When I was in Divinity School in North Carolina, our program had developed a tradition around graduation. Just before the graduation ceremony, we would have a party to celebrate the new graduates. There was food, of course, but also some fun activities. The graduating third-year students would leave gifts to first- and second- year students who were following in their footsteps. And, the first- and second-year students would write a very silly play where all the characters were members of the graduating class. In my class, that was about 24 people. The more junior students would volunteer to act like the out-going students in the play.  

It was a successful play when the writers and actors managed to either capitalize on a well-known story involving a particular graduating student or when the actor managed to portray someone’s well-known mannerisms and/or clothing style. Katherine, the woman who portrayed me in the weeks before my graduation, captured some key behaviors of mine with such clarity that me and my classmates laughed out loud. I had longer hair than I wear right now and had a habit of running my fingers through it during particularly passionate theological debates. She did that the whole time she played “Chrissy” in the play. I also always carried little, tiny woven purses, purses that I couldn’t carry now when cell phones and notebooks and keychains full of church keys take up so much room. Katherine found a little woven purse just like mine. Also, during my third year, I kind of went on a knitting kick. I knitted all over Wake Forest’s campus. As she played “Chrissy,” Katherine held knitting needles and yarn. She may have even knitted a little bit. She was pretty committed.  

One of the main reasons we did this play was to demonstrate that we paid close enough attention to one another that we knew how each other moved, what each other wore, and what one another was passionate about. You might have heard something about imitation being a kind of flattery. We were using imitation to indicate intimacy. We could playfully pretend to be one another because we knew each other and cared about each other. When Katherine knitted and raked her hand through her hair, I saw something I recognized. And, it brought me joy.  

A couple weeks ago, Tasha and I watched the new film version of Little Women. One of the things I liked best about the movie is the riot of movement and sound that the four March sisters are when they are together. There’s this one scene when they travel to a neighbor’s house, meeting him and his grandson and another young man for the first time. The sisters all talk the whole time. They talk over each other and through each other and gain energy from one another as they engaged with this kind man and bewildered boys. As the sisters leave in a tornado of good will, one of the boys, the one who had tried to keep up with the conversation and had utterly failed, looked like he had just run a 5K. He was wore out, and all he was doing was trying to talk. Tasha looked at the sisters and looked the blown-over boy and said “That’s what you and your mom and sisters are like when you all get going.” And, she is right. It was exactly like me, my mom, and the two sisters that I grew up when we really get on a tear. We are a force of nature. I finished that movie imagining that the director Greta Gerwig might have had sisters like that, too. Because, she created a family that I recognize, even if it’s not exactly like my own. Again, the surprise of recognition brought me joy.  

As I’ve listened to people talk about what is hard about the traumatic events in their lives, what is most frustrating is the ways that the trauma disrupts what is familiar and comfortable in their lives. I mean, let’s think about our own experiences with the stay-at-home policies that we are living in right now. Even as we know that we need to practice social distancing, we are still missing both the normal and celebratory stuff we used to do every day. For example,  I follow a COVID-19 mutual aid group on Facebook and a significant portion of the requests are from parents who are trying to make their kids’ birthdays feel as normal as possible. They ask other parents for ideas, and strangers offer to send cards and toys, anything that feels normal, recognizable as a birthday. Anything to bring a bit of joy. 

In our scripture today, two of the disciples, traumatized by watching their friend be killed by the government, have already realized that nothing will feel normal for a while. They were walking from Jerusalem to Emmaus, and talking about all the things that had happened in the last couple days. At this point, they had heard the story of the Resurrection from the first women preachers and from Peter, who had gone to check the tomb himself, but they hadn’t seen Jesus yet. They had a sense that something amazing had happened but were still so unsure.  

I often wonder how distracted they had to be not to notice that the man who joined them on the walk was Jesus. And, then I remember that grief makes things harder than they would usually be, and I cut them some slack.  Jesus asked them what had happened and, bewildered that the man who was walking with them hadn’t heard, began to explain about the life, teachings, and death of the prophet Jesus of Nazareth. And, they even went on to tell him about the Resurrection sermon they had heard but weren’t sure if they believed.  

The stranger was surprised, and possibly annoyed, that were so slow of heart. Then, he began to interpret the law for them, teaching them, again, what the Messiah meant. This is another place where I often don’t understand why they didn’t recognize him. He was teaching them all the time. Surely, they would hear these familiar lessons repeated and realize that their teacher was with them. But, this is not where they felt a jolt of recognition. Not yet. 

They got to Emmaus and the stranger was going to go on ahead of them, but the two disciples stopped him. They had learned at least one important thing from Jesus. You always offer someone a safe place to stay. They invited him to stay. And, he did. They sat down to dinner and the stranger Jesus did something you might recognize. He took the bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them. And, in that moment, they knew. In that moment of compassion and care and grace, they knew who he was. It says, “Their eyes were opened, and they recognized him.” And, then, he vanished. They said, “were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road.” So maybe they were recognizing him, but just weren’t ready for it yet.

They ran the seven miles back to Jerusalem and told the rest of the disciples what they had experienced. What a new and strange joy that must have been.   You’ve probably got your own seven mile walk to Emmaus and your own trauma that may have affected how you can see new life that has joined you along the way. I know I do. I can struggle with how to recognize the Risen Christ in the midst of all this death and disruption. But, this story is here to remind us that in acts of grace and hospitality, in blessing and sharing, we will come to see Jesus sitting with us. He’s been here all along.  

​I’ve got one more story to tell you. Andrew Cuomo, the governor of New York, shared it on Friday. A retired farmer named Dennis had sent him a letter, all the way from Kansas, where Dennis and his wife live. In the letter, Dennis shared that he knows the Governor is busy and that we are in the midst of a national crisis. He doesn’t seem offended that Cuomo may not have time to individually read every letter. Dennis just appreciates the work he has been doing. Dennis also shared that he is in the age demographic particularly affected by COVID-19 and his wife has respiratory problems. He tells the truth. He’s afraid for her. Importantly, though, he is not letting his fear stop him from being a good neighbor.   The final portion of his letter reads, “Enclosed find a solitary N-95 mask left over from my farming days. It has never been used. If you could, would you please give this mask to a nurse or doctor in your city.” Dennis has kept four masks for his immediate family but had one left and knew someone else, particularly some in a state as hard hit as New York, could use it. So, he sent it on. Grace and hospitality in the face of fear. Blessing and sharing with strangers. I recognize this story. It looks like Jesus to me. Things may not be normal. But the presence of Christ is still familiar. I hope, this week, you feel a joyful recognition of Christ in your midst, whether you are in Emmaus or Kansas or right here in Maine.  ​