A Sermon preached at St Mary’s, Primrose Hill on 6th April 2008 by the Reverend Robert Atwell.

As a child I always felt sorry for Dr Watson. A total stranger appears at 221B Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes reveals facts about the person that astound and amaze. Later he explains to an incredulous Watson how he arrived at his conclusions, stressing that he possesses no special powers, but is merely putting into practice basic abilities of observation and deduction. For Holmes the amazing thing is that Watson fails to see what is staring him in the face. After all, isn’t it all elementary?

The problem is not one of sight: Watson sees exactly what Holmes sees. Nor is the problem one of intelligence. After all, Watson is an able and successful doctor. So how is it that Sherlock Holmes can perform these amazing feats of deduction that leave Watson (and the rest of us) in awe?

Of course, the science of deduction made famous by Sherlock Holmes is not deduction in a strict logical sense. Many of his most brilliant pieces of detective work involve the use of the imagination to make the connections most of us fail to see. It is as much art as science.

Just as I feel sorry for Watson, so I also feel sorry for the two disciples on the road to Emmaus. As they walk along, tired and downcast, the risen Christ falls into step beside them and accompanies them on their journey. The disciples find themselves confiding in this total stranger, but St Luke tells us, 'something prevented them from recognising him.' The problem, it would seem, is not one of seeing: Jesus isn't in disguise. The problem is that the disciples fail to understand what they are seeing.

Just as Holmes used to reproach Dr Watson for failing to understand what he was seeing, so Jesus calls his disciples 'foolish men'. But it’s not a real rebuke, though he had spent three years training them to understand the teachings of the prophets. Once again he patiently explains to Cleopas and his friend that 'the Christ should suffer these things and so enter into his glory'.

They had hoped (in St Luke’s words) that he ‘would be the one who would liberate Israel’. In other words, in spite of Jesus’ consistent teaching they still saw him in some sense as a political figure. No wonder they were disappointed! The messiahship Jesus embodies is not one of power, but of service and suffering. Which is why the cross in the end represents not defeat, the extinguishing of hope, but the testimony of God’s love for people, and therefore ultimately, glory.

For all this, the two disciples still fail to recognise Jesus. They recognise neither his voice, nor his features. The evidence is there, but they fail to make the connection. Their minds are so weighed down with disappointment that they cannot believe the rumour circulating amongst their brethren that the crucified Lord is risen. They cannot imagine how God could bring new life from death.

It is getting late, and in good Middle-Eastern custom they offer this stranger a meal. Sitting at table Jesus does something that gives the game away. In his characteristic way, he takes bread, breaks it, and hands it to them. And at that moment, Luke tells us, ‘their eyes were opened.' The penny drops. Everything falls into place, and the significance of their conversation on the road becomes clear.

When we read the Emmaus story it is easy to be impatient with Cleopas and his friend. The trouble is we know the end of the story and wonder how the two disciples could be so stupid. Yet in my own life I have often failed to recognise the presence of Christ in the stranger next to me, or grasped the wisdom that was being shared with me because I was so stubborn. I like to think of myself like Sherlock Holmes, but more often than not I’m more like Dr Watson, wandering through life focused on my own concerns, unable to see what is perfectly obvious.

Which is why the Eucharist is so important to me. Coming to church, listening to the scriptures being read, reflecting on their wisdom, giving thanks to God for good friends, good health and the good things of life, receiving the holy bread and the holy wine, his very body and blood, opens my eyes and unstops the ears of my heart. The more I meet Christ here in the breaking of the bread, the more I discover his presence everywhere.

Let me conclude with a true story.

The January before last, as many of you may remember, I was responsible for organising the curates of the Edmonton Area to go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. One of the places we went to was Abu Gosh, the Palestinian town some six miles or so outside Jerusalem, which we know as Emmaus. Today its population is largely Muslim.

On the site of what was reputed to be the house where Cleopas and his friend had supper with the risen Lord that Easter night, the Crusaders built a beautiful church. Sadly, the church fell into ruin for centuries, but thirty years ago Pope Paul VI asked the Abbey of Bec in Normandy to send a group of monks and nuns to form a community of prayer and reconciliation in the area.

The monks and nuns have restored the church beautifully, complete with ancient wall paintings. But right next to it, as we soon discovered, has been built a mosque. It is not easy for the monks and nuns to maintain a life of contemplation with a loud speaker specifically trained on your church. But they persevere. Nor is it easy for them to cope with the groups of Israeli soldiers who turn up at regular intervals, suspicious that the monks are providing refuge for terrorists. Typically the soldiers sit through mass, feet up on the pews, smoking and joking and listening to pop music on their ipods.

But the community carries on, always courteous, always hospitable, offering coffee to the Israeli conscripts, who typically are not much older than 18 or 19, and fruit juice to the Imam next door and their Muslim neighbours.

Fr Bertrand, the prior, told us that over the years things had improved. They knew there was progress when the Imam turned up to give advice to the nuns on how best to prune their lavender hedges. In such small ways does the kingdom of God come in the hearts of his rainbow children.

And the moral of this story? It is the moral of Emmaus itself: that hospitality can convert hostility and make it fruitful. Above all, that the risen Christ is present in the stranger who walks at our side and passes the time of day with us. It is good to pray for the conversion of others, but today let us pray for the conversion of ourselves, that our own eyes learn to recognise the incognito Christ in our midst.