The Stuff Of Recognition

And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of cloud to lead them along the way, and by night in a pillar of fire to give them light, that they might travel by day and by night; the pillar of cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night did not depart from before the people. -- Exodus 13:21-22

There are, thanks be to God, times in our lives when we have known the presence of God. There are times when we have experienced clarity about what we are called upon to do or say; times when a command seems imbedded in our circumstances, and we are irresistibly drawn to follow that command into decision. There are times when a person comes into our life as a gift of grace, offering us the opportunity to love again. That person may be a child, a relative, a friend or a stranger, and through that individual we experience a claim on our lives.

And then there are those rare moments when the glass through which we see so darkly is, however briefly, transparent; we are allowed to see deeply into the nature of things, and we are convinced once again that life has meaning and we are not alone. In those moments we have been given the sight to see the orchestration of God's grace which we suspect lies all around us every moment of every day but which we usually do not see.

I call such times as these "the presence of God." It really doesn't much matter what words we use. What we know is that we can believe that the Hebrew people could believe that the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of cloud and by night in a pillar of fire. We can believe that they believed because we too have known something of the cloud and the fire. We have known something of that leading by day and by night. We have known something of the presence of God.

There are other times, which may actually be more frequent, when the cloud dissipates and the fire burns so low that we have to strain to see it in the night. We walk hesitantly, tentatively, stopping from time to time, wondering if we are going in precisely the direction not intended. We are no less on a journey than before, but we are walking in darkness and doubt. The pillar of cloud that just yesterday led us along the way seems to have vanished, and we aren't sure if it left us or we left it.

What used to be so firm and clear and without question has turned to dust in our hands. Though we wish to mold the dust into a new pillar as strong as the last, the dust falls to the ground or blows away. The earth, which used to receive our bold steps on the journey of faith, seems to be shifting and swaying under our feet. We feel jealous of those who continue to see so clearly, who seem to be God's good friend, who can speak with confidence about signs and God's leading, and who evidence a faith stronger than our own. We feel nostalgic for that time when the pillar led us by day and the fire by night. If we need to put words to such times as these, we would say this is the experience of "the absence of God."

Like those days following Jesus' death. Those were very hard days for the disciples. Up to that time, he had always been with them as comforter and friend. He had filled them with wild dreams of a new heaven and a new earth where peace and forgiveness are the norm. He helped them believe in themselves, each in his or her uniqueness—the sunburnt fisherman, the tax collector, the idealistic zealot, the woman who dared to sit at his feet. They all believed in him. They believed his love, his laughter, and his words. They believed he was the Chosen One of Israel, the Holy One of God. He had tried to warn them about the suffering that was to come, but that was harder to believe or to take seriously. His dreams and his person seemed invincible to them.

They trusted him when he talked about his kingdom. When he spoke they felt that they saw face to face; they felt that they knew what it must have been for their ancestors to have a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night.

Until three days ago. Three days ago he was taken from them. He was stripped, mocked, spit upon, hung, and left to die. With him were buried all those dreams. And the ones who had followed him didn't know what to do or where to go, so two of them went walking--to Emmaus.

As they walked, they talked. They tried to sort out all the confusing events of the last three days. They fought back the encroaching bitterness. They couldn't believe he would deceive them--they had so earnestly believed that he was the one who would redeem Israel. But life in Jerusalem and the countryside went on as though it hadn't made one particle of difference that he had been there at all.

A stranger approached. They were so deep in conversation that they did not hear the footsteps from behind. The stranger walked beside them, listening for awhile, and then interrupted: "What's all this talk that you are having with one another?"

Long faces with puzzled expressions turn to the stranger. He must be the only visitor to Jerusalem who hasn't heard of the events of these days. Not intimidated by their deadly seriousness, the stranger asks: "What events?" Then they spill it all--the whole story with their hopes and their disappointments. He listens and then gently chides them for being so slow to understand that these days which weigh so heavy and seem so final are not the last word. He interprets the scriptures for them, placing the events they have so absolutized within a larger picture.

I can recognize myself and friends taking that same walk to different places and in different times, weighed down by a shortsighted intensity that absolutizes a moment which feels like a dead end. Walking and talking, we give way to the conviction that, because we cannot see our way clear of sin, sin has the final word.

As we walk and talk he is there unrecognized. He is there as the one who gracefully breaks our awful solemnity. He comes when we least expect him, not as the fire of inspiration, but as a word that makes us look again at ourselves and our circumstances. He shakes his head and asks: "What events?" and chides us for our hopelessness. And he comes at the most ordinary of times.

The two were on their way to Emmaus, doing what they did so often, walking home, and he came as the stranger to be harbored. When they came to Emmaus they invited him to stay the night. Even though this man had opened the scriptures to them, speaking with theological eloquence, it wasn't until they were sitting down to a common meal and he took bread in his hands that their eyes were opened and they knew him. They knew him in the breaking of bread.

Bread. Not some special, religious food, but the most basic, ordinary food. Just four nights before, he had broken bread and passed it to them, saying: "Whenever you do this, remember me." In effect he said: "Whenever you do the simplest things, like eating a meal together, remember that I am with you. Do not for my sake despise life or any part of it. All of life is holy if you have the eyes to see. The Lord of creation spoke a yes then and now. This bread is blessed, like all common, everyday things you do."

That's how they knew him. In the breaking of bread. Not in the theological talk along the road. Not in the sanctuary set apart. Not in the blazing flash of light with angels all around.

Yes, life goes on as usual--meals are still eaten, bread is still broken, but everything is different now because he is here, in the midst of the usual, the taken-for-granted. The yes that he is to this ordinary world transforms the usual into the holy if we have the eyes to see it.

The problem is that we want the pillar of cloud and fire all the time. We want the extraordinary signs and wonders that assure us of God's presence. Or when we do recognize the holy in the ordinary we seek to capture and enshrine it as certainty. But he always eludes our grasp. As soon as their eyes were opened and they recognized him, he vanished from their sight. And they were left with their meal together. That is what he had given them all along although they hadn't the eyes to see it. They had one another all along. He gave them back the ordinary when they had wanted the extraordinary.

His kingdom was among them in this life, in the common, everyday gestures, words, and actions that they did with one another. They had wanted a kingdom set apart--like Camelot--not one embedded in this world. And they had wanted a king like David, clothed in majesty and might, coming to rescue and protect them. But he was with them then, and he is with us now, as the stranger coming in need, in the most ordinary of circumstances.

"For in him every one of God’s promises is a ‘Yes.’ For this reason it is through him that we say the ‘Amen,’ to the glory of God." (2 Corinthians 1:20). All of creation has been reclaimed by this yes in him. He is known and remembered in so far as we hallow every moment, every person, every encounter. There is nothing that lies outside his yes.

When you walk, remember that he walked from town to town, and he walked with those two weary comrades on their journey to Emmaus. When you dance, remember that he loved parties and turned water into wine so the party could continue. When you weep, remember that he looked out over Jerusalem and wept, for his heart was breaking. When you laugh, remember that he made puns about camels trying to fit through the eye of a needle. When you feel forsaken and you can't believe that God is there for you, remember that he cried out from the cross: "My God, My God, where are you?" When you touch another person, remember that he was never scandalized by love, remember how the woman burst into Simon's house uninvited and kissed him from head to toe. When you embrace a child and feel those small hands around your neck, remember that he loved to hold children, recognizing in their unselfconscious willingness to love something of his kingdom's way. And when you eat a meal together, remember how he loved to eat with friends and that our sacrament of bread and wine has its origin at the table.

In everything that you do, from the most ordinary to the most extraordinary, remember that he is with you, that he goes before you, sometimes recognized, sometimes hidden from our eyes. Most of all, remember that nothing can separate us from his 'yes,' and therefore we say 'amen' through him to the glory of God.

Melanie Morrison (www.leaven.org) was a minister of the United Church of Christ in Bronson, Michigan, when this article appeared.