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St. Charles Episcopal Church - Saint Charles, IL
The Third Sunday of Easter - Easter 3 RCL Year A
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Acts 2:14a,36-41 – Psalm 116:1-3, 10-17 –1 Peter 1:17-23 – Luke 24:13-35
Rev. William R. Nesbit, Jr.

In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Amen.

In our Gospel this morning we find two of the lesser disciples heading out of town. It has been a rough week for them. All their hopes and dreams for a new Jerusalem came crashing down with the death of their leader. They needed some time away. Time to think. In short, they needed a vacation. Emmaus had a nice Inn and it was only a few hours away. That would give them time to think on the road. There's something about a good walk that helps with personal reflection. And so Cleopas and his un-named companion headed out, down that soon-to-be-famous road to Emmaus.

When I think of the Road to Emmaus I am reminded of the countless hours I have spent hiking along trails reflecting on past experiences. And I am reminded of one particular trip along the Feldtman Ridge Trail. It happened on my very first trip to Isle Royale, an island that would soon become my personal spiritual refuge. My wilderness. It was an experience etched in my memory.

As a Boy Scout I had camped out probably hundreds of times, and been on dozens of canoe trips, but this was my first Backpacking trip. We were a big bunch; six advisors and 18 youth from my old parish. Originally intending to divide into two groups of twelve, we had packed all of the group items; food, cooking gear, and tents accordingly. When we got to the island however, the Rangers informed us that the largest group size they allowed would be eight. Thankfully, both the number of advisors and the number of youth were easily divisible by three. The group items were not.

And so with the sun passing it's zenith, we lay out all the packs on the dock in three groups and began reshuffling the group equipment as best we could. We were rushed, as two of the groups had to make remote campsites yet that day, and errors were made; errors that would not be discovered until days later. As I shouldered my newly re-packed pack, the waist belt promptly broke, prompting further delay while we jury rigged a replacement. It was after four o'clock in the afternoon, when our small group headed out for our campsite. About six and half miles distant, it carried the name Island Mine.

Of the eight people in our group, only one had been backpacking before, and he was one of the youth. Two were Swiss German exchange students who had just returned from military basic training in the Alps. (I suspect much harder than back packing in the mid-west). Two were sophomore girls on their first camping experience of any kind, and the last was a freshman wrestler with an cocky anti-social attitude. My fellow advisor was a member of the choir that I knew socially, though not very well. To say that I was nervous about my trip into the wilderness with this mixed group would be a bit of an understatement.

Though painful, as we adjusted to the 40 to 50 pound packs we were carrying, the first two days were pretty much uneventful, as the weather was nice and distances to hike were short. There was some bickering about who was carrying their weight and who wasn't, but thankfully the general state of exhaustion kept it to a minimum. It was on the second day that we discovered that, thanks to our hasty re-pack on the dock, we had plenty of oatmeal, but no bread or crackers for sandwiches. We tried to make oatcakes, but without a recipe our efforts were less than elegant. Still our spirits were high as we were all feeling like we were on a great adventure. The sun was shining and most, if not all, was right with the world.

It was the third day, the day that we took the Feldtman Ridge trail from Siskiwitt Bay to Feldtman Lake, that I will forever remember.

It all started the night before when thunder began to roll across the lake and soon we were in the midst of a darn impressive thunderstorm. By morning the thunder and lightening had passed on, but the rain had settled in for the long haul. Any good spirits from the previous days evaporated as we struggled to pack up wet tents and wet sleeping bags and got ready to hike the twelve and a half miles up and along a rocky ridge to our next campsite. After a breakfast of cold GORP we grumped off down the trail. Within a half hour all of us were soaked to the skin. Within an hour everything in our packs was soaked through.

At first we all hiked without conversation, alone in our misery, but soon we began to share our reflections on the trip so far. With remembrances of earlier good weather we all struggled to dispel the gloom of the day, but the rain refused to relent. At lunch time we stopped for a brief meal of warm soup and then continued on our way. I still remember using my hand to cover the top of my mug so the rain fall would not splash hot soup in my face. The Rain continued all day long. The only thing that changed was the size of the drops. Usually they were the standard large midwest downpour variety, though these would occasionally fade to little more than a mist.

Everything came to a head in the early afternoon when we stopped for a brief rest at an escarpment overlooking Lake Feldtman. If you looked carefully, you could just make out the lake below through the pouring rain.

I still can't remember what started us off, but suddenly the absurdity of the whole situation overcame the group, and looking like a pack of drowned rats, we began to laugh. We laughed so hard that we couldn't catch our breath. We laughed so long that our sides hurt. We fell over laughing. We rolled on the ground laughing. Literally. We laughed in pure joy. If anyone else would have come upon us on the trail, they would have thought us completely loony. But we knew we weren't. It took us a while to get started again, but when we finally did, we fairly skipped down the trail.

That moment on the trail had changed us -- made us new. Like Cleopas and his friend we were not expecting anything, far from it. We were taken completely by surprise. We didn't know it, but on that rain soaked island in the middle of Lake Superior, we were on the road to Emmaus. That night as we roasted socks and boots over the fire we were no longer eight separate people, but one community. We were no longer worried about what lay ahead on the path, we relished it.

There is an interesting thing about Emmaus. Its actual location remains a mystery. Biblical scholars give us some possibilities with the modern names of Imwas, Abu-Ghosh, and Al Qubaybah, but they are only educated guesses. There is no consensus. We really don't know which town is Emmaus, or even which road is the real road to Emmaus. So, does that make the road to Emmaus a road to no where? Or might it be a road to somewhere? Or could it even be a road to everywhere?

This mystery helps make the road to Emmaus an even richer metaphor for the journey of faith; the road to revelation and conversion. It is the Ah-ha highway. The place where our hearts burn and truth is revealed. The place where God makes leaders from foolish people.

For those of us who travel the way it is a place where Jesus walks beside us, even though we don't recognize him. And it is the place where our hearts too, are broken open in joy. Where if we have the courage to ask the stranger to stay with us and share in our bounty, that normal everyday stuff of life is taken, blessed, broken, and given. And in this simple act of hospitality, Christ is revealed in our midst, community is built, and a little more of the kingdom of God is revealed.

Come stranger and come friend. Share our hospitality with us. Come to the table. Stay with us for the evening is gathering all around us. There will be time for travel tomorrow. Rest now. Share with us this bread and this cup. Risen Lord, be known to us in the breaking of the bread.
Amen.