Breaking of the Bread

Breaking of the Bread

Luke 24:13-35

July 28, 2019 • Mount Pleasant UMC

I love bread. All kinds of bread. Rolls, biscuits, small loaves, big loaves, French, Italian, pita, Whole Wheat and good old white. When I was a kid, it was a rare occasion that we didn’t have bread with our meal. So these diets today where you can’t eat any bread—I put those in the category of “cruel and unusual punishment.” Did I mention that I love bread? There is nothing quite like the smell of fresh bread baking wafting through the air; my stomach kind of rumbles just thinking about it. I even enjoy making bread, and one year, early on in my ministry, I got this idea for a family activity. We had Wednesday family nights in that church during Lent, and I had this idea that families would make bread, we would bake it during the Bible study, and then we would use that bread for communion together at the end of the evening. Everything was going great. We were doing the study and you could smell the bread baking, just like I imagined. Then we went to the chapel and I began serving communion—except I hadn’t thought through the fact that the bread would still be hot. And crumbly. Not quite done. I’ll never forget Virgil Oxley coming up to receive communion, kneeling down as he took the piece of bread. Then he watched it fall apart as he dipped it in the chalice. He just knelt there, looking up at me, like, “What do I do now?” I have never tried that study again.

I love bread, and I love that bread is central to our faith as well. Bread as a Christian symbol goes back to the last night Jesus spent with his disciples, a story we recount every time we take communion. But there was another time bread took center stage, an evening meal right after the resurrection, and it’s a story only Luke tells. This morning, we’re wrapping up our series on Luke, a series that has focused on the least, the last and the lost, and we’re finishing on the road to a town called Emmaus. It’s Sunday evening. Jesus, as I’m certain you remember, had been arrested, tried and crucified in Jerusalem; that was Friday. Three days later, on Sunday morning, his tomb was found empty and, as Luke tells it, the women who first visited the empty tomb encountered angels who told them Jesus was risen (24:1-8). They hurry back to town where the men are sleeping in, but the men do not believe the women—which speaks to the authenticity of this account. In ancient literature, if you wanted people to believe a story you had made up, you didn’t have women as the first witnesses. Their testimony was not considered reliable; sorry, ladies, that was the culture. So the women are not believed, though Peter does go to the tomb where he is left “wondering what happened” (24:12). And that’s when the scene shifts in Luke’s gospel to two disciples who have left Jerusalem and are on their way, presumably home, to a village seven miles away (24:13) from Jerusalem called Emmaus.

We usually assume that both of these two disciples are men, but Luke doesn’t say that. Some have speculated this is a husband and wife who are going home. In John (19:25), we’re told that one of the women at the cross was a woman named “Mary the wife of Clopas,” and some scholars think Clopas and Cleopas may be the same person. So it's possible, though not 100% sure, that this is Cleopas and Mary returning to their home, and Luke says as they travel they are talking and discussing. The word there refers to an intense conversation, a debate (cf. Bock, IVP: Luke, pg. 383)—that sounds like a husband and wife conversation, doesn’t it? They are debating what happened, and remember, they have left before any confirmation of the resurrection has taken place. All they know is that Jesus was dead, and that a few women claimed he was alive, but it’s not a story they seem to believe. So they walk, and they discuss, and then they are joined by a stranger.

Luke tells us the stranger is Jesus, but Cleopas and his companion have no idea. He joins in the discussion and apparently there’s nothing in his voice or in his mannerisms or in his appearance that tips them off. In fact, he pretends not to know what is going on, so they tell him about all the events that have just taken place in Jerusalem. How could he not know? How could he have been there and missed it? As they tell the story, Cleopas utters some of the saddest words in all of Scripture: “But we had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel” (24:21). We had hoped. Can you hear the longing, the desire, and the despair in those words? We had hoped. Past tense. It’s over. Hope is gone. I mean, if Jesus really was going to redeem Israel, he should have been defeating the pagans, not dying at their hands (cf. Wright, Luke for Everyone, pg. 294). Oh, sure, there was this crazy story about him being raised, but everyone knows that’s not possible. Dead men don’t rise. We had hoped, but now we have no hope. Can you feel the despair, the hopelessness in those words? No wonder they have given up on Jerusalem and are returning home to Emmaus.

So Jesus, in his typical tactful manner, says, “How foolish you are, and how slow to believe” (24:25)! Then he leads them in a Bible study through the whole of what we know as the Old Testament, hoping them see how all of the Jewish Scriptures were pointing to him. Can you imagine being in such a study? I mean, Jesus is teaching them the Bible! Years ago, I read a book that had a profound impact on my life. It’s a small little book called Embracing the Love of God. Nine short chapters, but it was written in such a warm, winsome way that my heart was deeply moved. The author is James Bryan Smith, and when I learned he was a United Methodist pastor and that some of his spiritual heroes were the same as mine, I knew I had found a kindred spirit. So, last fall, I had the chance to travel to Wichita to hear him speak and meet him, and I jumped at the chance. It was an opportunity to learn directly from the author and I thoroughly enjoyed my time there. And yet, as great as that was, it’s nothing compared to having the Author of Life (cf. Acts 3:15) teach you the Scriptures. Jesus is teaching them the Bible. Why isn’t any of the content included here? Why was no one taking notes? “The greatest Bible lesson of all time, and yet we have not a single word!” (Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 263).

They didn’t take notes because they didn’t know it was Jesus. And yet, as they will admit later, as he speaks, their hearts are burning (24:32). That wasn’t last night’s falafel. There was something in them that knew that what he was saying was true. But still they don’t recognize him. So the study goes on until they get to Emmaus. The two are home but Jesus pretends again (cf. Bock 385). He acts like he is going on, until they insist that he stay with them. That’s so like Jesus; he always waits to be invited into our lives and will not force his way in. But it’s getting late and the ancient code of hospitality demands they offer him a place to stay so he accepts their offer and goes home with them. It’s around the table, then, that they recognize him. It’s not in the way he sits, in the conversation around the table, or even over his preference of meals. They recognize him when he breaks the bread. Luke says Jesus took bread, gave thanks and then offered it to them (24:30), and suddenly they see him for who he really is. Why then? Well, think about the last time bread showed up in the Gospel of Luke. It’s back in chapter 22, during what we know as the Last Supper, when Jesus does the same thing there that he does in Emmaus: he takes bread, gives thanks and breaks it, then gives it to them (22:19). Now, what happens in Emmaus is not what we know as communion, it’s an ordinary evening meal, but something in the way Jesus handles the bread reminds them of that moment, helps them see beyond the pretending to who is really in their home, at their table. In the midst of the ordinary, they see Jesus.

Jesus tends to show up in the midst of the ordinary, in what we could call the “breaking of the bread.” We are busy looking for the extraordinary, but Jesus shows up when we’re not looking for him in ways we don’t expect. I think about the story of Elijah the prophet from the Old Testament, and how he was on the run from a queen who wanted to kill him. He finally arrived, exhausted, at a cave where he could hide out, but he desperately wanted to know God was with him. So God tells him to go to the mouth of the cave and wait for him to show up. And while Elijah stands there, there is a powerful wind, then an earthquake, then a fire. And after each one of those cataclysmic and spectacular events, we’re told, “The Lord was not in that.” But after all of that, Elijah hears a “gentle whisper.” And that’s where Elijah finds God’s presence: in the ordinary, in the quiet whisper (cf. 1 Kings 19:9-13). In the midst of the ordinary we often find the divine.

Last Sunday afternoon, we have a fantastic celebration out at Helton Pond as 18 people were either baptized or renewed their baptismal vows. I have come to love that pond. When we gather there every year, that place becomes holy ground, though there’s nothing unique about it. There’s nothing magical in the water, no matter how much we joke about the baptisms “taking.” It’s ordinary water, ordinary sand, and the food we share, while good, is ordinary. Yet when we gather there, when we give that time to him and open our hearts to his presence, Jesus shows up in the midst of that ordinary water. Take a look at some of what happened last Sunday.

VIDEO: Baptisms 2019

I’ve experienced Jesus showing up in the midst of the ordinary several times these last few months. I’m thinking of our week of Vacation Bible School where we “powered up,” and on the night we talked about Jesus’ baptism, we were playing a game and doing some activities when one of the young men in the group, out of the blue, started asking me questions about baptism and what it meant to follow Jesus. We know of several kids that week who, in the midst of games and snacks and crafts, found Jesus showing up in their lives and some who made a commitment to him. I think of our various mission trips, and the ways the ordinary things they do in places like Detroit and Guatemala help others see Jesus. I think some people are afraid of going on a mission trip because you’re afraid you’ll have to stand on the street corner and preach about Jesus, or you’ll have to talk about your faith every moment of the trip. That’s not the case at all. The effectiveness of the mission trips is found when you allow Jesus to show up through ordinary things. When we were in St. Louis last year about this time, we played with the kids, we loved on them, we fixed a meal for the single moms, we went with the kids to the zoo, we pulled weeds and helped with community gardening. They’ve done similar things in Guatemala and in Detroit this year. And while none of those things are extraordinary, it’s the love with which those things are done that allows Jesus to show up—sometimes in unexpected ways. Because Jesus is known in ordinary things, like the breaking of the bread.

He’s seen in a family who steps up to the plate when asked and, on short notice, takes in a foster child. It’s a complete disruption to a family rhythm, but they do it because they can’t imagine not showing the love of Jesus to this young one. Jesus is seen when you visit with a shut-in or someone who is in the hospital. You do know that’s not just the job of the pastors, right? If we are truly a community of believers, caring for each other is everyone’s responsibility. Jesus shows up in the ordinary ways we “one another” each other. By that I mean when we follow the “one another” commands in the New Testament:

• Submit to one another (Ephesians 5:21)
• Bear with one another and forgive one another (Ephesians 4:2; Colossians 3:13—in fact, that verse says to forgive in the way the Lord forgave you)
• Encourage one another and build each other up (1 Thessalonians 5:11)
• Restore one another (Galatians 6:1)
• Accept one another (Romans 15:7—again, we’re to do this “as Christ accepted you”)
• Care for one another (Philippians 2:4)
• Carry one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2)

That’s a lot of “one anothering,” but I think you can sum all of those up with the words of Jesus: “Love each another as I have loved you” (John 15:12; cf. Stanley, Irresistible, pgs. 215-216). We love others, that’s our calling, and we don’t have to have extraordinary talents or abilities to do that. We love one another in ordinary, every day ways. Think for a moment about a marriage you know or knew of that lasted a long time—like 50 or 60 years. It’s not the big gestures that make the difference in such a relationship. It’s the daily, simple acts of care and love that allow them to go the distance. Love is seen best in the ordinary. The same thing is true with Jesus. He told us to “one another” each other; he told us that he shows up in the “one anothers.” He is seen in the ordinary, in the the breaking of the bread.

And this brings us back to what is, arguably, the main focus of Luke’s Gospel. As I’ve been saying, he wants us to see Jesus’ special concern for the least, the last and the lost. Cleopas and his companion are clearly lost in this story—not geographically, but spiritually. Remember: they had hoped. They had wondered. They had longed for Jesus to be the one. And in the ordinary moments of a walk along the road and of sharing a meal around a table, they find that Jesus is, in fact, the one who came to redeem not just Israel but all of humanity. To the least, the last and the lost, Jesus shows up in the ordinary—in the moments when we least expect him and very often when we’re not looking for him. So let me ask you: where does Jesus show up in your ordinary? Maybe the better question is: are you looking for him? Do you start each day with a prayer of holy expectancy, looking for Jesus to show up? When you get up in the morning, even if you’re not a morning person, you can pray something like, “Jesus, open my eyes and help me to see you working today.” Or you can sing a chorus like, “Open my eyes, Lord, I want to see Jesus.” It’s amazing that when you start looking, when you start anticipating, you begin to realize he is there more than you knew. Jesus is seen and known in the breaking of the bread.

As I said earlier, bread became a central symbol in the Christian faith very early on, not just because of this walk to Emmaus, but primarily because of a night just a few days before this. It was, in many ways, an ordinary night, another Passover celebration with Jesus. It was at least the third they had celebrated this holiday together, and for those men gathered around the table, it was a ritual they knew well. They didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary—that is, until Jesus flipped the script. Into a ritual that dated back to the beginning of their people, Jesus infused himself. The bread—his body. The wine—his blood. And suddenly, after that moment, every time they gathered around a table, every time there was bread and wine on the table (which in ancient times was every day), they would be reminded of and find the presence of Jesus. It’s important and good and right that we celebrate this act with what we call holy communion, and that we do that regularly, but beyond this act of worship, the bread and the cup were meant to remind us that Jesus shows up in the ordinary. Whenever you gather at a table with your family or with brothers and sisters in the faith, he is there. Whenever you break bread or walk along the road or engage in a spirited discussion, he is there. In our relationships, broken and whole, in our church, broken and whole, in our culture, broken and whole, in every moment of every day, Christ is present. He is known in the breaking of the bread. And with that assurance, with that promise in mind, let’s gather at his table to remember, celebrate and give thanks.