"On the Road to Emmaus"

On Easter Sunday, I love to read e.e. cummings’ ode to new life.

I thank you God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(I who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any – lifted from the no
of all nothing – human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

e.e. cummings

This poem so richly captures my joy in the beauty of Spring, and the hope that never dies. It expresses my deep gratitude for one more year of life. When I read it, I pause and for just those few moments, I awaken my eyes and open my ears to that which is around me and beyond me. I acknowledge all I experience through my senses and all of life which is not knowable through my senses. I have not seen any green spirits leaping from trees that I can capture with my digital camera. I cannot bring you the blue true dream of sky in a tote bag. I cannot argue that it is the birthday of the sun, when it makes no sense to me. The sun is always in the sky. It does not need to be reborn. It ever shines even in the dark of night.

When I read this poem, I do not hesitate to interpret it. I do not hesitate to tell you what the words mean to me. We accept the poetry of e.e. cummings as literature full of fantastic imagery and metaphor.

The stories in the Christian scriptures are no less literature. They are fantastic stories, which we interpret for our own meaning. We turn to scholars to help us with that interpretation. The Christian scripture is one of the six sources of our living tradition. We affirm the wisdom in this world religion. I do not cede the Christian scriptures to the fundamentalists who interpret literally. I prefer to interpret literately. I do not hesitate to interpret the story about what happened on the road to Emmaus as a human story full of wisdom and insight for all time. The resurrection of Jesus is not a resuscitation.

The Easter story is a quintessential human story. The story reflects the truth of the natural world that life appears to wither and die and yet it does not remain dead; it comes back to new life and then the very fullness of life. Let us look at what the story tells us about life.

The writer of the gospel of Luke tells us a very puzzling story. We hear about two followers of Jesus who are walking to their home town of Emmaus. They meet a stranger who joins them and the three get to talking about the news headlines of the day. The two men are afraid, confused, and mistrustful of everyone, even the women of their group who usually know what they are talking about.

These two do not recognize Jesus. He is a stranger to them. We don’t know why they can’t see and can’t hear what is right in front of them. Moreover, Jesus tells them who he is by quoting the words of the scriptures they usually trust. We have to wonder – how stupid are these fellows? We know from the other stories in the Christian scriptures that the disciples are dullards and cowering fellas, generally, “bozos.” Either they are denser than ever before OR Jesus does not look like the same person they know.

This is what I take from the story. Jesus simply was present to the disciples in a different way than they had known through their human senses of hearing and seeing and even the intellectual capacity of the human mind.

The eyes of the disciples are opened when bread is shared at the common table. This is a key moment. People who would hear the disciples tell this story over and over would get the main point. They would understand that the message is about the strength of their small community of followers. The symbol of their burgeoning community was the sharing of bread. The breaking of bread symbolized their communal life, their care for the poor, the widow, the orphaned who were outcasts in other places. These small groups were transformed by love and they understood that they nurtured one another. Their love was an embodied love. That’s why they told the story that they saw Jesus’ body so those who had ears to hear and eyes to see the truth they spoke could become awakened to a better life. The community became the body of Jesus when they lived his teachings.

The Easter story is a story of survival – how one small band of people told others over and over that life is stronger than death and that love transforms and remains an active force in the world, even in our darkest times. The Easter story is more than survival. It tells us how we can thrive. We thrive when we remain hopeful and trust in the power of love.

The Easter story has lasted for over 2000 years because it is a human story that reflects the deep truths of our lives. Jesus lives on as one of humankind’s Master teachers. He embodies the human predicament. We all face death. We are afraid. YET we face death down – some of us daily. Some of us face death, figuratively, when we despair, when we lose hope, when we try to kill the pain through drugs or alcohol. We face the powers that deny the good in life. The Easter story inspires courage and hope for our transformation into better human beings, more fully peacemakers and healers; lovers of both the powerful and the outcast; and seekers of truth and justice. The truth is the Easter story of life, death, and transformation to new life is our human story.
Just a few years ago, I met a man as I was on the road to seminary. During that time, I taught at Bloomington Jefferson High School to earn my tuition money. I was a stranger, as are all adults, strangers, to teenagers who are a culture unto themselves. Along the way, I met a man who has become a kind of master teacher for me. He touched my life and I want to tell you about him.

Jon Kuklish was the assistant principal, a single man in mid-life, a beloved school counselor, who became ill and was diagnosed with terminal cancer of the esophagus. At the same time he accepted dying, he chose to suffer through chemotherapy and radiation so he could continue his commitment to teach in his beloved community.

After the first round of chemotherapy, Jon had the energy to return to work but he was afraid to come back to school because he looked so different from how he used to look. His body had shrunk from the chemo. His face was gaunt. And he had lost all of his hair. For people with cancer, hair loss becomes that visible symbol of their illness and an isolating factor in an already isolating disease.

Though he was afraid, he did return to school. He put on a cap to cover his baldhead. He drove his car into the parking lot, got out, and walked toward the entrance. When he approached the front door, he was met by the entire marching band performing the school fight song. He looked around and noticed that students and staff had gathered, too. Each and every one was wearing a cap or bandana.

Jon later said: “It was a life changing moment. When I came back and the band was playing and so many people were wearing something on their heads, there was a feeling of understanding, of accepting me exactly the way I am.”

It was an extraordinary celebration, but what made it extraordinary was neither the fight song nor the throng of hats. The band greeting only lasted a few minutes. What lasted during the time Jon was dying and after his death was the love of the community in that moment of time. They did more than accept him. They embraced him and loved him.

I must admit that when I saw Jon in the school halls I had trouble keeping my eyes off his ragged red knit beanie cap. He was, after all, six feet four inches tall. I saw how strange he did look to an outsider and I acknowledged the extra effort it took to turn discomfort into acceptance and to offer connection to another person even in pain. He had his followers though, disciple students, who continued to wear caps in school even though it was against the written rules. They continued to nurture a relationship with a man who was dying.

The most astounding thing about this story is that Jon became a different person. Surely, he looked different, but what you don’t know is that he acted differently. Before our eyes, he transformed - from a very private person to one whose life and heart opened to others.

He changed. HE CHANGED. He took the extraordinary step of writing to students, staff, and friends about his illness, about what he was feeling and thinking about the tests, the chemo, the dying, and the living with cancer. Friends of Jon said his actions were so surprising because Jon’s personality was to keep his private life private. He was not normally self-disclosing. Jon said: “Maybe what has happened to me will help young people to understand the whole concept of death and dying. That’s part of the mission of learning and being in school.”

He is dead now, in body. But he is not dead to me. He leaves a legacy. He lives on in people’s stories and in those texts of his letters. He faced death, suffered, died, and now he lives on in those whose lives he deeply touched. His love remains.

Jon’s story is the Easter story. We live the Easter story, too, when we gather the courage to believe that love remains after death, that love is stronger than death. We know that love endures beyond the grave. We believe that life goes on even in the face of death, of horrifying human evil, and the destructive forces of nature. We know that when we are afraid, that somehow we summon the courage and the fortitude to proclaim – life is stronger. We rest assured by the truth that at any moment in our lives we may become awakened to the possibility of transformation and new life.

May we rise again and again to the beckoning spirit of life, which invites us to transformation.
May love guide us.
May faith sustain us.
And may hope abide within us.
May we awaken to the Easter season, which bids us to open to the cycle of death, birth, and rebirth into new life.