Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: The Moment of Recognition

April 19, 2026

Acts 2:14a, 36-41
Luke 24:17-35

We come to this story on the third Sunday of the Easter season. We’re in a “move on” kind of place. Jesus rose two weeks ago, after all. Last Sunday we heard about events a week later – that’s convenient timing, isn’t it? So we’re ready for the next part of the story.

And today, the dear editors of the Revised Common Lectionary have brought us right back to Easter morning when uncertainty, anxiety, and fear dominated the minds of Jesus’ disciples. The Rev. Barbara Messner captured it beautifully in her poem “You on the Road to Emmaus” on her BarbPoetPriest blog:

Sometimes all you can do is
walk away:
away from the crosses on a hill
and a tomb whether empty or not,
away from your failures as followers
and the loss of your hope and purpose,
away from overwhelming emotion,
that sink hole of anger, grief and fear.

Rev. Barbara Messner

It’s worth remembering that, on Easter morning, Jesus’ closest friends didn’t expect his resurrection. The Gospel writers all report that Jesus had told them, not once but repeatedly, and that they simply didn’t get it. Every Easter account emphasizes what a deeply surprising event it was.

As we join Cleopas and his unnamed companion, they had left Jerusalem with an initial destination of Emmaus. As Katherine Shaner writes at Working Preacher, “Cleopas and his companion were likely very scared about their future. They had seen the brutality of which the Romans were capable. They were not the most immediate targets of this Roman cruelty, but they were attuned to the stories of those who were. They were probably trying to figure out what to do next.”

Emmaus probably wasn’t their ultimate goal. They may not have had one in mind. Just – get out of the city, away from the priests, away from the Romans.

Cleopas and his friend had stayed in Jerusalem long enough that morning to hear that Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and some other women (Luke wasn’t clear about how many) had found the tomb open and empty. They’d heard that two figures in white (angels?) had told the women Jesus was alive. They’d even heard that Simon Peter had visited the tomb himself, finding no angels but also no body of Jesus.

Frankly, the likeliest possibility was that the Romans had decided not to let Jesus rest in peace. Desecration of corpses was one of the options for humiliating a defeated foe or condemned rebel – which was how they regarded Jesus. Most of Jesus’ male disciples disregarded the women’s account of angels. They called it an “idle tale,” according to Luke.

All in all, Cleopas and his friend were taking the smart road away from the city where an active campaign against Jesus was likely to start taking in his followers, too.

And then they met Jesus.

Christians reading Luke have spent the last nearly two thousand years trying to understand why Jesus’ two disciples didn’t recognize him. Greg Carey offers at Working Preacher, “I find it more compelling to believe it is the disciples’ expectations that prevents their recognition. This is not the context they expected for an encounter with Jesus.” Michal Beth Dinkler writes, “What if the disciples cannot recognize Jesus because their opinions are already fully formed? Like all humans, their assumptions shape what they talk about, and what they talk about shapes what they see.”

Honestly, I’m not sure it makes a difference. Biblical writers often mention that recognizing the risen Jesus is harder than you’d think. Luke himself, in the next portion of this chapter, wrote that Jesus’ appearance to his gathered disciples terrified them. They thought he was a ghost. Mary Magdalene imagined he was a gardener. The Apostle Paul, felled to the ground by a bright light, had to ask, “Who are you, Lord?”

I think that’s our experience as well. Recognizing the risen Jesus isn’t easy. The world is complicated and quick-moving. People raise up all sorts of things as good and condemn other things as evil. There are theologies that assert that God directly commands some wars, and there are theologies that claim that God condemns all wars. There are theologies that say that wealth and power are signs of virtue, and there are theologies that say that God prefers the poor. There are theologies that say only a few will be received into God’s realm, and there are theologies that say that everyone will be welcomed into heaven.

With such a range and so many possibilities in between, how do we recognize the risen Jesus?

For hundreds of years, Christians have celebrated a triumphant Jesus. Western art has often shown Jesus trampling demons beneath his feet. John Milton’s Paradise Lost opens with an account of a mysterious Christ figure defeating the legions of Satan. The Emperor Constantine, the first to be baptized a Christian (just a few days before he died, but he was), reportedly carried a shield marked with the Chi Rho, the first two letters of Christ, into the Battle of Milvian Bridge. Later on Christian rulers and even religious leaders would go into battle bearing Christian symbols. Bishops eventually encouraged the Crusades, which brought so much death and suffering to the Middle East and poisoned relations between Muslims and Christians to this very day.

Triumphant Jesus seems very curious to me, given that he went to his death without resistance. Triumphant Jesus seems very curious to me, given that the word “triumph” appears only three times in the New Testament, and never in reference to military success. James used it to write, “Mercy triumphs over judgement.”

I think there’s a better possibility in Christ the healer. For Mark the Gospel writer, Jesus’ power to heal and willingness to heal marked him as the Anointed One. It’s worth observing again that in Mark, Jesus instructed those who had been healed to praise God for it and not himself. The point was their wellness, not Jesus’ own reputation. Far more than triumph, I think you’re more likely to find the risen Christ when healing has taken place.

Then there’s Christ the teacher. “Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures,” Luke wrote. All four of the Gospel writers made sure to emphasize the power, the wisdom, and especially the truth of Jesus’ teachings. They worked to support them with Scripture, sometimes as Jesus had done, and sometimes because they’d found those Bible references themselves. As a child of a Galilean village, Jesus grew up in an environment in which proper religious practice was based on knowing the Scriptures, considering the different ways they might be interpreted, engaging in spirited discussion of different ways to act based upon them, and choosing what you do and how you live based on those learnings and conversations. Honestly, shouldn’t Cleopas and his friend have recognized him right there? That’s what they were used to. That’s what they’d been hearing Jesus do. They even wondered at how they’d missed it. “Were not our hearts burning within uswhile he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?”

That’s not what did it, though, was it?

Eric Barreto writes at Working Preacher, “For Luke, however, Jesus is most Jesus at a quotidian table, at an ordinary meal infused with significance because of the people gathered around the food. Jesus is there at this table but so also all the sinners and tax collectors with whom Jesus shared meals… So, it’s instructive that it’s not his teaching that open their eyes. It’s not his presence. It’s his sharing of bread with his friends. It’s his blessing of food. In this sharing of bread at an ordinary table, we catch a glimpse of Jesus’ transformative kingdom.”

The moment of recognition came when they were fed.

Our moment of recognition comes when we are fed.

Others’ moment of recognition comes when they are fed.

As Mahatma Ghandi said, “There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.”

I think it’s about more than the deep hunger of extreme poverty. I think that the setting of a meal, of a table, is one in which relationships get formed and strengthened – also, I grant you, it can be a place where arguments and conflicts get formed and aggravated. When we feed one another, we at least begin in a space of caring, of compassion, of love and sharing.

When Jesus broke the bread for his two not-so-observant friends that day, he broke through to their hearts. They knew their minds had been expanded. They knew their bodies would be satisfied. Now they knew also that the one who had done that was the One in whom they had hoped, alive again beyond hope, alive again beyond despair.

“When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him.”

May we always recognize Jesus at the table, in the breaking of the bread.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Watch the Recorded Sermon

Pastor Eric makes changes while preaching, sometimes intentionally, and sometimes accidentally.

The image is The Supper at Emmaus by an Anonymous Genoese painter, active in the second half of the 17th-century – Acervo de Obras de Arte Europeia em Coleções Brasileiras (Plus Ultra): info; image, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=30310751.

Rev. Eric Anderson What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Fed by Jesus

One of the first encounters with Jesus after his resurrection took place on a road, where he fed their minds and spirits, and then at a table, where he fed their bodies. Feeding people is at the heart of Christian faith.

Here’s a transcript:

I’m thinking about a passage in the twenty-fourth chapter of Luke’s Gospel (Luke 24:13-35) that I think at least a little bit about every month in the life cycle of Church of the Holy Cross. It’s the story of Jesus’ encounter with two of his disciples on the day of his resurrection, on Easter.

He met them on a road as they were leaving Jerusalem. They walked with him. They talked with him. He explained things about his death and the reports of his resurrection that nobody at that point much understood. He sat at a table with them. He broke bread and that is when they knew who he was, that is when they recognized him.

I mention this story every time we move into celebration of the Lord’s Supper, as we come to the table of Holy Communion. Because to my mind this reality of knowing Jesus when he feeds us is central, not just to our understanding of the sacrament, but to our understanding of Christianity itself. Christianity is about seeing that people are fed, fed in body, fed in mind as he did along that road, fed in spirit, in ways that are unique to the exercise of religion in general, but also unique of course to the practice of the faith of the followers of Jesus.

We feed people and we are also fed.

Jesus fed them on a hillside miraculously with bread and fish. Jesus fed them by the lakeside with understanding and knowledge. Jesus fed them in the days after his resurrection with a Holy Spirit that has continued to guide us, inspire us, and empower us to this very day.

So come, let us be fed. Come, let us feed others on the spirit of Jesus Christ.

That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.

Rev. Eric Anderson Sermons

Sermon: Assumptions

April 5, 2026

Acts 10:34-43
John 20:1-18

It’s very difficult to get through the day without making decisions based on assumptions. Absent any reason to believe otherwise, I assume that the sun will rise in the morning and set in the evening, and I act accordingly. I assume that gravity will hold me to the ground and that when I breathe in, I’ll take in good air. I assume that water will satisfy my thirst and that eating will satisfy my hunger.

I have to say that those assumptions have held up pretty well over the years.

There are other assumptions that I tend to check. I’ll give a sniff to the package of grated cheese in the refrigerator before I add it to anything. Lately with our rather chilly mornings I’ve been checking the temperature outside before picking up a jacket – even though I feel somewhat cold in the house. It might be warmer outside; who knows?

Then there are the things I avoid making assumptions about. When driving, I take note of people’s turn signals, but you know what? I prepare myself for other drivers to do things they haven’t signaled. It’s not very trusting, I know, but it’s helped keep me from accidents. And anyone who has watched me with my keys has seen me tap my pocket – or reach into it – before I close a door that will lock. I always put my keys in the same pocket. But do I trust them to be there?

No.

On that first Easter morning, assumptions were front and center, as is common for human beings. Most of the assumptions were completely normal ones, things that we assume as well from one day to the next.

The first assumption was so human that John didn’t bother to name it. “Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb…” John didn’t mention her reason, because he didn’t have to. We mourn at graves and tombs and columbaria whether the death was recent – like Friday – or years and years ago. Look over a cemetery sometime. Look at all the floral displays. Each one marks a visit in love and grief.

Mary Magdalene went to the tomb assuming that things would be as they’d been on Friday, and that was the first assumption to give way that morning. She saw the stone had been rolled aside. For the moment, she didn’t even look inside. She ran back to the place where some of the disciples were staying. She’d made an assumption, I think: she assumed that they could do something to help. It didn’t turn out to be a good assumption. They ran out to the tomb themselves, but once they arrived, what could they do? They looked inside. They saw the discarded grave cloths. One of them believed – though it’s one of the mysteries of this text what he believed – and then…

They left. Whatever Mary Magdalene had hoped for from the two men, she didn’t get it.

She was left now with, perhaps not an assumption, but a conclusion. Something was wrong. Beyond the terrible loss of Jesus’ life, now his body had disappeared. Someone who had been cruelly put to death could not even be left to rest in peace.

She looked into the tomb for the first time that morning, and found it, not empty as I’m sure she assumed, but occupied by what John described later as two angels in white. I’m sure she assumed that they were ordinary people, because she didn’t ask them anything. She just told them why she was crying.

Then the final assumption. Outside the tomb stood another person, a male figure in the morning light. He asked her who she was looking for – an important question. As Karoline Lewis writes at Working Preacher, “This is the third time this question has appeared in the Gospel, every time asked by Jesus. They are his first words to the first disciples, with the only difference being ‘what’ instead of ‘whom’ (John 1:38). To ask this question of Mary here takes the reader back to the calling of the disciples and implies that Mary, too, is considered a disciple.”

Of course she was wrong. It wasn’t a gardener. It was Jesus. In that moment of realization, so many assumptions came crashing down. In the normal way of things, the powers of the city leadership, the priesthood, and especially the Roman Governor should have been close to absolute. If they decided to execute someone and to further humiliate him after his death, they could do it. They did do it to people over and over again.

On that Easter morning, Mary found that the normal way of things wasn’t. The normal way of things had given way to something greater. Her assumptions had to be laid aside and left behind.

As Dorothy A. Lee writes at Working Preacher, “Mary does not reach the heights of faith without a struggle. This is a characteristic feature of John’s stories, in which faith comes through layers of misunderstanding. Step-by-step, the exemplary characters of the Gospel, including Mary herself, come to a spiritual comprehension of what is happening, moving from the material to the spiritual level. In this process, matter is not dismissed or set aside. On the contrary, the material is itself the means by which God in Christ is revealed, just as the flesh of Jesus in the incarnation radiates the divine glory (1:14).”

Her assigned task – to tell Jesus’ other friends and followers that he had risen – is the reason she has been called “the apostle to the apostles” for centuries. It’s worth noting that they don’t seem to have believed her. They had to make their own journey through misunderstanding.

On this Easter Day, what assumptions can we, might we, possibly even should we leave behind?

I think we might start by building on Mary’s assumption that that Sunday morning would be like any other morning. It was a uniquely heartbreaking morning, but familiar. We begin most of our days, even the heartbreaking ones, believing that they will be more or less predictable, that while they might bring some surprises, even those unusual things will fit within our basic expectations.

Perhaps we might consider each day as a potential setting for a miracle.

In a sense, miracles happen every day. On the worst day I’ve ever lived, I have been living, and life itself is miraculous. The natural world is resplendent with beauty of sight, sound, smell, texture, and taste. Human love, expressed through conversation in person or over the ether, fills the heart. Each day is filled with miracles.

But each day is also one in which God’s uniquely overwhelming love might make itself felt – any morning, any noon, any evening, any night. At any moment, we might find our hearts moved by something that is the compassion of God, the embrace of Jesus, the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. At any moment, we might find ourselves surprised to find that death does not have the power we assume, that oppressive earthly authorities do not have the last word, that sin and evil cannot stand against the power of love.

What would it have looked like if Mary had come to the tomb on a day that could have included a miracle?

She might have viewed the moved stone with wonder. She might have fetched the disciples to join her in awe. She might have recognized the angels as angels, and she might have asked them, “What has happened?” rather than continuing to assume that she knew what had happened.

Finally, she might have recognized Jesus before he said her name. She might not have shown it – even in a mind ready for a miracle, I’d have probably been speechless – but when Jesus did say her name, when he did demonstrate that she was one of his flock, whose name he knew, when he called her, I’m pretty sure she’d have done exactly what she did.

Rush to embrace him.

What would it look like for us to see each day as a potential setting for a miracle?

I’m pretty sure we’d appreciate the daily miracles better – sunrise, sunset, sea foam, birdsong, mountains, flowers, and above all else the wonders of human companionship. Those are worth celebrating.

We’re also likely to approach the sadnesses and trials of our days with more hope. Pain and sorrow are real, but in any day God might just do something to comfort them. We still have to work to make things better, but we can do so confident of God’s aid.

Most of all, we live each day prepared to say, “I have seen the Lord,” I know that my Redeemer lives, I have heard my name, I have been held in loving embrace, I have a story to tell and to share from it.

Let today be one in which you celebrate the Easter miracle, and rejoice in the life of Jesus.

Let tomorrow be one in which you anticipate new miracles, and rejoice ever and always in the life of Jesus.

Amen.

by Eric Anderson

Regrettably, the sermon was not recorded this morning.

The image is an illumination on parchment by Unknown author (ca. 1503-1504) – This image is available from the National Library of Wales. You can view this image in its original context on the NLW Catalogue, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44920216.

Rev. Eric Anderson What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Assumptions

Sometimes people are glad to be wrong about their assumptions. Easter morning was like that.

Here’s a transcript:

Well, now it is Holy Week. And there is a lot to think about.

I could be thinking about the Monday Thursday text, and indeed I will be. I could be thinking about the seven last words of Jesus, which we’ll read on Friday from noon to three, and indeed I will be. At the moment, though, I am thinking about the twentieth chapter of John’s Gospel (John 20:1-18, John’s account of the discovery of the resurrection.

Most of the time we tend to say that we’re talking about the stories of the resurrection, but we’re not. In most of the Gospels, the resurrection occurs outside of anybody else’s sight or awareness. They learn about it when they come in some of the Gospels to an empty tomb, or in John’s case to a tomb where there are a couple of angelic messengers saying that Jesus is not here.

In John’s Gospel, it’s Mary Magdalene who went to the tomb. She found it empty, rushed back to the city, brought Simon Peter and the disciple that Jesus loved. They looked at the empty tomb and went away. Mary then encountered this angelic messenger whose words didn’t seem to make any impression upon her.

She realized that there was somebody else in the garden with her. She assumed it was the gardener and asked him where Jesus was.

It was, of course, Jesus.

When he said her name, “Mary,” she realized who he was and rushed to embrace him.

The discovery of the resurrection.

It strikes me that there are so many assumptions people made on that first Easter Sunday. The first and the easiest and, frankly, the one that makes the most sense, is that everybody assumed that Jesus had died — as he had — but that he continued to be dead as he hadn’t.

That would be the assumption they were most grateful to find was incorrect.

Mary ran back to the city to find Simon Peter and the disciple that Jesus loved, assuming that they could do something to help. As, of course, they could not. Mary assumed that these words she was hearing weren’t meaningful to her, as they were. Jesus [Ed. Correction: Mary] assumed that this other person moving around the garden had to be a worker and she was wrong again.

And as glad to be wrong as ever a person was glad to be wrong.

The story of the discovery of Easter, the learning of the resurrection, the realization of what had happened: doesn’t it say something to us about the assumptions that we make about the world? How likely is it that the things that we firmly believe turn out to be wrong?

Perhaps the world is a more wondrous and miraculous place than we have let ourselves imagine.

Is not the world one in which Jesus of Nazareth lives again?

Happy Easter to you.

That’s what I’m thinking. I’m curious to hear what you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.

Rev. Eric Anderson What I'm Thinking

What I’m Thinking: Never Too Late

Jesus arrived after Lazarus had died. It’s a hard moment – Jesus shared the grief – but it turned out that he was not too late, because he was and is the resurrection and the life.

Here’s a transcript:

I’m thinking about the eleventh chapter of John’s Gospel (John 11:1-45), the resurrection of Lazarus.

It is a wonderful and uplifting story. It demonstrates that the power of Jesus was not limited to day-to-day life, but extended beyond life and was, in fact, a power over death. It features perhaps the deepest of Jesus’ “I am” statements: “I am the resurrection and the life.” It offers and reassures the promise of eternal life and resurrection for us all. It’s a marvelous story.

It also contains some truly troubling elements. It is this event that persuaded some of the leadership to seek an occasion where they could arrest Jesus and have him executed. That’s a harsh element of the story.

It is also a story that is marked with grief: the grief of Lazarus’ sisters Martha and Mary. Each of them expressed their faith in Jesus, but each of them also say something along the lines of, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Onlookers say the same thing. If Jesus had been there in time — and John made clear Jesus might have been there in time — Lazarus would not have died.

What explanation we’re given, and it’s not much, is that Jesus saw this as an opportunity to demonstrate his power over death, to demonstrate that he had authority even beyond the veil. It’s not a satisfying explanation. I don’t think it even satisfied Jesus, who stood outside the tomb of Lazarus and wept.

What are we to say? I think we are to take our lead from Jesus’ own tears. We are the followers of one, we are the worshipers of a God, who knows our grief, who has shared our sense of loss. We believe in a God, we trust in a God, who knows how we have felt, who has felt what we have felt.

And whatever we might think or feel about the timing of Jesus’ arrival, it has to be said that for Jesus it was not too late. Yes, he might have prevented Lazarus from dying, and yes, there was some grieving that happened, and grief he participated in, but there was no such thing as being too late for Jesus. Illness was no barrier to him, death itself no barrier to him. There is no such thing as too late for Jesus in our lives.

And there is that marvelous “I am” statement. “I am the resurrection and the life.”

We trust in One who is not the agent of death, we trust in One who is not the agent of suffering, we trust in One who is the agent of life and renewed life.

“I am the resurrection and the life.” And this is the one in whom we trust. This is the one we follow.

That’s what I am thinking. I’m curious to hear with you’re thinking. Leave me your thoughts in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you.