THIRD SUNDAY OF EASTER

ACTS 2:14, 22-33 | 1 Peter 1:17-21 | Luke 24:13-35

It seems the most we get in life are glimpses of God. “Glimmerings are what the soul’s composed of,” was how the poet Seamus Heaney put it. Yet all too often we find ourselves wondering if what we experienced was really the touch of God or simply our imagination. Those glimmerings, they vanish so quickly, almost instantly.

The two disciples of Jesus had such a glimpse as they walked the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus. It was late afternoon on the day Jesus was raised when another traveler joined them on the way. It wasn’t until later that evening that they suddenly recognized their fellow walker in the breaking of bread. It was the risen Lord. And then he vanishes — a sudden glimpse of divine recognition to what had all along been taking place without them realizing. And then it’s over and gone.

That seems to be how it is for most of us. We go for a walk in the woods. We’re enjoying the quiet. The trees siphon off enough of the heat to cool and comfort us. The beauty of where we are begins to do its work on our spirit. The pace of our walk slows to match the stillness in our soul. A moment of intense awe overtakes us. It crests for but a moment, then passes, even as we continue to enjoy where we are. And we wonder if that moment was God — God there with us. Glimmerings are what the soul’s composed of.

We get together with a friend for a cup of coffee or a walk in the neighborhood. No agenda. No problem in need of solving. Nothing more than the goodness that comes from two friends getting together. This time, however, we find the conversation to be somehow richer, if that’s the right word. The sharing of past stories and future hopes and discovered wisdom all weave the time into a poignant and treasured moment, one that washes over us as never before. And in discovering the grace of it all makes us think of it as somehow holy, even a glimmering of God. And the moment passes, it vanishes, as such moments always do, but not the memory of it all.

We find ourselves walking past a parish church. We remember how in grade school they always encouraged us to stop and make a visit. It’s been years since we’ve done that. We decide then to do so again. We’re not sure why, maybe a bit of nostalgia, or even the prodding of the Spirit, if we believe in such things. The door is open. The church is empty. We light a vigil light — just for old times sake, we tell ourselves. And we slip into a pew. We can’t remember when there was so much quiet echoing about. Suddenly we find ourselves overwhelmed by peace, almost startled by it. We’ve forgotten what it was we were rushing to do and the family issues weighing us down. We notice the knot in our stomach seems untied, now loose and easy. We realize all of it is beyond our doing, and we smile to ourselves as we think just maybe the Spirit is behind it all. We get up to leave, and we wish we could tell somebody about this moment, but we know they wouldn’t understand. We’re not even sure we do. Glimmerings.

All such moments are rare and pass too quickly. They are as if life is lived with greater intensity, as if a veil is parted but briefly to recognize the oneness of all life. And if we go back to that spot in the wood, to walk again with a friend, to visit the church — it can never be recreated, but it does bring us back to that moment, not as reliving it but as remembering it. It is our memory of the moment, then, that seems to make it real once more.

Is that not then what Eucharist is all about? To remember how Jesus once broke bread with the twelve, did it with such meaning and grace, that whenever we do it, then that moment once done so long ago now becomes real in our remembering?

And does not our remembering always drift us back to his great love, love even to the point of death on a cross, his body broken and his love poured out? His life was eucharist and eucharist is his life once more.

Do this in memory of me, said Jesus. And so we remember.

What have been the peak moments of your life? Does not remembering them make them real once again?