seemed bitter to me
had turned for me into sweetness of body and soul. And afterwards I waited a little and left the
world.”
By leaving the world he meant
that he gave up everything, became poor, took on the clothing of a beggar, and
moved into the leper colony to care for those that lived there.
Before he knew what was
happening, two men who had been hearing about him came to join him in his way
of life. This was not something Francis
sought, but he invited them to join him if they would give up all their
possessions, sell them and give the money to the poor; which they did. All of a sudden Francis was a leader of a movement…something
that would always be awkward for him, from that day forward.
This little group was eager to
learn what God would have them do. They
approached a priest in a church and asked for guidance. This priest, as was a common practice, opened
the bible randomly three times and read whatever he saw there.
The first passage was “Go, sell
what you have, and give to the poor.”
The second was “Take nothing for your journey, no staff, nor bag, nor
bread, nor money; and do not have two tunics.”
And Finally, “If anyone would come after me, let them deny themselves
and take up their cross and follow me.” They
went to the Pope who agreed to approve of the new group, and these three
passages were what guided Francis and his early followers in everything they
did – and continue, by the way, to guide Franciscan brothers today.
This life Francis chose, while
I agree it reflected the gospel in many ways, sounds hard to me. Yet his movement grew from three to thousands
over a relatively short time. There was,
obviously, something compelling about him and how he lived.
As the movement grew, Francis
was counseled to come up with a rule to govern the community. He was hesitant, to say the least. In large part this was because one of his
values was absolute humility. Being in a
position of authority – telling others what to do – went against what he
believed. A number of times during his
life he tried to give others authority over the movement – but he was clearly
its leader and people looked to him for guidance.
The rule grew out of the three
gospel passages the priest read to them.
In it, the brothers are told to give to everyone who asks, and if
someone takes what is theirs, they should not ask them to restore it. He entreats his followers to humble
themselves – to hold no positions of authority.
He writes that the brothers should love their enemies, saying, “Our
friends are those who, for no reason, cause us trouble and suffering, shame or
injury, pain or torture, even martyrdom and death.” He told them that “those whom the Christian
serves are to be loved for themselves, no matter how unlovable, not because we
can fix them by our good works.”
Francis may have given a rule,
but always more importantly he gave himself – his life – as an example. He was big on action, less big on words. Francis gave alms to any beggar who asked,
and when he didn’t have money he, literally, gave them the clothes off his
back. He was infinitely compassionate
with his fellow brothers. He loved
animals and creation, seeing them as an example of beings that depended totally
on God. He preached a sermon to
captivated birds once, telling them to praise God with their voices. He would stop to pick up worms on the ground
because he couldn’t stand the thought of someone stepping on them. He claimed that God gave him a greeting: May the Lord give you peace, and biographers
throughout history have reported that many, just by hearing him say it, indeed
did find peace.
Francis was, for all practical
purposes, a saint before he died – he was certainly sainted very quickly after
he died. People just saw him this
way. He was known far and wide, and
folks would walk long distances to see him when they knew he was in the area
because he was known to have healing powers.
He would respond to people – especially people in dire circumstances –
even when he was incredibly sick and even dying.
But all of this – his way of
life, his ethics, his movement – all of this is tied to his relationship to the
Eucharist, or communion. For Francis,
communion is where you realize that God is present – it is where you meet
Jesus. It is what makes it possible, he
says, to follow in Jesus’ footsteps.
In part this was true because
when he took communion, the Jesus he met was the one who suffered. While we tend to shy away from the bloody
aspects of communion, for Francis, thinking about the blood and broken body of
Christ shaped his desire to connect to the suffering around him.
“This is my body broken for
you,” Jesus said…and we repeat every month.
We glide over that thinking it means Jesus died for our sins – and maybe
that’s part of it. But Francis
understood the broken body of Jesus, the blood of Jesus, as solidarity with all
who are broken in the world. Francis
believed that by going to the cross Jesus told the world, “I suffer in
solidarity with you.” And Francis sought
to do the same thing with his own life.
It is in the breaking of the
bread that the two disciples headed to Emmaus recognized Jesus. I don’t know exactly why Luke told this story
to the early followers of Jesus, but I can’t help wonder if it wasn’t about
telling them Jesus is present in the brokenness of life. These men were devastated by the events of
that week. They had given up much to
follow Jesus, and it ended in tragedy, not glory. The world hadn’t changed, the poor were still
devastatingly poor, and the Romans still ruled with an iron fist. This is where Jesus, where God, meets us –
meets the world. The brokenness.
The reminder of Jesus’ words –
my body broken for you – are a reminder of how our lives are forever connected to the God who chose suffering in
solidarity with all those who suffer; the God who chose crucifixion in
solidarity with all those who are crucified; the God who chose a life of
poverty in solidarity with all those who are poor.
When Francis took the
Eucharist, he felt the pain of Jesus, and so felt that same solidarity with
those who suffer. He recognized Jesus in
the brokenness. But the interesting
thing is that didn’t happen until after he left his life of wealth and went to
live with the lepers. In other words, communion
didn’t cause his conversion, or even his works.
Instead, I think the Eucharist was responsible for strengthening his
faith, which is what sustained him, matured his faith, expanded what he did,
and, I would suggest, made him so compelling to others. It was his time with those who suffered that
led him to communion, and communion that increased his desire to heal those who
suffer.
We can connect to God in many
ways, doing many things. But this
morning we have communion – which we have every month. I tried to do a quick calculation of how many
times I have probably taken communion…I’m going to guess around 600 times. It could be more, it could be less, but I
know it’s a lot. Many of you are in the
same boat. And, it didn’t cause a
conversion for me, which makes me wonder, what has communion done for my faith?
How has it affected what I do with my life?
Communion means different
things to all of us. For some it is
about community & belonging, for some about a personal encounter with
Jesus, for some it’s about connecting to God in ways that can’t be explained,
for some it’s about honoring God – reverence and praise, and more.
Our passage, and I think
Francis’s life, offer us an opportunity to reflect on what it means for us…not
necessarily in an abstract, academic way – though that’s appropriate too – but in
a heart way. How does this connect to my
faith? My life? My decisions?
Does it, as it did for Francis, help us walk in the footsteps of
Jesus?
This is my body broken for
you. I love you, God says, – in all your
you-ness. I meet you in your brokenness. I love the world – in all its
world-ness. In the taking of the bread –
the bread we break just as Jesus did with the disciples that day – we are
united with Christ…Christ is in us…we become broken in solidarity with the
world’s brokenness. And that impacts how
we live.
This focus on suffering might
seem to indicate a downer kind of life.
And Francis certainly had his spiritual sufferings…dark times when he
couldn’t console himself and could acutely feel the suffering of Jesus. In fact, by all accounts, he suffered
physically with protrusions on his hands and feet that looked like nail
heads. They were excruciating.
But, as makes sense given
people’s response to him, he was also a man of great joy and energy. He sang and danced spontaneously during
sermons (something I’m not likely to imitate).
He delighted in nature. He was
charismatic and kind.
At the very end of his life –
while he was in great pain – he wrote one of his most famous poems called
“Canticle of the Sun.” It’s a
celebration of creation – of what God has given us in creation. The sun shows God’s beautiful, radiant
light. The moon and stars are
precious. The wind and air give us
sustenance. Water is useful and
humble. Fire is cheerful, powerful and
strong. Mother Earth feeds us with
fruits, colored flowers and herbs. It’s
no wonder Pope John Paul II named St. Francis the patron saint of ecology.
Identifying with Jesus’
suffering, and by extension identifying with the world’s suffering, is not easy
– and it doesn’t necessarily lead to an easy life. But it is not exclusive of joy. That’s because compassion is the seed of
joy…it is a sign of hope that creation can be what God intends. When our hearts break for another, it is
because we know what is possible for them…for this world…and is not yet
accomplished. We have a vision of beauty
and wholeness and a desire to see that manifest.
When we take the bread and
juice today, may they be reminders for us of the God who dwells with all who
hurt. And as we take them into our
bodies, may we be compelled to do the same.
Amen.
