The Third Sunday of Easter
Sunday, April 19, 2026
St. James Cathedral
My
friends in Christ,
We shouldn’t find it hard to identify
with those two disciples of Jesus who decided, late on that first Easter
day, that it was time to get out of Jerusalem and head for home. What was
the point of staying there any longer? Jerusalem was a big, impersonal place
– intimidating to small town people like them. It had had one drawing card
for them. Only one: their friend -- this dynamic, spell-binding, courageous,
compassionate teacher, this wonder-worker from Galilee who had raised their
hopes so high. They had allowed themselves to hope that the
long-awaited Messiah had finally come and that Israel would at last be set
free.
Those hopes had now been dashed
to bits in a most cruel and conclusive way three days earlier on a hilltop
called Calvary. The final curtain had dropped: now it was time to go home,
to leave Jerusalem behind. It was also time to leave behind all those
foolish hopes. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever would. We had hoped,”
they found themselves saying. “We had hoped.” Are there any more pathetic
words in all of the scriptures?
We shouldn’t find it difficult to
identify with those two disciples. Don’t we, at times, find ourselves among
the ranks of those who “had hoped” -- the ranks of the downhearted and
disillusioned? Don’t we spend a good deal of time and energy looking
over our shoulders at what might have been? And is it surprising that
we should? So much of what happens in our lives and in our world prompts us
to think this way. Think back for a moment to Easter time of a year ago.
What were your hopes then? Your hopes for yourselves, your hopes for your
families, your hopes for our world? How many of them have been realized?
Has anything changed – and, if so, has it been for the better? Are we
happier than we were back then? Holier? More free? More generous, more
compassionate, more loving? Maybe yes, maybe no. And what about our
families? Are our families more closely-knit, more caring, more loving, more
supportive, more tolerant of the weak and troubled members? Again, maybe
yes, maybe no.
And what about our world? Think
of our world at this moment: a world at war (Pope Francis famously said that
we were already living in World War III, waged piecemeal), and Pope Leo’s
impassioned, insistent and repeated pleas for peace and negotiation seem to
fall on deaf ears. In this country his pleas are drawing unprecedented, and
– let’s be honest - truly shocking attacks from our two highest elected
officials, both of whom should know better but who clearly don’t. From the
President, hostility, ridicule and utter disdain; from the Vice President,
arrogant theological lectures and corrections to his supposedly faulty
theology. What has become of us? Where are we going? And as we ask those
questions, we must not overlook other societal issues that are truly
scandalous: the ever-growing chasm between the poor and the privileged, the
heartless treatment of immigrants and refugees, and the callous disregard
for the value of each and every human life, born and unborn.
This year we are marking a
milestone anniversary of a democracy that came into being 250 years ago with
high – if fragile – hopes, and noble aspirations - some of which have been
realized in the crucible of suffering and sacrifice while others have, at
times, been ignored and cast aside. Sadly, we seem to be living in one such
time.
My friends, a strong case can be
made for identifying with those two disciples on the road to Emmaus: to join
the ranks of those who “had hoped.” But the story of those two disciples who
walked with Jesus without knowing it was Jesus, is meant to lead us away
from hopelessness. It’s a story that meets us right where we are – in the
midst of our life journey with more than its share of fears and failings,
more than its share of detours and disappointments; a journey that doesn’t
let us see around the next bend in the road, but a journey that we make in
some pretty remarkable company.
Jesus is our unexpected, if
sometimes unrecognized, companion on the journey. Not the crusader Jesus of
the warmongers; no, the servant Jesus, the crucified, risen, gloriously
triumphant Jesus who walks alongside us as he did those two downhearted
disciples. He questions us as he did them and sometimes he gently chides us.
Often, he hides his face from us until we’re sure he has left us for good.
But through it all, he teaches us - good Master that he is - he teaches us
to look deeper, to go deeper, to find the place where trust lives, to detect
in the seeming disconnected dots of our days a pattern – a story line that,
no matter how troubling or tragic, disappointing or disillusioning, leads
toward the light. And so, slowly – sometimes too slowly to suit us - we
begin to see old things in new ways: to view hopeless situations as untried
opportunities, enemies as potential friends.
And, most wonderful of all, as
evening draws near and the light begins to dim and fade, he accepts our
invitation to come in and stay with us – to sit with us at table and to
share with us whatever it is we put before him: the bread of our labors, the
wine of our joy. And then our eyes begin to open and we begin to ‘get it’:
we come to recognize the hidden yet constant companion of our journey who is
always with us - in dark days as well as happy days - but never more so than
when we take the Bread and break it in his memory, break it right in the
midst of our broken lives.
My friends in Christ, we gather
on this third of the Easter Sundays only too aware of who we are. We
believe, yes, but we question and doubt; we hope, but all too quickly we
lose hope; we love, but not so well. And we lose our way so very quickly.
But we must not lose heart. We must not! As we join together once again
around the Lord’s table for this Eucharist, we must allow our tired and
cynical eyes to be opened up, our broken hearts to be healed. If we do, and
when we do, we will come to see him and know him and love him as never
before -- in the Breaking of the Bread!
Father Michael G. Ryan
Pastor Emeritus
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