It can be easy to think you’re hearing from God.  I suppose there are those who don’t believe they make much of an effort to do so.  However, I would contend that even the most hard-hearted, seemingly oblivious person still has within them the spark, the hidden desire, to make that connection.  It’s how we’re built.  We all are created in the image of God.

Now, as for those of us who have at least some interest in hearing a word from the Lord, as I suggested, it can be a tricky thing.  That divine voice, spoken in silence through the scriptures, through prayer, through each other, through life itself, is not always apparent.

Those who hear audible voices in their head might need to get some therapeutic help!

We can see the difficulty in 2 Chronicles 18.  We begin with King Jehoshaphat of Judah and King Ahab of Israel.  Quick note: after Solomon’s death, there was a division of kingdoms, with Israel in the north and Judah in the south.  It’s enough to make you say, “Jumping Jehoshaphat!”

(We should note Jehoshaphat was not known for his program of calisthenics.  He was not hawking videos of “Sweatin’ with Jehoshaphat.”  “Jumping Jehoshaphat!” is just a nice way to swear.)

Jehoshaphat is considered one of the “good” kings in the Bible.  He had a few flaws—the events of this chapter testify to one—but basically, he was a faithful leader.  He was concerned with following the ways of Yahweh, the Lord.  In chapter 20, the enemies of Judah are planning war against them.  Jehoshaphat calls the people to a time of fasting.  Their enemies get confused and they turn on each other, and Judah is saved.

But that’s in the future.  Right now, he has been blessed with wealth and honor.  Unfortunately, he enters into a marriage alliance with Ahab, who the scriptures describe as a rather notorious fellow.  He is one of the “bad” kings.  Jehoshaphat’s son is wedded to Ahab’s daughter—not exactly a match made in heaven.

Ahab has a proposal for Jehoshaphat.  This time, it has nothing to do with marriage!  He wants to reclaim Ramoth-gilead, which had long been part of Israel, but had been taken by the Arameans (later known as Syrians).  On the face of it, he would seem to be justified.  He invites Jehoshaphat to join him in the fight.  He accepts the invitation, but then thinks, “Maybe I’m being too hasty.  We need to seek the Lord on this.”

Ahab gathers together four hundred prophets, and they give him the green light.  “Go up; for God will give it into the hand of the king” (v. 5).  Well, that settles that!  However, Jehoshaphat still has his doubts.  Apparently, four hundred prophets all saying the same thing—agreeing with Ahab’s plan—arouse his suspicion.  Isn’t there someone else to consult?  There are always two sides to every story, often more than two.

Oh yes, there’s the prophet Micaiah.  But Ahab adds, “I hate the guy.  He never says what I want to hear.”  In any event, he sends someone to retrieve the prophet, who explains to Micaiah the king’s policy and who warns the prophet against dissenting, that is, if he wants to stay healthy.

“Okay, that’s fine.  As long as the Lord gives the thumbs-up, we’re cool.”  In the meantime, the two kings have arrayed themselves with pomp and circumstance.  Micaiah shows up and says, “Reporting as ordered.”  Ahab puts the question to him, and he reports as ordered.  He mindlessly repeats the party line.

The king knows he isn’t being truthful, and he chastises him.  Then Micaiah lets everyone know why Ahab hates him.  “I saw all Israel scattered on the mountains,” the prophet declares, “like sheep without a shepherd; and the Lord said, ‘These have no master; let each one go home in peace’” (v. 16).  In other words, if you pursue this fool’s errand, you won’t escape with your life.  Your troops will have no leader.

Ahab turns to Jehoshaphat and says, “See what I mean?  I told you so!”

Here’s where we get back to Jehoshaphat having reservations.  He surely knows the prophet is speaking the word of the Lord.  Doesn’t he?  Is it possible he has convinced himself he’s doing the right thing?  Has he been swayed by all the other prophets?

How often do we go against our better judgment?  Something is telling us, “Don’t do this.  You will regret it.”  But we go ahead anyway!  On the flip side, we might sense that we should do something, but we stand aside and don’t get involved.

Meanwhile, Micaiah has some explaining to do.  He speaks of a vision of being in the throne room of God, who wonders how Ahab can be lured into pursuing this disastrous course of action.  A spirit (an angel?) steps forward and says, “I will trick him.”  Micaiah says all the prophets are following a lie, not the Lord.

This brings up a problem that appears on occasion in the Bible.  Does God force people to do the wrong thing?  We see it famously portrayed in Exodus when the Pharaoh hardens his heart and won’t allow the Hebrews to leave Egypt.  Still, there are two sides to that coin.  We see times when it is in fact God who is doing the hardening of his heart (Ex 9:12, 10:20, 27).  What’s that all about?

There isn’t any one easy answer, but we can imagine someone whose mind and heart are completely closed, like an iron gate slammed shut—one who is dead set on their intention.  It is conceivable to picture God honoring that decision, so to speak.  The person will get a nudge in that direction.  Still, repentance is always possible.

photo by Denny Müller at Unsplash

Whatever the case, for his trouble in delivering the message, Micaiah gets smacked in the face.  And then things really go south.

The prophet is treated like an enemy of the state.  The king orders him to be taken into custody and thrown in jail.  There’s a prison cell with his name on it.  He is to be fed what amounts to little more than a starvation diet.  He winds up defying the king’s orders, speaking against the state.  Ahab decrees that Micaiah is to remain under lock and key until he returns safe and sound.

He has one last word for the king.  If Ahab does return in one piece, then Micaiah will admit he hasn’t heard from the Lord.  He wants everyone to understand.  “Hear, you peoples, all of you!” (v. 27).  And that’s it for him.  We don’t know what becomes of Micaiah.  Unfortunately for Ahab, we do know what becomes of him.  Quickly, here is the conclusion.

He’s not quite ready to meet the grim reaper, so he goes undercover.  Ahab dresses like an ordinary soldier; he’s not wearing his kingly garb.  He doesn’t want to draw any attention.  He doesn’t want someone zeroing in on him.  However, as fate would have it, Ahab is struck by a random arrow which finds a gap in his armor, and he bleeds out.

It turned out Micaiah had listened to the Lord.  He had heard the divine word.

I began by noting it can be easy to think you’re hearing from God.  At the very least, it can be easy to believe what we’re doing has been blessed by God.  A degree of humility is called for.

When the four hundred prophets are proclaiming their message, it can seem like they’re speaking with the very voice of God.  Who would dare disregard it?  When the whole society is saying one thing, it might take bravery—or bravado—to go your own way.

Listening to God involves listening with the ear of the heart.  The ear of our heart can be seen as the most vital thing about us.  If we never listen to it, then our entire life becomes tone deaf.

When our lives are tone deaf, we don’t listen.  Like King Ahab and the four hundred prophets, we don’t listen to the word of God.  Because we don’t listen to God, we don’t listen to each other.  And with all of that “not listening,” one day we arrive at the point in which we cannot listen.  Well, maybe we still do listen—we just listen to lies.

By not listening to the word of God, by not dreaming new beginnings, we make ourselves slaves to a past gone by; we hamstring our future with limited possibilities.

A big part of hearing, a big part of listening, is allowing questions.  When we mindlessly quote the authorities, when we do not make room for questions, we indeed harden our hearts.  We don’t listen with them.  We ignore that still, small voice within.

What good would Micaiah be today?  Would we hate him?  Would he say stuff we don’t want to hear?

Here’s a good question.  Who is he today?  Is there a Micaiah among us?  Is there a Micaiah who speaks to us?

We have to be careful, lest the church follow a growing trend in which questions are suppressed—when we’re chastised for asking.  Actually, I think we can agree that the church is often the worst of all when it comes to shaming and erecting walls.  Following Jesus means asking questions.  He surely puts questions to us!  When he was asked, “Who is my neighbor?”, he responded with the parable of the Good Samaritan.  Jesus then asked, “Who was a neighbor to the man left for dead?”  The answer: the one who showed mercy.  He asks tough questions.

One of my mom’s many sayings when I was a kid was, “You and God make a majority.”  When we encounter situations in which the score is 400 to 1, may we humbly hold on to the truth that’s been shown us.  Without question.

“It is universally agreed that the Emmaus story is a gem of literary art.”[1]  That’s a quote from Bogdan Bucur’s article, “Blinded by Invisible Light.”  (He teaches at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh.)

I think I would tend to agree with that.  Actually, the gospel of Luke itself is filled with gems of literary art.  There’s the Magnificat, the Song of Mary, in chapter 1 (vv. 46-55).  We have the parables of the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son (10:29-37 and 15:11-32).  We could come up with some other gemstones.

A couple of weeks ago on Easter Sunday, I said the celebration of it this year is muted.  This is certainly an Easter like none other.  Is it possible to miss some of the majesty?  The thing about majesty is sometimes it sneaks up right behind you.  The two disciples on their way to Emmaus find that out—though they don’t realize the majesty at first.

{"The Walk to Emmaus" by Rowan LeCompte and Irene Matz LeCompte}

About that couple, they’re usually portrayed as two men.  Not everyone sees it that way.  Apparently, they live in the same house; it seems just as likely we’re dealing with a husband and wife.  In fact, in his gospel, John says “standing near the cross of Jesus were his mother, and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas [also spelled as Cleopas], and Mary Magdalene” (19:25).

Maybe I’m mistaken.  Seriously, there’s no way someone’s wife would be written out of the story!  Perish the thought!

If it’s possible for us to miss the majesty, to not glimpse the glory, the same is true of our couple.  The scripture says, “While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him” (vv. 15-16).  There’s more on this point of not being able to recognize, not being able to see, but we’ll look at that in a moment.

The two of them are downcast, and Jesus wants to know why.  They’re surprised he hasn’t heard the bad news.  Cleopas says they’re dismayed because Jesus has been crucified.  They had such high expectations.  “But,” as verse 21 says, “we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”  We had hoped he would set Israel free.  We had hoped.

Jesus chides them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!” (v. 25).  We’re told, “Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures” (v. 27).

That word for “interpreted” (διερμηνευω, diermēneuō) means more than to simply explain.  What Jesus does is to reframe, to re-imagine.  He takes the scriptures and pulls out deeper meanings.

An example of this is the parable of the Good Samaritan.  Someone asks Jesus how to achieve eternal life.  Jesus speaks of loving God and loving neighbor.  “But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, ‘And who is my neighbor?’” (10:29).  Thus, we have the parable.  A poor fellow is robbed and beaten and left for dead.  A priest and a Levite see him and pass right by.  When the Samaritan sees him, he goes out of his way to care for him.  Jesus asks, “Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” (v. 36).

Jesus reframes, he re-imagines, the word “neighbor.”  A neighbor isn’t just a certain person.  You can make anyone a neighbor.  It’s a way of treating someone.

Returning to the idea of recognition, of perception, I imagine we’ve all failed to see something right in front of us.  When I was a kid and looking for a certain item that was hidden in plain sight, my mom would often say to me, “If it was a snake, it woulda bit you!”

It’s hard to blame this couple for not seeing what (or who) is right in front of them.  Remember, the Bible says, “their eyes were kept from recognizing him” (v. 16).  There are all kinds of theories as to what that means.  Was there divine interference?  Were they not ready to see that level of glory, that level of (to use the word again) majesty?

Our friend Bogdan (who I mentioned at the beginning) says something like that about them.  As long as they think of Jesus as a prophet who failed to liberate Israel, “they remain unable to bear the brilliance of his glory.”[2]  They still need a transformation by the Spirit.  It’s the glory of the Lord that prevents them from seeing the glory of the Lord!  They are, in effect, blinded by the light.

Still, we can’t ignore what was going on within them.  This isn’t a walk in the park.  Their world has collapsed.  The bottom has dropped out.  Despair is threatening to overwhelm them.  Sadness has dulled their vision.

Maybe we can relate.  When we feel depressed, when it feels like the walls are closing in, our senses can become dulled.  It can be hard to see beauty.  It becomes difficult to have creative vision.  It might even be the case that smells aren’t as pleasant.  Maybe food doesn’t taste as good.

That can be true of us in this time.  Being cooped up in our houses, not being able to sit down in a restaurant, having to wear masks at the grocery store, the kids not attending school—it can be enough to drive anyone up the wall.  It can be enough to leave us dispirited.

So maybe we can relate to our friends on the road to Emmaus.

As they draw near their destination, Jesus is continuing on.  The day is nearly done, so they invite him to stay with them.  They offer him their hospitality.  “Please, come and join us for dinner.  We want you to spend the night.  You can continue your journey in the morning.”

He agrees.  And what happens at mealtime?  “When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them” (v. 30).  That sounds familiar, doesn’t it?  The only thing missing is, “This is my body, broken for you.”

What happens next is truly amazing and baffling.  “Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight” (v. 31).  Their eyes are opened.  They recognize him.  Then he disappears.  That’s quite a miraculous act!  It’s in the breaking of the bread when the lights come on.  They realize who is dining with them.  They understand that they’re sitting at the table with their Lord.

That might be a tad difficult to understand, but it’s nothing compared with what’s coming up.  He vanished from their sight.  Wait.  What?

There are those who say Jesus was agile and quick enough to slip out without being noticed.  It seems that a resurrection body is quite athletic.  Maybe he diverted the disciples’ attention: something like, “Hey, what’s that over there?”  He points, then takes off.

He didn’t even ask to be excused from the dinner table!

The word for “vanished” or “disappeared” is an interesting one.[3]  Its root meaning is “made invisible.”  William Loader picks up on this when he speaks of the “surreality of the invisible man.”[4]  And we go back to the title of Bucur’s article, “Blinded by Invisible Light.”

So, after Jesus’ disappearing act, the pair engage in reflection.  Here’s another place where Luke displays his use of powerful, poetic language.  “They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’” (v. 32).  Were not our hearts burning within us?  The Revised English Bible reads, “Were not our hearts on fire?”

What an awesome experience.

Cleopas (and possibly Mary?) decide to make an evening journey back to Jerusalem.  They go to see the other disciples, who are already overjoyed, since they also know that the Lord has risen from the dead.  “Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread” (v. 35).

From ancient times, the breaking of bread has been a time of welcoming, an act of hospitality.  It is a sign of community.  On the flip side, the refusal to share a meal with someone is seen as an insult.  It is inhospitable; it is a rejection of community.

Earlier, I suggested Jesus’ breaking of the bread is reminiscent of what we do in the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper, the Eucharist.  It also is an act of welcoming, of hospitality; it is a sign of community.  This fits with our understanding of the sacrament.  Our Book of Order says this about it: “When we gather at the Lord’s Supper the Spirit draws us into Christ’s presence and unites with the Church in every time and place.  We join with all the faithful in heaven and on earth in offering thanksgiving to the triune God” (W-3.0409).

We are united.  We are joined.  It truly is a holy communion.

As it was with those early disciples, so it is today.  In the breaking of the bread, and the sharing of the cup, Jesus is made known.  There is that invisible light, that invisible energy, that Spirit of love who unites us.

Sometimes we miss the majesty, the glory.  We need the scriptures to be opened.  We need our minds to be opened.  We need our hearts to burn.  We need them to be on fire.  We need the Lord to be revealed to us—to be revealed to us again and again.

May the invisible light of Christ guide us on our resurrection journey.

[1] Bogdan Bucur, “Blinded by Invisible Light: Revisiting the Emmaus Story (Luke 13:13-35)” Ephemerides theologicae Lovanienses, 90:4 (Dec 2014) 685.

[2] Bucur, 694.

[3] αφαντος, aphantos

[4] wwwstaff.murdoch.edu.au/~loader/MtEaster3.htm

My wife and I recently returned to New York, after spending a year in Tennessee. Packed away in a box there appeared something that took me back more than forty years. It’s a book that my mom read to my sister and me when we were little kids, The Golden Bible for Children: The New Testament, published in 1953. It was wonderfully illustrated by the wife and husband team, Alice and Martin Provensen. I really loved the pictures! I was fascinated by their “flatness.” I was sure that the artwork came from the “olden days.”

Looking through the book today brought back those memories. I was able to find some images online. The one to the left is a good one for Lent, Jesus in the wilderness.

The one accompanying the parable of the Good Samaritan has a good look at some wicked dudes laying the lumber to the unfortunate traveler.

The day of Pentecost has some fellows exchanging pleasantries (and giving thanks to God) who on any other day wouldn’t have the slightest idea what they were doing.

The last one requires some explanation. As a boy I always especially loved seeing poor Eutychus falling from the window. I couldn’t find that one on the internet, so we scanned the page from the book (being careful not to damage the spine). You can see the smudge at the bottom of the page, one of many in our copy which was withdrawn from the Contra Costa County Library.

If you’ll excuse me, I have some reading and art appreciation to do!