Art thou only a stranger to Jerusalem, and hast not known the things that have been done there in these days? (Luke 24:18).
Two dejected disciples. They witness, from a distance, the passion and death of their Lord, the promise of Israel.
But we hoped, that it was he that should have redeemed Israel (vs. 21).
We hoped.
But our hopes were dashed. They crucified Him. And He submitted to this, He who Himself had raised the dead to life. And now He is dead. He did not answer the insults His enemies hurled at Him while He hung on the cross: He saved others; himself he cannot save. If he be the king of Israel, let him now come down from the cross, and we will believe him (27:42).
No, He did not come down from the cross. He did not need to “save himself.” He did save others. And for this He died of His own will. Father, Into thy hands I commend my spirit.
But, imagine this. You were one of His disciples. You witnessed the miracles, many of them, perhaps not all. You heard about all of them, nonetheless, from close friends, from gentiles even, from the twelve Apostles, in fact. These were reputable men. Lazarus was a reputable man and he gave testimony that he was raised from the dead by this man, the “hope of Israel.” You knew that this man’s enemies, in fact, witnessed the raising of Lazarus, and that they were scandalized by it, so much so that they reported it to the Sanhedrin. Something must be done about this man. The Messiah was not supposed to hide after such a miracle. He was supposed to ride into the city on a stallion, or in a chariot, not on an ass, enter as a king into Jerusalem and proclaim His kingship. Smite His enemies. Destroy the legions of Rome that would stand in His way. Slay them, as the angels did to the Assyrian army of Sennacherib, 185,000 of them, in one night.
This He did not do. Not then. Rather He allowed Himself to be arrested by a cohort of temple police, and be led away bound to be judged by a wicked court and an impotent high priest. He would not even allow His chosen one’s to die defending Him in the garden, telling His “Rock” to put his sword into its scabbard, after the valiant one raised it in His defense upon waking from sleep. Such a pathetic last stand. The Twelve, even the betrayer Judas, all stood there, stunned, while the Master was led away. Only two followed to the court of the high priest, the valiant one, the Rock, being slain there by a maid servant while he was warming his hands. And, remembering the Lord’s sign of his foretold denial, the cock crew for the third time. Then, in shame, he had to leave, and he did so, weeping.
So, we have these two men, one of whom, we know from Saint Luke, was a certain Cleophas, whose wife stood beneath the cross with the mother of the crucified; they were walking to a village outside of Jerusalem, on the Lord’s day, after their “hope” was buried. The two were dejected, as we know from their conversation with this stranger that joined them on the way.
“Are you a stranger in Jerusalem?” Are you? Sometimes I think I am.
Sometimes, I think that the Church today is a “stranger.” And, often, I do not see the Risen Savior in His Body. I see false Christs who say that it is not necessary to believe in the Son of God. That His baptism is not necessary for salvation. That the Holy Mass is a spiritual banquet, a celebration of the pilgrims at the table, who embrace the family, and commemorate the Lord’s supper as a memorial. A re-presentation of Calvary? No. A sacrifice? No. The sleeping giant of the Church seems to prefer to be horizontal now. Christ is present, yes, but more present among us. The Eucharist is a sign of that presence. It is not Emmanuel, but a symbol of this divine presence that is in each person far more really than in the Bread and Wine. We do not genuflect to each other, so out with the Communion rails, and put a presider’s chair in the place of honor behind a table. The tabernacle of the King is, in this setting, better placed on the side. Keep a candle lit there for the sake of those who need a Real Presence.
“Are you a stranger in Jerusalem, Dear Lord?”
I think not. Rather, I am the stranger in this un-heavenly Jerusalem of our temporal exile. I am the one who needs the scriptures opened to me. It is my heart that needs to be burning as You teach me. You recognize me, as you did the distraught Cleophas and his companion. I do not recognize You. You knew me from all eternity. You must have, because You created me and redeemed me. You loved me first from all eternity. Let us therefore love God, because God first hath loved us (1 John 4:19).
Emmaus is sixty furlongs away, or about six miles, from a village that is not our home. We are distraught, preoccupied with many things, walking away from our city of peace, our Jerusalem, the kingdom of God that is within us.
O Stranger, why have I estranged You? Approach me again before I end up in Emmaus. Open to me the scriptures. Lift up my heart. Set it on fire if you will. And, then, break bread with me. And disappear in the Bread. Abide with and in me. And I in You. Assimilate me. Adhaereat visceribus meis (cleave to the very bowels of my being). Yes, He is Risen indeed.
