Easter 3 April 19, 2026 with The Rev. Javier Almendárez-Bautista

https://www.lectionarypage.net/YearA_RCL/Easter/AEaster3_RCL.html

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May the words of my mouth and the meditation of all our hearts be holy and pleasing in your sight, O Lord, O Rock and Redeemer. Amen. I do my best thinking on the move. Sometimes I get stuck on a problem, be it an important decision that needs to be made or a difficult conversation that needs to be had. Sometimes writer's block gets the best of me. I sit down at my desk and open up a Word document trying to come up with something to say on Sunday morning, but the words just won't come out. I blink at the blank laptop screen, the cursor blinks right back. Time passes and nothing happens. It's at this point in my writing process that I usually need to change things up. Some people call this the shower principle. Take some time away from the problem, and your eureka moment will arrive in due time, possibly while you're taking a shower, or while you're doing the dishes, or while you're doing any other kind of mundane repetitive task. For me, movement is required. A bit of what therapists call bilateral stimulation. I take a walk or I go for a jog. Sometimes, when it's too cold or too hot to do either, I get in the car and drive somewhere, anywhere. Traveling from point A to point B, inspiration finally hits. The kernel of truth I was after. The third option I had not thought of. The thing I must say, if I must say anything at all. I do my best thinking on the move. It helps me feel the things I need to feel and say the things I need to say. Today in our gospel, we meet Cleopas and his friend, disciples on the move, trying to make sense of the unthinkable and the unimaginable. It's a good thing they have a seven-mile hike to Emmaus to work it all out. In the first century world, walking was the primary means of transportation, so it's not as if they had much of an option. But these disciples are still reeling from the events that took them from Palm Sunday Hosannus to Good Friday fear and trepidation. They had lost their lord, rabbi, and friend. They had witnessed the violence of the Roman imperial machine in action. Just that morning they had received a strange report, an empty tomb, angelic visitors, but the evidence, as I mentioned on Easter Sunday, was what wasn't there: a body gone missing. Some suspected that the women at the tomb were probably delirious with grief. Nothing more than an idle tale. Cleopas and his friend seemed to be among the doubtful. They had placed their bets on a prophet like Moses, and they had found him lacking. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel, they say. But we had hoped. We had hoped. The past perfect tense, an action already completed before a previous event, a past with finality to it. We had hoped is a hope seen through the lens of a loss already present and accounted for. And into this scene, into the simple present tense of their dashed hopes and expectations, the resurrected Messiah manifests himself for the first time in the gospel of Luke. Not as their friend, mind you, but as a stranger on the road. And in this place in between, in between Jerusalem and Emmaus, in between their grief about the past and their hopes for the future, in between the world as it is and the world as it should be, Jesus entertains their doubts and their questions. You would think Jesus would try to be more helpful here. In this story, however, his decision to hide his identity almost comes across as cruel. Why the disguise, you might ask? Why hide the good news in plain sight? Why walk the long road to Emmaus incognito? We do not get answers to such questions, but we do see Jesus. A Messiah who walks with his disciples, who reveals truth in unexpected places, whose face is revealed in that of the foreigner and the stranger. Jesus seems perfectly content to walk with his disciples in the space in between. For seven miles they remain in the dark. Little do they know that they walk in the presence of the light. One of my New Testament professors back in the day proposed we approach scripture with two primary questions. What does this text tell me about the nature of God? And what does it tell me about what it means to be God's people? As I think about the latter question today, I would simply say this. To be God's people, to be a disciple of the resurrected Christ, means to make ourselves at home in the spaces in between. Those times and places where Christ's presence isn't entirely obvious. Despite our best efforts, we like to rush toward answers. We like to skip ahead toward the resolution. But that is precisely the disciples' mistake. They longed for a Christ made in their image, not to be molded into his. They wanted the one who would topple the world order their way, not his. They could not recognize a king whose throne was a cross and whose crown was made of thorns. They could not recognize a Messiah who walked alongside them in the clothes of a foreigner. We have the benefit of hindsight, but that is precisely our downfall. We can look at where the disciples went wrong, and so we miss the fact that we are also prone to make the same mistake. If you think you recognize Christ better than Cleopas, think again. If you've identified the prophetic word among us, take a closer look. To be a disciple means to get comfortable with walking in the dark. It means developing the humility, curiosity, and generosity of spirit necessary to know ourselves limited and valuable. The disciples were not prepared for the kind of savior they received. Is it possible that we might not be altogether prepared either? Is it possible that Christ has yet to teach you something about the nature of the one you follow? Something that could turn your whole world upside down. I cannot tell you the answer to that question. There is only one who can. And frustratingly enough, he is fond of revealing himself at the very last minute. The moment you might miss if you're not careful. The disciples knew the Lord Jesus in the breaking of the bread. Where Christ is revealed, there is communion. Where Christ is revealed, there is hope and new life. May we have eyes to see and ears to hear him who is our friend and not a stranger. And may we rush out the doors that very hours, ready to share the good news. Amen.