Luke 24:13-32; Acts 9:1-9
I was trying desperately not to cry. It wasn’t the place to wear your emotions on your sleeve. I was in a temporary auxiliary airport terminal in New Delhi at a low point in my 2008 sabbatical travels. After an amazing trip to the Galapagos, Fran and I had spent 5 full, exhausting days in Sri Lanka without our luggage, which had fallen victim to a British Airways computer glitch. Then we spent a week in Bangalore with an old friend, reacquainting ourselves with our luggage. Through it all, something was upsetting Fran’s stomach.
We left Bangalore planning to fly to New Delhi, change planes and go straight to Dharamsala to meet Jurme, the 8-year-old girl our church was sponsoring at the Tibetan Children’s Village. But New Delhi was socked in by fog–or maybe smog–, and our flight was canceled. We stood in long lines and wrong lines, perplexed as people walked past us to the counter and the clerks seemed to ignore us. By the time we made it to New Delhi, the daily flight to Dharamsala was long gone. We rebooked and unsuccessfully tried to reach the Tibetan Children’s Village so they wouldn’t be waiting for us. We checked into the Delhi YWCA, where we stayed in a stark, concrete room amid construction with a broken air conditioner. That night, Fran felt worse and realized she needed to go home. We delayed another day; she left for the airport in the middle of the night.
The next day I made my way to this over-heated, over-crowded temporary terminal for my twice-rebooked flight to Dharamsala, still unable to reach the folks at the Tibetan Children’s Village. New Delhi was smogged in again. There were mixed messages from the crackly loudspeaker about when we would take off.
The tears I was trying so hard to hold back were a mixture of sadness and loneliness, anger and frustration. It wasn’t even really the hassles of travel that had gotten to me. I just felt alone. Ignored, even invisible.
I sat down in a bright orange molded plastic chair and put my duffel on the seat beside me. I watched an older woman in a sari walking up and down the aisles looking for a place to sit. Begrudgingly, I moved my duffel and faked a polite half-smile.
She sat down. Apparently, I’m pretty good at faking polite half-smiles, for she interpreted my facial expression as a sign of welcome. She immediately started a conversation. I responded half-heartedly. When she learned I was a pastor, her eyes brightened. “Oh, surely you can help me. I’m going to Madras to see my sister. Her husband died suddenly. It is so sad. When I was a child, I went to a Christian school. The nuns taught us the most beautiful prayer. I can’t remember it. Do you know it?”
I replied that I did not know what prayer she was talking about, hoping that would end the conversation. Mita persisted. Finally, I told her about my favorite prayer–the Prayer of St. Francis. Suddenly, I found myself writing down the words for her: “Lord make me an instrument of your peace…..O divine Savior, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console….” These were definitely not the words that had been guiding my day.
She asked me to pray it with her–right there amidst the noise and the crowds. I did, wondering which one of us needed it more.
I heard a fuzzy loudspeaker announcement and saw people lining up beside my gate, so I wished Mita well, grabbed my duffle and elbowed my way into line. After a half-hour holding my place, I realized it had been a false alarm. There was no plane anywhere near that gate. I sank down and leaned against the wall, once again trying to hold back my tears.
“Hi, I’m Bruno.” The guy beside me introduced himself. I almost laughed in spite of myself. He so fit the TV stereotype of a guy named Bruno–big, brawny and tough-looking. His voice, though, was gentle. We talked about why we were going to Dharamsala. He told me that he is from Scotland, where he owns a Buddhist guest house and retreat center. He was on his way to a course in Buddhist philosophy. Not what I was expecting.
An hour later, when we finally boarded the plane, he invited me to sit with him. For the next 47 minutes, I felt a little less alone.
We arrived at Dharamsala. Bruno helped me get a cab to Tibetan Children’s village, where they said they had been waiting for me for two days. They didn’t seem overly concerned that no one had checked voicemail during that time. The administrator showed me to my room in their guest house.
A few minutes later, a young woman named Pema came with tea and biscuits. Telling me that she was a recent graduate of the school, she greeted me warmly and left me to freshen up. A few hours later she returned with dinner–a plate for each of us. “May I stay and eat with you?” she asked shyly. I almost cried again, this time from relief. Finally, I got it. I was not alone.
***
I love our two Bible stories–Cleopas and his friend on the road to Emmaus, Saul on the road to Damascus. I love the imagery about eyes closed and opened, about vision clouded and revealed, about hearts that burn even when we don’t realize it. Most of all, I love the way these stories invite us to look at our own journeys, our own eyes and hearts, in a fresh way.
Mita, the Hindu woman in search of a Christian prayer in a New Delhi airport, offered me what I now see as a Damascus Road moment. I was not exactly breathing threats and murder like Saul, but I was surely breathing irritation and alienation out of every pore of my body. Mita’s persistence wasn’t nearly as dramatic as a light from heaven, but it had the same effect. Mita startled me awake and dragged me out of a trap of my own making. She called me back to myself, back to claiming what I most deeply believe.
It’s not as though I understood what was transpiring in that moment. I didn’t leap up a changed person. Like Saul, I needed a little time before I would be able to see what had just happened.
My encounter with Mita has elements of a Damascus Road moment; there are also ways it feels like the first stage in a three-part Emmaus Road encounter. The risen Christ walked beside me–okay, waited beside me, flew beside me, sat across a TV tray from me–on my road to Dharamsala. It was almost as though the three strangers had been coached to be a tag team of resurrection awakening for me. Just as Jesus asked the disciples to tell their story, Mita asked me to tell the story of my own faith, by sharing my favorite prayer. Bruno surprised me with the gentle companionship I needed to reclaim that prayer as my own. Pema broke the bread–well, served the rice–that opened my eyes.
The risen Christ had been with me that entire day. When I could finally see, I realized my heart had been burning all along–burning with a deep longing for connection, burning to claim the faith that gives me hope.
***
We are all on a journey–to Damascus, to Emmaus, to Dharamsala. On the road we encounter the risen Christ. Sometimes Jesus appears in a confrontational fashion, shocking us out of our stubborn determination to harden our hearts. Sometimes Jesus appears gently, walking beside us, helping us discover our own burning hearts. Rarely do we realize what it happening in the moment. Always, when we awaken to Christ with us, we are made new.
What about for you? Who has been Mita in your life, Christ in disguise startling you out of a self-made trap? Who has been Bruno for you, Christ sitting beside you? Who has been Pema, offering you holy hospitality, awakening you to the assurance that you are never alone?
As we share in Holy Communion this morning, as we break bread together, may our eyes be opened to the risen Christ who is with us on the road. May our hearts burn with hope and love and joy. Amen.