N
ncjohn
Guest
As I was listening this morning to the familiar gospel story of the disciples on the road to Emmaus, I had something of an “aha!” moment. My own experiences won’t translate for many, but I do know far too many for whom they will.
The disciples were heading home to Emmaus from the Holy City for a couple reasons. One of those reasons was a fear that as disciples of Jesus they might meet the same or a similar fate. But perhaps the bigger reason was that they were in deep despair. The man they had trusted themselves to turn their lives over to, in expectation that he was to be the one to return Israel to its glory, had been brutally killed. The Jesus they had loved, respected, and believed in, had failed to come through and was now gone. On top of the hopelessness this would have engendered, it quite likely would have produced a great level of personal humiliation, believing they been duped.
In my growing up years, especially in Catholic school in the 50’s, I learned about Jesus as we prepared for first communion. Like most of us I was told about the specialness of Jesus coming to live in me. Over time though, those representing the Church and purporting to speak for God, made God into a more and more toxic being: the mother of all cops, just waiting to catch us in sin and send us to hell. And those “pillars of the Church” turned out to be the ultimate hypocrites in many–maybe most–cases, coming nowhere near living the lives they were trying to lay on me.
When the opportunity came, I bolted, taking my own road back to Emmaus. The Jesus I had been told about early on had been brutally butchered by the very Church who claimed him as their founder, just as he had been crucified at the hands of the pillars of the religion he had been born into. The Jesus I had believed had come to save me, I was then informed, was really standing around the corner waiting to mug me. I too felt duped and in despair, and ran, partly in this humiliation and partly in fear of those religious leaders who were so ready to send me to hell themselves.
My own story has a happy ending though. Many years down this road, I met Jesus along the road again. I didn’t recognize him at first, as he was wearing the face of people I knew, some of whom would ultimately end up as my Franciscan brothers and sisters. But as I travelled with them, still in despair, they began to tell me that Jesus had indeed been raised and they had seen him. Their lives reflected the kind of joy I had felt back as a seven year old, and they saw the God I had been told about then who wanted to live in me and bring me to heaven. As they told me about the ways they had seen him, and the miracles he had performed in their own lives, my heart too began to burn as I came to recognize him in breaking bread with them.
But while my story has a happy ending, I know far too many whose story hasn’t come to such peace. People who experienced that same horror of watching their God torn to pieces and transformed into some monster. People hounded by those who felt they had the toll gate that one had to pass through to get on the road to heaven. People so scarred by these experiences that even the sight of a priest could bring on nausea or hysteria.
I do my best now to try, as others did for me, to bring that gentle face of God to those wounded sheep so scattered by bad shepherds. To reflect the peace that has come into my life in knowing that I am infinitely loved, even in my unworthiness. In fact, made worthy because the One who truly knows me declares me to be worthy!
Some have been too badly scarred, and it will likely take seeing the face of the God who knows them to finally be able to trust Him, much as Thomas had to put his hand in the wounds before he would believe. But perhaps some will see the kind of peace and joy that I found as he walked that road with me. Perhaps some will feel their own hearts burning, and run to tell others that he is indeed risen and with us.
Perhaps some of you will be that face that finally helps them see.
The disciples were heading home to Emmaus from the Holy City for a couple reasons. One of those reasons was a fear that as disciples of Jesus they might meet the same or a similar fate. But perhaps the bigger reason was that they were in deep despair. The man they had trusted themselves to turn their lives over to, in expectation that he was to be the one to return Israel to its glory, had been brutally killed. The Jesus they had loved, respected, and believed in, had failed to come through and was now gone. On top of the hopelessness this would have engendered, it quite likely would have produced a great level of personal humiliation, believing they been duped.
In my growing up years, especially in Catholic school in the 50’s, I learned about Jesus as we prepared for first communion. Like most of us I was told about the specialness of Jesus coming to live in me. Over time though, those representing the Church and purporting to speak for God, made God into a more and more toxic being: the mother of all cops, just waiting to catch us in sin and send us to hell. And those “pillars of the Church” turned out to be the ultimate hypocrites in many–maybe most–cases, coming nowhere near living the lives they were trying to lay on me.
When the opportunity came, I bolted, taking my own road back to Emmaus. The Jesus I had been told about early on had been brutally butchered by the very Church who claimed him as their founder, just as he had been crucified at the hands of the pillars of the religion he had been born into. The Jesus I had believed had come to save me, I was then informed, was really standing around the corner waiting to mug me. I too felt duped and in despair, and ran, partly in this humiliation and partly in fear of those religious leaders who were so ready to send me to hell themselves.
My own story has a happy ending though. Many years down this road, I met Jesus along the road again. I didn’t recognize him at first, as he was wearing the face of people I knew, some of whom would ultimately end up as my Franciscan brothers and sisters. But as I travelled with them, still in despair, they began to tell me that Jesus had indeed been raised and they had seen him. Their lives reflected the kind of joy I had felt back as a seven year old, and they saw the God I had been told about then who wanted to live in me and bring me to heaven. As they told me about the ways they had seen him, and the miracles he had performed in their own lives, my heart too began to burn as I came to recognize him in breaking bread with them.
But while my story has a happy ending, I know far too many whose story hasn’t come to such peace. People who experienced that same horror of watching their God torn to pieces and transformed into some monster. People hounded by those who felt they had the toll gate that one had to pass through to get on the road to heaven. People so scarred by these experiences that even the sight of a priest could bring on nausea or hysteria.
I do my best now to try, as others did for me, to bring that gentle face of God to those wounded sheep so scattered by bad shepherds. To reflect the peace that has come into my life in knowing that I am infinitely loved, even in my unworthiness. In fact, made worthy because the One who truly knows me declares me to be worthy!
Some have been too badly scarred, and it will likely take seeing the face of the God who knows them to finally be able to trust Him, much as Thomas had to put his hand in the wounds before he would believe. But perhaps some will see the kind of peace and joy that I found as he walked that road with me. Perhaps some will feel their own hearts burning, and run to tell others that he is indeed risen and with us.
Perhaps some of you will be that face that finally helps them see.
