In Faith and Light, the international community of communities that Maria Cecília and I belong to, we often use the Post-Resurrection passage of the Road to Emmaus to help us to better “walk with” or “accompany” leaders. The Gospel of Luke (Luke 24:13-33) includes this story to address some concern in the community to whom this gospel was directed. Since we don’t have experience of that community, it’s difficult to know what they might have been struggling with.

It’s the first day of the week (Sunday), the day on which Jesus was raised from death. Two followers of Jesus are leaving Jerusalem, separating themselves from the other disciples, abandoning their community. They are probably returning to their home village of Emmaus – seven miles away. Perhaps they are a married couple, Cleopas and his wife? As they trudge along slowly, they talk, they discuss, trying to process what all had happened over the past week. To them, none of it makes sense.

Along comes Jesus, but their eyes are not able to recognize who this is. What blinds them? Certainly grief! They are so stricken that it’s nearly impossible for them to lift their eyes. Another layer that obscures their sight is disappointment, disillusionment, and quite likely, a sense of betrayal. They had left all to follow Jesus. Everything was exciting, full of promise – a whole new world was about to be born. Then Jesus was crucified. Their hopes were crushed. Life now hurts.

Jesus approaches them slowly, reverently, and asks, “What are you discussing and debating as you walk along?” They stop. Do they really want to tear open that wound again? They can’t help themselves. Cleopas responds with a bitter question, “Are you the only outsider in Jerusalem who doesn’t know what has taken place there these past few days?” Jesus replies, “What are you talking about?”

They both burst out with, “About Jesus from Nazareth, a prophet from God, who performed mighty deeds and spoke powerful words openly before all, and how our own religious leaders handed him over to the unbelievers to be condemned to death and crucified.” Here their tone of voice changes to discouragement (“But we had hoped that he was the one sent by God to redeem and restore Israel.”) and then to bewilderment (“Besides all this, now is the third day since these events. And some women from our community astounded us, having gone early this morning to the tomb where he had been buried, did not find his body. They came back with a tale of a vision of angels who said that he was alive. Others (men?) from our group went to the tomb and found it to be as the women had said, but did not see him.”)

At this point Jesus, having let them pour out their hearts, redirects their focus with a bit of light chiding, “Oh, how foolish you are, how slowly your faith moves! Think about it.” Here Jesus reminds them of a long prophetic tradition that the Messiah would undergo and pass through this kind of adversity before God’s definitive act of love could be manifested. Time passed so much more quickly with their new companion, and they arrive at their village. Jesus acts as if he is going on further down the road, but they urge him, “It’s late. Stay with us.” His words rekindled the flame in their hearts.

At their shared meal, Jesus took bread, blessed it, broke it, and handed it to them. In that familiar action, they finally recognize him. He disappears. Immediately they take to the road, even with evening coming on, and hurry the seven miles back to Jerusalem to their community, their hearts and spirits renewed, to announce that they had witnessed Jesus alive. It is here that they continued to break the bread and share from Scripture.

What did Jesus do? He gently approached the two, listened attentively while they emptied their hearts, and when they had room interiorly, he offered them a renewed and positive vision of what they were experiencing to replace the narrative they had been creating from their disappointment and pain. By reminding them of a true way to see and to interpret their experience, and by reliving a cherished ritual from their community, Jesus prepared them to rejoin their friends, restored and enlivened.

The Gospel of John has only seven signs – what the other three gospels name miracles. Much of the eleventh chapter (John 11:1-44) is taken up with the seventh, final, and greatest sign that Jesus performs, raising his friend, Lazarus, from death. At this point in John’s Gospel, Jesus has had increasingly hostile threats from the leadership of his people in Jerusalem (referred to as “the Jews”). It is clearly not safe for him to go near there. The leaders want to arrest him.

Lazarus is a mysterious character. He lives with his sisters, Martha and Mary, in Martha’s house. In Israelite society, it is the man of the family who owns property. A home would not be handed down to a daughter unless there was no male heir. In the Gospel, Lazarus doesn’t say a word. He is silent and dependent. It has been suggested that Lazarus was a person with intellectual disabilities – perhaps a joy to be with, but needing extra care and attention. 

But a message comes to Jesus from Bethany, which is about 2 miles from Jerusalem, that Lazarus, his dear friend, one he loves, is very ill. What is Jesus to do? He is very close to Martha, Mary and their brother Lazarus. He probably has spent much time with them when he has been in the area. Jesus loves them. Yet, if he chooses to go heal Lazarus, he would be walking into the open arms of those who would be happy to destroy him. Not easy! Jesus delays. Lazarus dies.

In the end, Jesus’ love for his friends prevails and he does go to Bethany. Both Martha and Mary, individually, when they learn that Jesus is coming near, rush out to meet him. The first thing they each say is, “Lord, if only you had been here, our brother would not have died.” This is a stinging complaint straight from the heart. Perhaps they don’t realize how dangerous Jesus’ situation is. Jesus, in his love for them, does not reply with explanation, anger or sarcasm. He understands their broken hearts. He asks, “Where have you put him?”

They lead Jesus to the tomb and he is overcome with grief. He weeps. Even the crowd that had come to sit in mourning with Martha and Mary are aware. “See how much he loved him!” they remark. Then Jesus asks the unthinkable, something completely mad, “Roll the stone away!” Martha, ever the practical one, replies, “Lord, he’s been dead four days. There will be a stench.” The popular belief was that after dying a person’s spirit remained near their body for up to three days. Lazarus is clearly dead and his spirit is gone.

Jesus reminds them that Abba-God cares, and if they trust in God’s loving goodness amazing and wonderful things can happen. They move the stone from the opening of the tomb. Jesus prays aloud a prayer of thanks then cries out, “Lazarus, come out!” At this point, Lazarus could choose to remain in the dark, quiet, peaceful, enclosed place of death, or he could choose to return to the uncertainty and risk of coming out to life both familiar and brand new. Is it the love in Jesus’ voice that draws Lazarus back into the adventure of life in our wonderful, unpredictable world? He will die again, but he knows that journey now, and it no longer holds the same fear.

Lazarus does come out, wrapped from head to foot in cloths permeated with the oils and spices of the recently dead. Jesus tells those around, “Unbind him. Let him go free.” Lazarus cannot free himself. It is the others who need to release him from the previous ideas, biases, and expectations that they have tied him up with so that he can be truly free to live this gift of life that has been so unexpectedly returned to him. Because he is loved, by Martha, Mary, and by Jesus, Lazarus can do this.

It’s Lent. This is a time to reflect on our life, our relationships, our choices, to see how well they align with what is truly good, loving, life-giving for ourselves and for those we interact with – directly and indirectly. The Church has long presented Lent as a type of retreat in preparation to live the High Holy Days of the Christian faith. 

The traditional disciplines associated with Lent – prayer, fasting, almsgiving – are borrowed from our Jewish ancestors. Prayer, as opening our deepest selves to God, and almsgiving, as sharing our resources with those who have greater need, are pretty straightforward. As long as we aren’t doing these actions to enhance our image, or to impress anyone!

Fasting is another matter. Originally, fasting among the Israelites was reserved for the time of mourning following the death of someone near and dear. Over the course of time, fasting became a way to publicly acknowledge that the people had done wrongs against God’s Law, and to demonstrate a desire to change. Even later, fasting was used to “prove” to God that people were sorrowful for wrongs that they had committed.

In the time of Jesus, the Pharisees had taken fasting in another direction. They made fasting a sign of personal devotion, an ascetical practice – a means to show God how serious they were about doing the right thing. Too often, fasting was used to impress others with one’s holiness in some visible way. Jesus warned his followers against any such public displays of religious practice. Personal prayer, fasting, almsgiving were between you and God. Their fruits would show in how you treated God’s gift of creation, your neighbor and your self.

Fasting, and any or all such disciplines, are never about making oneself holy. That’s impossible! We can’t make ourselves holy. Holiness is living as God desires us to live. There is no recipe to guarantee sanctity. What makes us pleasing to God, according to the holy ones, is how we use our gifts with others, for others. 

The prophet Isaiah (Isaiah 58:5-7) cries out against any type of fasting that is a self-inflicted display that results in pain, hunger, weakness, illness, but doesn’t open oneself: to act on behalf of the needs of others, to do the necessary work of building up, restoring, healing, reestablishing justice. We are to fast from anything and everything that closes us in on our own self-perfection project, from whatever shuts us off from the cries of our world. Such fasting empties us of ego, and frees us to work for God’s project.

The liturgical calendar, with the start of the season of Advent, has recently turned a page into a new year. Over the previous weeks the daily scripture readings took on a different character. There were passages from both the Hebrew and Christian Testaments filled with strange, dark imagery, heavenly beings or Jesus speaking of what is about to take place: terrible beasts and / or horrific destruction. These writings are known as apocalyptic literature.

The word Apocalypse is from two Greek words meaning to uncover or to reveal. This literature was developed and used among the Israelites between the second century BC and the second century AD. This was a particularly difficult period in the history of the people of Israel. They had been conquered, exiled, and passed from one pagan ruler to another. Most of these rulers were hostile to the people and faith of Israel. Apocalyptic literature grew out of the decline of the classic prophetic voices. It used highly graphic symbolism to speak a message of warning and of consolation.

While most apocalyptic writings spoke of the end of times and the culmination of the world as we know it, the symbols were tied to present people, trends and events. And these writings always delivered a message of hope. Whatever is happening now will not last, God will prevail.

Some people today are raising the alarm that we are now living in apocalyptic times, and there seem to be reasons for thinking that this is so. We have what Pope Francis named as World War III erupting in various places around the globe. Some nations continue to develop and stockpile horrendous weapons that are already capable of destroying our beloved planet multiple times over. Those that are still in the planning stage are unimaginable. 

Climate change is already inundating low-lying islands and devouring coastlines. Technology races ahead with little or no human restraints or guardrails. A politics of fear is turning large groups of people to mass hatred of the stranger. A very few individuals control and dominate the lives and wellbeing of vast numbers of people. But all of this does not add up to an apocalypse as the Bible envisioned it. There is the widespread misery and terrible destruction, but without hope.

Hope may seem elusive or ephemeral to those who live with their eyes open. Hope is never found in the concrete reality, but this reality may actually direct attention to the only source of hope – God. There are hope-filled signs around us. When good things happen, when anyone chooses to act out of kindness or compassion, when people live out what we see portrayed in those “feel-good” movies or books (and people do act in these wonderful, generous and caring ways), these serve as a compass pointing toward the true north – that is God. Look for hope this season, especially in the little, the surprising, and the unexpected.

We, human beings, seem to be wired to direct our lives toward an all-encompassing reality. We hunger and thirst for more. Nothing less than an ultimate concern that engages our totality will satisfy us, but there are plenty of sidetracks and shortcuts that we can follow and get lost in. We then settle for what is less than fulfilling, even though it may thoroughly distract us, and render the illusion of being the secret, essential element (or elements) that make us whole.

And, some people learn at a very early age that people around them are unreliable. After all, every one of us is broken, wounded, limited. So, they may try to substitute their own gifts and talents, instincts, intelligence or survival strategies in place of those they looked to for help, who have failed them in some way. This is like building on defective concrete. It looks like a strong foundation, but it’s only a matter of time before it cracks, crumbles, fails. Then there’s a choice: pretend that one’s life is solid, stable, thriving, or realize the truth and reach out to God – the only reliable basis on which to build a life. 

In the Gospel of Luke (Luke 16:9-13), Jesus warns against giving our lives over to anything other than God. This is easier said than done. God can seem distant, at times unresponsive. Being pure spirit, God isn’t as tangible as the concrete things that make up our world. We might cry out to God in times of need. All we may get in return is silence, or the echo of our own desperation. Where is God when we need God? may be a question that haunts us. Do we choose to stake our lives on Abba-God, Whom we can never comprehend, or on whatever “wealth” we’ve been given or attained?

The word in this passage that is translated as “money” or as “dishonest wealth” is mammon. The Jewish rabbis speak of mammon almost as if it acts as a false god in our life, an idol. Mammon encompasses all possessions that a person comes to rely on – whether these be things, money, property, status, skill, good looks, fame, education, charm, health, job/career, relationships, intelligence, organizational position, youth, religious activities/devotions… All these are very good in themselves, but become detrimental when they come between us and God. They take over God’s place in our life.

Unless the One Beyond All Else is at the center of what we are about, if we ever stop, listen, and look deeply into our life we will find only emptiness. Disillusionment and dissatisfaction is a terrible and necessary discovery! According to Jesus (Luke 16:13), we have a fundamental choice: “No one can serve two masters. It’s either Abba-God or mammon.” To which master are we attached? (The New Testament word is enslaved.) Would we rather serve a master that desires all and only what is truly good for us, or a master that will use us and dispose of us as soon as we no longer serve its purpose, or advance its agenda?