Easter
3; Yr. A, May 4, 2014
Acts 2:14a, 36-41; Psalm 116:1-3,
10-17; 1 Peter 1:17-23; Luke 24:13-35
Sermon
preached at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church
What
is it about the breaking of the bread that has the power to reveal Christ in
our midst? I mean, it’s a piece of
bread, blessed and broken, handed out to each person who comes to the
altar. It’s bread, made of grain and
water. It’s fresh from the earth and
formed by our human hands, but we say that in it we experience Christ.
My
family is Roman Catholic, and my father’s funeral was held in the Roman
Catholic Church where I grew up. My
family sat together in the first few pews.
It was a fine service, and the priest did a nice job with the homily,
but after the consecration as we were preparing to go up for communion, the
priest stood behind the altar and invited all practicing Roman Catholics to receive
the bread and wine. He explained that
the sacrament of communion, the bread and the wine, were more than the Body of
Christ, receiving it was also a sign of the Roman Catholic Church’s solidarity. Those who couldn’t come forward were asked to
pray with him for the day when all of us would be able to come forward and share
communion together.
Nancy
leaned over and asked if I was going to receive communion. I said, no.
I am an Episcopal priest, a leader in my own faith tradition, I felt it
was important for me to respect the traditions of my Christian brothers and
sisters in the Roman Church. So I picked
up the hymnal and began singing the communion hymn, satisfied with my choice. As my brothers and sisters began returning to
the pew, I felt a profound sadness and found myself dissolving into
uncontrollable sobs. I wanted to share communion with my family, to join in
that mystery of Christ’s presence with them and with all the faithful who have
gone before us … especially at my father’s funeral. I wanted to experience the love and compassion
of Christ that I experience here with all of you, every Sunday with my family
and friends who were grieving my father’s loss.
That kind of exclusion doesn’t reflect the love of Christ I feel when I
come to this table.
Yet,
our tradition isn’t much better than the Roman Catholic’s as far as the “rules”
go. Our prayer book says that all
baptized Christians are welcome at the table.
In principle, anyone who has never been baptized shouldn’t receive
communion, and there are many Episcopal churches that follow that rubric. In seminary, we always had lively discussions
about things like that. What will you do
when you’re ordained, we’d ask one another.
Will you practice an open table at your church? In some ways it really was an academic
discussion, because when the rubber hits the road, love and faith always wins in
my book. When we’re talking about people
and the power of God that’s beyond our understanding, who are we to get in the
way?
Who
should be allowed to receive communion?
What a silly question … really.
How could we enforce any kind of restriction? Would we even want to? Should I question everyone I don’t know at
the altar rail? Should we ask everyone
as they enter the church doors whether they’ve been baptized? Should we start pinning ribbons on people who
are not welcome at the table? It’d be like
carding everyone at the altar rail. I’m
forced to question our motives. What are
we afraid of? Is the sacrament that
fragile, or are we that afraid of its power?
Is that power only for a few? Wouldn’t
it be just amazing if the Body and the Blood worked miracles in the heart of
someone not baptized?
The
reality is, we don’t know what happens in communion. We don’t have any idea how God works in that
bread and wine. We just believe God
does. What do we know about what’s going
on in someone else’s heart and mind, even if they are baptized? We have no idea what prompts a person to come
forward one week, and not another. We
have no idea what is provoking or preventing them on the inside, but God does.
So,
we give thanks. The bread and
wine are blessed. The bread is broken, just as Jesus’ body was broken. We give
it out to all who come. When someone puts
their hands out, I place the bread in her hand, and the cup is raised to her
lips … and that person joins us in the experience of Christ we share. Are they one of us? I have no idea. But I do know that they are one WITH us in
that moment, and that’s what matters. That’s
what communion is about. We become one Body
in Christ, because we take Christ’s Body into ourselves. We bring our own brokenness,
and we are stand together in one Body. We
are made whole.
That’s
what I think Cleopas and his friend experienced on the road. They didn’t realize that that’s what the
experience of the risen Christ was like.
They were grieving. They were living
the reality of betrayal, death and despair, while Jesus was living the reality
of forgiveness, resurrection and hope.
They were telling and retelling the story to make some sense of it. Trying to make meaning out of all that had
happened, Jesus’ passion and death, and his missing body and the vision of
angels. The women brought astounding
news that morning, and when some of the men had gone to check the tomb, it was
indeed empty. What was going on? The time had come for onlookers to return to
their homes, and for disciples to hide in the upper room. Strange things were happening. They had no way of knowing what kind of power
was coming into their lives. The power
to bring people together in love.
But
then the risen Jesus caught up to two men walking on the road to Emmaus. He listened to their story, and he taught
them. They must have begun to feel the
power of Christ, because they’re hearts burned within them. As he began going away from them, they urged
him to stay. They could have let him go
on his way. At table, Jesus took the bread, blessed it and broke it. Then he gave
it to them, and in that moment they knew Christ was with them. That presence was made clear to them in the
breaking of the bread, and they were whole.
That’s
the presence of Christ, the experience of belonging and companionship that runs
deeper then mere affection. It’s the
feeling of belonging that shows up when you aren’t trying to earn it. You belong because you come forward, not
because of something you did outside, or because you come from the right family
or the right town or the right gang. You
belong precisely because you came … and you’ve taken part in the meal that
calls us all to be One.
I’m
sorry that I couldn’t eat at that table with my family, but I have walked the
road to Emmaus and found Christ’s presence at my side. Our risen Lord walks in this world with us
every day, not just at the altar table, not only in bread and wine. The incarnate one lives and breathes on the
road of life, in our homes, in our workplaces, in our cars and in our
hearts. That experience of Christ can
sneak up on us, and fill us with love, just as easily in the grocery store as
it can at the communion table. What we
do every Sunday at this table is a reminder of that. God blesses what we bring, and we take it as
we go forth into the world. Let us pray.
Lord Jesus, stay with us, for morning is at
hand and the day is here; be our companion on the way, kindle our hearts, and
awaken hope, that we may know you as you are revealed in Scripture and the
breaking of bread. Grant this for the
sake of your love.[1]
Amen
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