The depth of the Story
5 May 2014 | 3 Easter
Luke 24:13-35 | The Road to Emmaus
One of the great fantasy writers of the 20th Century was a man named Ray Bradbury. Bradbury wrote science fiction. He just died two years ago. He was a prolific writer — Perhaps you have heard of some of his books: The Martian Chronicles, Dandelion Wine, Farenheit 451.
Bradbury was a great writer of fantasy – but fantasy, as many people know, can often tell more truth than supposedly realistic writing. Fantasy provides parables for reality. Bradbury was not only a writer of fantasy – he was a teacher of fantasy writing. The art of fantasy, he said, lay in the introduction. You take people step by step into the different country so that they are present in it, and able to think in it.
Lewis Carroll’s great fantasy Alice in Wonderland begins with a white rabbit. Alice follows it down a rabbit hole, and there discovers the different country.
The great theological writer of the last century, C. S. Lewis, wrote a children’s book called The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, by C. S. Lewis. The story begins with four children, — Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy, — visiting a Professor in a large old country house:
“It was the sort of house,” Lewis wrote, “that you never seem to come to the end of, and it was full of unexpected places.” The children searched through a number of rooms, and then “they looked into a room that was quite empty except for one big wardrobe; the sort that has a looking glass in the door. …Lucy thought it would be worth while trying the door of the wardrobe, even though she felt almost sure that it would be locked. To her surprise, it opened quite easily, and two moth-balls dropped out. Looking into the inside, she waw several coats hanging jup – mostly long fur coats. There was nothing Lucy liked so much as the smell and feel of fur. She immediately stepped into the wardrobe and got in among the coats and rubbed her face against them, leaving the door open, of course, because she knew that it is very foolish to shut oneself into any wardrobe. Soon she went further in and found that there was a second row of coats hanging up behind the first one. It was almost quite dark in there and she kept her arms stretched out in front of her so as not to bump her face into the bak of the wardrobe. She took a step further in – then two or three steps – always expecting to feel woodwork against the tips of her fingers. But she could not feel it.
…next moment she found what was rubbing against her face and hands was no longer soft fur but something hard and rough and eveen rickly. “Why, it is just like branches of trees!” exclaimed Lucy. And then she saw that there was a light ahead of her; …Something cold and soft was falling on her. A moment later she found that she was standing in the middle of a wood at night-time with snow under her feet and snowflakes falling through the air.. …
In about ten minutes she reached the light and found that it was a lamp-post. As she stood looking at it, wondering why there was a lamp-post in the middle of a wood and wondering what to do next, she heard a pitter patter of feet coming toward her. And soon after that a very strange person stepped out from among the trees into the light of the lamp-post.
He was only a little talker than Lucy herself and he carried over his head an umbrella, white with snow. From the waist upwards he was like a man, but his legs were shaped like a goat’s (the hair on them was glossy black) and instead of feet he had a goat’s hoofs. He also had a tail. …He had a strange, but pleasant little face with a short pointed beard and curly hair, and out of the hair there stuck two horns. …He was a Faun.
Did you get into the story? Did you move into and through the closet, through the coats with Lucy? Did you find yourself in the snow, looking at the light?
Did you hear the pitter patter of feet, see the goat’s hoofs, and discover the Faun?
This wonderful story of the Road to Emmaus that we read tonight is this kind of story. The disciples are walking on a road and a stranger joins them. They walk further, and talk about what has been happening in Jerusalem. Can you hear it? Can you feel it? Did you move along the road with Cleopas and his friend? Did you listen to the exegesis of the scriptures? Did you find yourself in a dark tavern in the village, sitting down to supper? Did you see the breaking of the bread, and feel the presence of Jesus?
These are ancient stories, ancient methods, deep beyond words – ways of telling and of seeing that were better known to our ancestors than they are to us. Our ancestors knew that life and reality were multi-layered, that there was mystery, there was depth, and that it could not be known simply on the surface.
No story in Scripture tells of this reality better than the story of the Road to Emmaus. No story gives a better clue to the presence of the resurrected Christ here with us tonight than this story. In the process of meeting the Lord, there is
- A vague sense of a deeper presence.
- An awareness that the critical evidence is not immediately apparent.
- Moving imperceptibly into a deeper and simpler perception.
- Knowing in the breaking of the bread, and disappearing.
1. There is a vague sense of a deeper presence.
Something drew the three together as they walked along the road. They were chatting, talking, walking – but the conversation became absorbing. They had begun as strangers, but they were attracted to each other and it somehow seemed important.
That is the way it is when the spirit is present in conversation. It’s not that the conversation has to be about God, or about the Holy Spirit, or about theology. But the conversation seems somehow true, and essential, and important. You are drawn together, and you listen more carefully.
It may be conversation. It may be a deliberate time of prayer. It may even be a personal time, when you are affected by the spirit. But there is, in normal life, in normal time, a vague sense of a deeper presence – and it is a meaningful presence, a true presence, a benign presence.
2. There is an awareness that the critical evidence is not immediately apparent.
One of the most fascinating aspects of this story is that the stranger exegeted the Scriptures to the men and pointed out things they may not have put together. He gave his explanation of the things he noticed in scripture that they had not fully noticed.
The scriptures were not clear to everybody. They might not have the same meaning, the same conclusions, for everyone. Here, in this man’s exegesis, was a meaning which described Jesus’ trajectory and his conflict and his death – one which became clear in retrospect in a way it was not clear beforehand.
So it is that meaning strikes us. Things acquire sense afterward. I am not saying that things “make sense” afterward – because I’m not sure things necessarily “make sense” in the way we use that term. But things acquire sense afterward. They echo scripture, or music, or poetry. They have place and sense.
And we know, we are aware, that the critical evidence was before us but we had not seen it – that despite our knowledge it was not immediately apparent.
3. We are moving imperceptibly into a deeper and simpler perception.
As the disciples and the stranger walked along the road, and as the day moved further into the vesper light, they moved gradually, imperceptibly, into a perception of reality that was both simpler and deeper.
This issue of depth is so important, and so strange to our world. For our world is lived on the surface. In fact, the whole concept of depth is under major attack in our society. The computer is an agent of the surface. Depth is understood as more detailed data. Somehow, the secrets of the universe can be discovered with more and more detailed surface data. The education of our children is reduced to more and more computerized tests. No music. No poetry. No pacing. No meaning. No questioning. No waiting for answers. No silence. No depth.
“Listen!,” Jesus says: “A sower went out to sow. And as he sowed, some seed fell on the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Other seed fell on rocky ground, where it did not have much soil, and it sprang up quickly, since it had no depth of soil. And when the sun rose, it was scorched; and since it had no root, it withered away. Other seed fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked it, and it yielded no grain. Other seed fell into good soil and brought forth grain, growing up and increasing and yielding thirty and sixty and a hundredfold.” And he said, “Let anyone with ears to hear listen!”
Meaning is not about quantity, but about quality. It is not about the surface. It is about depth. But when it is found, it grows like a beautiful plant, like a pearl of great price. To a lot of people this is just nonsense, Jesus says, but “To you has been given the secret of the kingdom of God, but for those outside, everything comes in parables; in order that ‘they may indeed look, but not perceive, and may indeed listen, but not understand; so that they may not turn again and be forgiven.’”
We are moving imperceptibly into a deeper and simpler perception.
4. And finally, there is knowing in the breaking of the bread, and disappearing.
The stranger took the bread that was on the table that evening. Someone had to take it. Someone had to break it. He did. And at that their eyes – the eyes of their hearts? – were opened. They recognized him; — and he vanished from their sight.
All that was left was the memory, their burning hearts, their recovery, their joy.
We have been breaking this bread ever since. We do it in remembrance of him, as he told us to the last night before he was executed. Tonight, at the end of these few minutes of praying, singing, and talking together, — at the end of this journey – we will do it again.
He is known to us in the breaking of the bread. Our eyes will be opened. And before we know it, he will vanish from our sight.
AMEN.
The Rev. B. P. Campbell
Richmond Hill
