Sermon - 19 April 2026 - Sunday Morning Coming Down

In this morning’s Gospel, we hear a story about ordinary people meeting the sacred—how the sacred is present in ordinary life, and how we, as ordinary people, are capable of encountering the sacred.

We hear the story of two disciples walking the road to Emmaus. It’s a dusty road to an ordinary Judean town, It starts on the rocky hilltop where Jerusalem sits and then comes down through the foothills into the valley below.

One of these disciples is named Cleopas. He is not one of the Twelve. Neither is his unnamed companion. They are simply followers—people much like you and me. They showed up, listened, believed. They tried, as best they could, to follow Jesus.

But now, after the crucifixion, these two ordinary people do something very ordinary. They head for home.

Put yourself in their place. Have you ever gone home this way?

As I was preparing this sermon, thinking about going home in this way, I was reminded of a Johnny Cash song — Sunday Morning Coming Down. I don’t mean for that song to outshine the Gospel this morning. But it does name something which we all know: coming down—from places where we feel confident and extraordinary—into loneliness, disappointment, and reckoning. Precisely the kind of place where the sacred may be encountered.

So there they are, on that Easter Sunday morning, coming down that western road, when they are joined by another traveler—who walks alongside them. They begin to talk. They tell this stranger what has happened: their grief, their confusion, their heartbreak, that their friend Jesus has been executed by the Roman state.

And Cleopas gives voice to their disappointment: “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”

What is remarkable is that the risen Christ is beside them—and they do not recognize him. Not because Jesus is disguised. Not because God is absent.

But because the sacred exists in its own time and space. It will not be forced. There may be spectacle, a burning bush for example, or a transfiguration, but with the sacred, there is never forcing. Or hurry. 

And that is our problem.

We rush ahead of the sacred. We approach the sacred with assumptions and expectations. We presume to already know. Words are always literal. Rituals are just routines. Because everything is known in advance, what is sacred remains undisclosed.

So Christ walks beside Cleopas—fully present, fully alive—yet still unseen. It is only later, when they sit together at table, when this stranger breaks bread, that their eyes are opened.

What changed? What allows this to happen?

They are able to see the sacred because the sacred has been FRAMED for them.

As you can see, there is an empty picture frame here in the center aisle. I placed it there to help us think about how we might recognize the sacred.

Imagine, for a moment, that you are standing on the west side of that frame, looking east. If you set aside hurry and expectation, you may notice that every aisle in this church leads toward the altar. This leading-to suggests the sacred.

Here you see the communion rail. It suggests a threshold, a boundary, past which something sacred might lie.

Beyond the communion rail, this floor that I stand on is elevated. Again, suggesting the sacred.

And through that frame you see this pulpit and the altar. From the pulpit, God’s sacred Word, the Logos, is proclaimed. At the altar, that same Logos is received as sacred gift—in bread and wine.

And as your eyes lift above the altar, you see upward into the steeple—an open volume of space, a space where ascent seems possible, where the sacred might dwell. 

If you do not hurry, if you stop expecting, this is what you might see.

But notice this: the frame changed nothing. It added nothing. It simply helped us set aside distraction and expectation, so that what has always been present can be seen.

(pause)

This is how LITURGY works.  It assists us in FRAMING the sacred.

By liturgy, I mean the worship we do together each Sunday: the order of our service, the form of our prayers, when we stand and sit, the way music resonates with Scripture we have heard, even the silences we keep.

This is not accidental. These forms exist to help us attend to the sacred — so that the sacred might disclose itself to us.

I grew up attending Roman Catholic mass each Sunday. Long before I understood the mass, I learned its order and form.  I was hyper aware of what was going on.  Not because I was a saintly seven-year-old—far from it. But because I was counting down to when we could leave.  If folks were reciting the psalm, I knew we were a long way off. If folks were returning to their seats after communion, I knew we were close to going home.

50 years later, I’ve made a little progress.  On my better days, I participate in liturgy without expectation.  Here are some things that help me, that perhaps might help you.

Pay attention to liturgy. But do so without expectation.  Rather, keep yourself in the moment.  Stay within the liturgy.

When the readings are proclaimed, try to set aside your memories or knowledge of them. Try to listen to them as if it is the very first time. 

Align your worship with the congregation’s worship.  As you say the responses, harmonize your voice – in volume and pace – with the congregation around you.  

Of course, sing the songs with joy and praise. 

Finally, make space for silence.  If you can do this, the silence can clear a space inside you for the sacred to dwell.

This is what Christians have done for almost two thousand years.  They have used these forms to hasten their encounter with the sacred. 

Of course, not everything stays the same. The readings change. The hymns change. One hopes the sermon changes.

What remains constant in liturgy gives us foundation; what changes helps us grow. Together, we are formed—slowly and patiently—to recognize God at work in our midst.

This is what Paul is getting at in our second reading. Worship is not done for display, nor for private religious ectasy, but so that we as a community may be built up.

So a few thoughts liturgy.  Just so we are clear.

On the one hand, liturgy is not something the pastor performs for the congregation’s entertainment. It is the work we do together. In fact, the word liturgy means “the work of the people.”

But neither is liturgy done for its own sake. Music, beauty, ritual—are not ends in themselves. To treat them that way is a mistake. Like mistaking a finger pointing at the moon for the moon itself.

And yet, the beauty of our liturgy matters—greatly.

Ritualized words, shared silences, practiced gestures—these are not decorations. They are ways in which something already present might come into view. Not forced or manufactured. Rather, liturgy clears a space in our hearts, and what is sacred consents to reveal itself.

Let me put it plainly: God is not absent when worship is sloppy or careless. We are.

So I ask you: when we do liturgy well—when we attend and pray, listen and sing—what do you encounter? 

I’d like you to think carefully about this.  Perhaps you will say “I feel gratitude.” Or “I know peace.” Or even “I stand in awe.”

Well, these things are all positive.  They are authentic gifts of the spirit.

But they are not yet the sacred. They only pointing the way.

Cleopas says, “Did not our hearts burn within us?”

His heart burned—but he could not yet name the one beside him.

We are the very same.

Even so, when the sacred draws near, we discover that we cannot say what the sacred is. Words will inevitably fail us.

But our inability to speak is not failure. It is the precisely the encounter we seek.

One final thought.

So far, we have used the picture frame to look eastward, toward the altar. But the sacred draws us westward too—toward the world.

Cleopas encounters the risen Christ not in Jerusalem, but on the road, on the way home, coming down into the valley.

And that matters.

The sacred will never be contained to the altar. The sacred is too large for a church.  Indeed, the sacred is far too large for heaven.  It spills over into ordinary life.  Especially into ordinary life.

Indeed, this is THE PATTERN of our Christian life: we gather here in church to worship, to recognize what is sacred, and then we are SENT, out those doors, to proclaim the good news to the world. 

This is why we feed the hungry and clothe the poor, care for the sick and dying, seek justice and practice mercy.

We are not meant to be holy people on mountaintops. We are SENT —SENT to carry God’s grace into ordinary life.

May God bless us, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.